Maintenance

Monica notices the space first.

It was mall enough that no one else would measure it — the narrow gap between her hip and the plastic armrest of the reception chair. For years it pressed into her, left faint ridges on her thighs by noon. She used to tuck her cardigan beneath herself for padding. Now there is air. She slides her hand between her body and the chair and feels only cool emptiness.

She keeps her face neutral, though she had that flicker of relief.

A subtle scent of lemon cleaner mixes with the aroma of burnt coffee drifting out from the break room into the lobby. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. She smooths her blouse over her stomach and answers the first ringing phone.

“Good morning, Harlow & Finch Insurance. This is Monica.” Her voice is steady. Warm. Contained.

The glass doors open and Mr. Carter from Accounting steps inside, shaking rain from his umbrella. The reflection hits her first — her body stretched in the glass, narrower than she remembers. She studies the outline before she looks at him.

“You look incredible,” he says. “Seriously. You’ve lost so much.”

She smiles the way she’s practiced. Not too proud. Not too shy. “Just trying to be healthier.”

Healthier is the safest word.

He nods and continues down the hall. Her hand drifts to her waist once he’s gone. The fabric folds inward now. She ordered this blouse in a six. She almost ordered the eight just in case. Just in case what?

On the small security monitor beside her keyboard, a grainy black-and-white image shows her from above, seated behind the reception desk. She glances at it between calls. The angle is unforgiving. She lifts her chin slightly and checks again. Still there.

The old shape lingers into the slope of her shoulders. Or maybe she’s inventing it.

She presses her knees together. Bone touches bone but the feeling still surprised her.

By ten thirty the lobby is quiet. Monica opens her desk drawer and removes the yogurt she packed. Ninety calories. Twelve grams of protein. She peels the foil carefully and eats while answering emails. She does not taste it. She calculates instead. If lunch stays under one hundred, she can allow grilled chicken and steamed vegetables for dinner. If she’s careful, tomorrow morning’s number will drop.

She thinks about the scale in her bathroom. The cool glass beneath her feet at 6:12 a.m. The pause before the number settles. She replays the memory in the way someone studies footage of a race nearly won.

The office door swings open again. Two women from Marketing walk in laughing. One slows down near the desk. Monica’s eyes flick over the woman’s dress, briefly fantasizing herself in it. What size would she get? Would it hang loose? Snug? Inappropriately tight?

“Monica, I swear you’re disappearing,” the woman says in a teasing tone. “You’re going to float away.”

Monica laughs politely. “I promise I’m not.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Whatever you’re doing.

She straightens in her seat, the compliment sliding into her bloodstream like something sweet.

Just before noon, an email notification appears.

Staff Update – Website Refresh.

She clicks.

As part of our rebrand, we’ll be updating the staff directory with new professional headshots. Photography next Thursday and Friday.

Her stomach tightens.

She scrolls.

All employees required to participate.

Required. On the security monitor, the small version of her remains still unaware.

A headshot means permanence. A frozen image she cannot angle or crop herself. A photograph she cannot delete if it feels wrong. Clients. Strangers. Everyone.

Her palms dampen.

Next Thursday.

Seven days.

Seven days is enough to tighten everything.

That evening, Daniel stands at the stove when she walks in. Garlic and tomatoes scent lingered through the apartment.

“Hey,” he says. “I made pasta.”

Her chest contracts. She sets her purse down carefully, offering a small smile in return.

“It smells good.” Her own words sounded cautious, even though she really did love when Daniel cooked.

He plates two bowls. She sits and stares at the swirl of noodles, the gloss of oil. She remembers eating without calculating.

“Long day?” he asks.

“They’re doing headshots for the website,” she says, twisting her fork without lifting it. “Next week.”

“That’s good, right?”

She shrugs.

“You look amazing. It’ll be nice to have an updated picture.”

Updated.

She imagines the old photo buried somewhere in the company files — rounder face, softer shoulders. She imagines them side by side.

“I’m not that hungry.”

Daniel’s smile falters. “You had yogurt for lunch, didn’t you?”

She looks up sharply. “How do you know that?”

“You tell me everything you eat.”

She feels exposed.

“It’s just easier,” she says.

“You’re always cold lately.”

“It’s the weather.”

“It’s eighty degrees.”

She crosses her arms. “I just want to look professional.”

“You already do.”

She clears her untouched bowl and carries it to the sink. Water fills the silence.

Over the next few days, Monica becomes careful in ways that feel almost virtuous. She takes the stairs even when her legs ache. She replaces yogurt with black coffee. She scrolls old photos late at night, forcing herself to look at the woman she used to be. She studies her jawline in the mirror, turning left and right. Pinches the skin beneath her chin and imagines it tightening.

At the office, compliments continue.

“You’re such an inspiration.”

“I wish I had your discipline.”

Discipline. It sounds stronger than obsession.

One afternoon she overhears whispers near the printer.

“Do you remember what she used to look like?”

“Completely different person.”

Completely different. Over a hundred pounds different.

If she is different, then who was she before? And which version will the camera capture?

On Wednesday night she dreams the reception chair has no armrests. Her body spills over the sides as clients walk past without seeing her face.

She wakes up at 3:14 a.m. The scale glows faintly in the dark. She removes her t-shirt and underwear. Fabric interferes.

Up half a pound.

She steps off. Steps on again.

The number remains.

She stands there longer than necessary before getting dressed and sliding back into bed.

Thursday arrives.

The photographer sets up in the conference room. Employees emerge smiling, relieved.

“Monica, you’re up.”

Her legs feel hollow walking down the hall.

“Relax your shoulders,” the photographer says.

She sits on the narrow stool, aware of every inch — the angle of her knees, the tension in her blouse, the rise of her chest.

“Soft smile.”

The flash bursts.

“Let me show you.”

She leans forward.

The woman on the screen is thinner than she remembers. Sharper cheekbones. Visible collarbones.

But she also sees the echo of before in the curve of her jaw. Fullness no one else would notice.

Her heart stutters.

“Looks great,” he says.

Back at her desk, she stares at the security monitor. Grainy. Indistinct. Safer.

By late afternoon, the email arrives: Monica_Raw.jpg.

She clicks.

There is no hiding. Fluorescent lights flatten everything. The gray backdrop offers nothing to soften her.

She zooms in.

Traces flaws with the cursor. Imagines everyone else doing the same.

A knock startles her.

“That photo is stunning,” the Marketing woman says. “You look like a different person.”

Different.

If she looks different, which version is real?

That evening she goes straight to the bathroom. Steps onto the scale.

The number hasn’t changed.

Her chest tightens anyway.

Daniel appears in the doorway. “Did you see the photo?”

“They sent it.”

“And?”

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

She hesitates. “I thought I would look… smaller.”

“You are smaller.”

She shakes her head. “Not enough.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them, settling heavier than she expects.

Daniel doesn’t respond immediately. He studies her the way he used to when she was trying to decide between two dresses before a party — patient, careful, as if the wrong sentence might send her retreating.

“Monica,” he says quietly.

She grips the edge of the sink. The porcelain is cool beneath her palms. In the mirror, her reflection looks smaller, sharper. Controlled.

“I thought,” she begins, then stops. The admission feels dangerous, like loosening a grip she’s held too long.

He waits.

“I thought if I could just get small enough,” she says finally, her voice thinner than she intends, “everything would feel finished.”

The bathroom is very still.

“Finished how?” he asks gently.

She exhales, a brittle sound. “Like I wouldn’t have to keep thinking about it. About my body. About how I look when I walk into a room. About whether people are noticing the wrong things.” Her fingers tighten against the sink. “I thought there would be a number. And I’d hit it. And that would be it.”

Daniel steps closer but doesn’t touch her yet. “And?”

She swallows. “There’s always another number.”

Silence stretches.

“I don’t want to go back,” she says again, softer now. “I don’t want to wake up one morning and realize I stopped paying attention.”

“Paying attention to what?”

“To all of it.” She gestures vaguely at her body, at the air between them. “It was easier when I had something to fight. When it was obvious. Lose the weight. That was the goal.” Her eyes flick to the scale on the floor. “Now it’s just… maintenance. Forever.”

The word sounds exhausting.

Daniel reaches for her hand this time, and she lets him take it.

“You were beautiful then,” he says. “And I think you’re beautiful now.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

She searches for something more than fear, something that doesn’t make her sound ungrateful or unhinged.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not trying to fix myself,” she admits.

The confession hangs there, fragile and exposed.

Daniel’s thumb moves slowly over her knuckles. Not correcting. Not arguing. Just there.

For a moment, the scale is silent. The mirror reflects only two people standing close enough to blur at the edges.

Later, they sit on the couch with the television murmuring low in the background. Daniel’s arm rests around her shoulders. She leans into him carefully at first, then fully, feeling the warmth of him through the thin cotton of her blouse.

Her phone lights up on the coffee table.

The website is live.

For a moment, she considered leaving it facedown. Instead, she reaches for it.

There she is beneath her name. Smiling. Composed. Capable. Contained.

She studies the woman on the screen the way she studied the scale that morning — waiting for a number, a verdict, a signal that something has settled.

Nothing does.

The image does not move. It does not accuse her. It does not promise anything either.

“How do you feel?” Daniel asks.

She inhales slowly. The breath feels unfamiliar without calculation.

“I don’t know,” she says.

And this time, she lets that be the whole answer.

She turned the phone face down and placed it back on the table. Daniel’s arm remains warm and steady on her shoulders. She does not pull away.

In the bathroom, the scale waits on the tile. Quiet. Certain.

She feels the space between them — the distance from the couch to the hallway, from the hallway to the scale that continued to wait.

For once, she does not cross it.