The kitchen had become your center of gravity.
Not because you stood in it—god, no, you barely stood anymore—but because everything came from it. Every smell, every soft clatter of plates, every promise of more drifted out from there and wrapped around you where you’d settled.
Today it was the chair again.
The one that used to fit.
Now your thighs spilled over the sides in thick, dimpled weight, pressing outward until the edges disappeared under you. Your hips forced you wide, your belly resting heavy in your lap, rising slowly with each breath and sinking back down with a soft, sluggish bounce.
You weren’t even doing anything.
Just… sitting.
Waiting.
Your fingers idly pressed into the underside of your belly, watching the flesh give, then slowly fill back out. It felt warm. Alive. Always working, always digesting, always growing.
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