But slowly, the goddess began to change. Not shrink. Expand. Austin’s thighs grew thick with muscle from lifting weights—not to burn calories, but to feel strong. Her shoulders broadened from swimming for joy, not punishment. Her face softened, losing that gaunt, haunted look. She started sleeping through the night. She laughed—a real laugh, loud and unashamed.

She left one letter behind: the ‘S’ in “GODDESS.” It faded into a smear of paint and water.

“What are you doing?” Maya asked. “That’s a compliment.”

“You have everything,” her best friend, Maya, had said last week, after finding Austin crying in the locker room, pinching the soft skin of her hip until it bruised. “Austin, you literally have the body of a goddess. Why can’t you see it?”

At the end of the school year, someone spray-painted “BODY OF A GODDESS” on her usual parking spot as a senior prank. Austin stared at it for a long time.