You're on your knees now.
Not because you tripped. Not because you’re weak.
Because your legs don’t work right anymore. The bones are shifting. Your thighs are thicker than they should be—too much meat packed under skin that’s tight and slick with sweat. And you’re still trying to hold your face together, like that’s where it matters. Like if you can just grip your nose—no, your snout—hard enough, it won’t grow any further.
It will.
I’m watching from the corner of the room. You haven't even noticed me yet. That’s fine. I prefer it this way.
“Look at you. Still fighting it.” I say quietly.
You groan—or was that a moo? Hard to tell, with your throat thickening and the new shape of your mouth. Your hand’s still wedged against your nostrils—fat, flaring things that twitch every time you gasp. You’re drooling now. It’s leaking down your chin. You’d be humiliated if you weren’t already too far gone to think about pride.
I step closer. Your ear flicks—long, soft, twitching in response.
“You were beautiful,” I murmur. “People used to love looking at you.”
Now they’d stare for a very different reason.
The muscles in your shoulders bunch and shift as you tremble. Braided blonde hair swings down over your broadening chest. Your whole torso is swelling—pectoral slabs bulging, traps crawling up your neck, arms straining the seams of your tank top. Every breath looks like it hurts. Every inch of you is getting bigger.
And all you can do is cling to the last thing that still feels like you—your face. Or what’s left of it.
“You’re still trying to stop it?” I ask, crouching beside you. I brush a finger along the curve of your swollen nose. It’s hot. Pulsing. “You should let go. It’s too late anyway.”
Your eyes dart to mine. You’re begging. Not with words—those are gone. Just animal panic.
And me?
I just smile.
“Go on, sweetheart,” I whisper. “Let it finish.”
