BULLIED

BEAUTY

My beloved fiancé dumped me because my chubby finger couldn’t fit into my engagement ring. Since he didn’t know my size, he popped the big question before we went to the jewelry shop to get my ring.

After trying on the one he chose by himself, we realized it was smaller than my finger, and that irritated him to the extent that he snapped.

“If you weren’t so fat, maybe the ring would have been your size!”

His voice drew attention, and the other buyers at the jewelry shop stared at us.

I felt my legs grow weak and my heart pound as I tried to conceal my tears.

“We have larger sizes for her to try, sir,” the jewelry store owner suggested politely, coming to my rescue.

But he wasn’t willing to give it a try.

“It doesn’t matter what size you have—it won’t suck those fats away! I’m fed up with this.”

Right there, in the middle of the jewelry shop, Steven broke up with me and dumped me.

He wasn’t just fed up with the ring not fitting—he was fed up with me. Just like Tim, like Nathan, and now Steven. They all dumped me at the slightest chance.

I inherited my father’s genes, and from a very young age, I had been bullied because of my size.

In middle school, I became self-destructive and attempted suicide many times just to end it all. But it didn’t stop—the name-calling, the bullying.

The class whale.

Fatty.

Unfortunately, as an adult, it was even worse than I had imagined.

I hated myself so much. Ever since my last relationship, I have never had the desire to look good, apply makeup, or, you know, feel like every other young woman out there.

For what? To get used and dumped again?

Fat is ugly. I am fat. Beauty is a privilege. Unfortunately, I am the opposite of my name—

Beauty.

And my first love?

Tim, he dumped me after our first night together. He made his intentions known to me.

I thought I was going to die back then.

He didn’t even put up a fake act for two weeks or so before breaking up with me. He never considered my feelings.

“It’s my first time,” I remember telling him.

His reply was just emotionless.

“Yeah, I can see the red stain.”

Sixteen-year-old me expected more than that reply, but I didn’t make a big deal out of it.

After a few minutes of silence, Tim stood up from the bed.

“I’m done.”

That statement traumatized me. I didn’t even know if I heard him correctly.

“Huh?”

I chuckled, confused. I was naive, thinking he was pulling my leg.

“I only dated you because I wanted to know how it feels to be with a plus-size girl.”

“Tim, what are you saying…?” I asked, even more confused.

“Do you think I would ever walk hand in hand with a girl three times my size?”

And that was how my first time became my first heartbreak.