And they’d be partly right. I’m twenty-nine, live alone in a decent one-bedroom apartment just outside the city, and I work in marketing at a firm where I’m definitely not the most important person in the room—but I’m working on it. I'm good at what I do. Not flashy. Reliable. The one who stays late, double-checks everything, and rarely gets the credit.
That’s fine. For now.
I’ve got goals. I’ve got drive. I’m not afraid to put in the work.
And I try to take care of myself—morning runs, home-cooked meals, the occasional yoga class even if I hate how slowly time moves in them. My friends say I’m disciplined. The truth is, I just like being in control.
Most of the time, I feel good about myself.
But not always.
Not when I get dressed and feel like my clothes are always hanging a little too loosely in one place. Not when I’m standing next to women like Vanessa Chase—the kind of woman who walks into a room and everyone notices, not because she’s loud or brilliant, but because she fills out a dress like a billboard.
I’m a 32A.
Flat, petite, small-busted—pick your word. I’ve heard them all.
It’s not something I cry over. It’s not some deep trauma. I’ve dated, I’ve been complimented, I know I’m attractive. But still… there's this quiet ache, this part of me that wishes I had just a little more.
Just enough to feel seen without trying.
I’ve never said that to anyone before. Not to my friends, not to my coworkers, not even to myself out loud. Because I’m not supposed to care about that. I’m supposed to be above it. Confident. Empowered. All that.
And I am.
Mostly.
But I’d be lying if I said it never crosses my mind—how different things might feel if I were just… one cup size bigger.
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