The Chubby Girls Also Fall in Love

　　A New Beginning... Or So I Think

　　POV Amber

　　A new day begins. The alarm clock resting on my nightstand won't stop ringing—an insistent beep that feels like it's mocking my sleep. I lie there for a few more seconds, clinging to laziness the way someone clings to a warm blanket, but eventually I force myself to get up. I step into the bathroom and let the hot water slowly wake me; the shower lasts only a few minutes, just enough to clear the morning haze. I brush my teeth, blow-dry my hair, and head back to my room in search of something to wear. Nothing fancy—just something comfortable—then I go downstairs for breakfast.

　　The house still smells like home: cinnamon, flour, and butter. I live with my parents and my older brother, Jackson. By the time I reach the kitchen, it's already buzzing with life—soft laughter and the crackle of the frying pan.

　　"Good morning, family," I say as I walk in, giving my brother a playful slap on the back and my dad a kiss on the cheek.

　　"Hey, princess. How'd you sleep?" my mom asks, flipping pancakes without looking away from the stove.

　　"Good, thanks," I reply, already sneaking a glance at my phone screen to calculate how much time I have left before the first bell rings.

　　Jackson doesn't even glance up; his fingers type lazily across the screen.

　　"Amber, I can't drive you today. I'm going with some friends," he says, eyes still fixed on his phone. He's one of the starters on the football team; his social life spins around practices, games, and the image he has to maintain at school. We don't socialize at school—according to him, it's better that way—but I know when it matters, he never hesitates to cover my back.

　　"That's fine, I'll take the bus," I answer, trying to sound indifferent, though a sting of annoyance runs through me at the thought of that long row of empty seats beside me.

　　Mom sets the pancakes down, two on each plate, and with a little gesture that seems meant to restore a sense of normalcy to the morning, hands me the jar of honey. I cut off a piece with my fork and take a bite; the sweetness calms me for a moment. Outside, a car horn honks. Jackson grabs his backpack and bolts. I watch him disappear through the window, his figure swallowed by the trees in the neighborhood.

　　Minutes later, I'm at the bus stop. The bus doesn't take long, and, as always, I climb aboard and take the last seat in the back. The ride is quiet: autumn air hangs heavy, and the city feels like it's still stretching itself awake. The driver pulls into the designated drop-off zone and opens the doors. I wait until the crowd thins; caution is second nature by now.

　　The school entrance greets me with its usual blend of scents: disinfectant, old books, and cheap perfume. I walk with my head down to my locker, which—unluckily—is right next to the boys' bathroom. That detail has always made me uncomfortable. I stash away my pencil case, my notebooks, and only pull out what I need for first period.

　　"Well, look who we have here."

　　Mandy Stand's voice slices through the hallway like a knife. Mandy is the school's official queen bee; her name is permanently linked to her boyfriend, Adam Raymond, the football captain and one of Jackson's closest friends.

　　I shut my locker door and try to ignore her. But indifference often wakes cruelty.

　　"Free Willy," Mandy says, and the shove against my locker knocks the breath out of me. The clang vibrates through my chest as I stumble.

　　"Didn't you hear her, Willy?" Stan—her usual sidekick—adds, his voice closer now. I find myself on the floor. For a brief second, the laughter dims, stretching the echo of insults down the hall. I mutter "excuse me" a few times, but I can't bring myself to stand.

　　The world halts when Jackson shows up. He strides down the hall with a calm that intimidates, and without a word, lands a sharp punch that drops Stan instantly. Silence falls—thick, stunned.

　　"Leave Amber alone!" my brother growls, pinning Stan down. "If I ever catch you near her again, I swear the next beating will be worse."

　　His voice cracks like a whip; people step back. That's the Jackson effect—when he arrives, space clears. He reaches out a hand to me and yanks me up. At school, we try not to cross paths too often; he keeps his distance for the sake of his reputation. But when it comes to me, he's ruthless.

　　Before I'm fully on my feet, another hand cuts through the scene. Mandy, smiling her sharp smile, slaps Jackson's hand away, forcing him to let go. I lose my balance and fall again. The impact isn't just physical—it shrinks something inside my chest, leaving me smaller, more exposed, while cold stares prick at me from all sides.

　　"Leave your fat sister lying there," Mandy spits, her words a dagger wrapped in silk.

　　Humiliation burns in my throat; the hallway feels suffocatingly narrow. Jackson freezes for a second, his eyes locked on Mandy. Tension sparks in the air, electric and dangerous. I stay on the floor, clenching my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. Not to fight back, but to contain what's about to explode: rage, shame, and a chilling certainty that this year will drag on much longer than this morning promised.

　　"Listen, Mandy." Jackson points straight at her, his tone sharp. "You might be my friend's girlfriend, but you don't get to tell me what to do."

　　Without waiting for her reply, he offers me his hand again. This time I take it, and with a firm pull, he hauls me back to my feet. I walk ahead, and Jackson follows close, his steps protective, like my own personal bodyguard.

　　"Amber, you need to learn to defend yourself," he says, his voice low, heavy with concern. "I won't always be around."

　　"You know I'm not a violent person," I whisper, avoiding his eyes.

　　"I know. But you still need to defend yourself. They can get pretty brutal, and I can't always be there. Think about taking self-defense classes or something."

　　I stop at my classroom door. The teacher hasn't arrived yet, and the chatter of students fills the air. I turn to my brother; his face is a storm of anger and worry.

　　"Thanks," I say, hugging him. Jackson wraps his arms around me briefly, then pulls away fast, unwilling to show affection in public.

　　"See you at home," I add.

　　"Mm... about that, I won't be around this afternoon," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck the way he always does when he's trying to soften bad news.

　　"That's fine. Don't worry about it."

　　I say goodbye and step into the classroom. Immediately, I feel eyes stabbing into me like needles. To them, I'm the weirdo. I keep my head down and walk straight to the last seat in the back. I pull out a notebook and a pencil, focusing on drawing mandalas. Each line calms me, gives me a way to escape. In less than two minutes, the classroom is completely full.

　　"Good morning, class!" Mr. Warren walks in with energetic steps. Everyone groans, as if they've just remembered vacations don't last forever. "I hope you all got some rest, because today we're diving back into the subject."

　　The complaints come in a loud chorus until Mr. Warren slams the desk.

　　"Quiet! We're getting started."

　　Suddenly, a voice interrupts from the doorway.

　　"May I come in?"

　　Every head in the room turns in unison.

　　"Mr. Raymond, you're late," the teacher scolds, though his tone is more playful than strict. Everyone knows Warren is a football fanatic. Adam walks in with a confident smile and, instead of a reprimand, gets a handshake from the teacher.

　　"How are you feeling about the season opener?"

　　"Pretty good, sir," Adam answers, basking in the attention.

　　In front of me, I hear the excited whispers of a group of girls who can barely contain themselves. Adam looks around for a seat; one of them, practically glowing, has saved him a spot. Before sitting, his eyes meet mine. He scans me up and down, rolls his eyes, and slides into the chair between his admirers.

　　The class drags on. Some pay attention, some pretend to, and plenty surrender to sleep. I fill two whole pages with mandalas. Drawing helps me not think, helps me forget I'm surrounded by people who despise me.

　　Until his voice slices through my calm.

　　"Look at that—the whale draws," Adam mocks, and the girls' laughter bursts like a slap to the face. I pretend I didn't hear him, but suddenly someone yanks my notebook out of my hands.

　　"G-give it back," I whisper, eyes locked on the floor, my voice trembling.

　　"No," Adam grins with malice, placing the notebook under him like it's some kind of trophy.

　　Heat rushes to my face; indignation tightens my chest. Without thinking, I grab my bag and storm out of the classroom without asking permission. I walk fast, my eyes stinging with tears. I hate this—when I'm angry, I cry. And I refuse to give them that satisfaction.

　　I reach the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. The tears pour down, unstoppable. After a few minutes, I decide to wash my face, but when I open the door, a shadow blocks the way.

　　"Poor little whale. Can't defend herself without her big brother."

　　I look up, and a shiver runs down my spine.

　　"This is the girls' bathroom," I murmur, barely audible.

　　"I know. I've been here before—with Mandy," Adam shrugs, as if it's no big deal. "Didn't want to do this, but since you're our puppet, I'm going to."

　　He steps closer. His shadow swallows me; his height intimidates. I back away until I hit the wall. Fear rattles through me; my body trembles.

　　The lights flicker, as if even the electricity has turned against me. Suddenly, more figures step out of the stalls, all wearing masks. My mind floods with impossible questions: How did they get in without me noticing? Why me?

　　The first blow lands on my legs. I scream in pain, and in seconds, the hits rain down. I curl up into a ball, trying to shield myself, though it's useless.

　　"Hey! What are you doing, you idiots?" a female voice cuts through the air.

　　I lift my head, my tear-filled eyes meeting a girl standing in the doorway. Adam and the others freeze, then scatter, leaving without a glance back, abandoning me on the floor.

　　"I know you're not okay, but... do you think you can make it to the nurse's office?" the girl asks, her voice a mix of gentleness and concern.

　　"No... I'm going home," I manage, my voice breaking.

　　She offers me her hand. I hesitate for a moment, then take it.

　　"Nice to meet you. I'm Rebeca Gutierrez," she says, a small smile softening her expression.

　　"Amber Weys," I reply, finally pushing myself up, shaky but steadied by this unexpected ally.