Your apartment is on the third floor of a Victorian mansion,..

Your apartment is on the third floor of a Victorian mansion, a gorgeous old house judiciously cut up and turned into little apartments. Narrow flights of stairs have been attached to the back of the house, a zig-zag of white-washed steps leading up to what had once been a grand balcony, and is now apparently your front porch. There’s a little charcoal grill and a snow shovel propped up beside the door, and it makes my heart clench with an absurd fondness. Look at your house. Look at your domesticity. I’m nervous, when I knock on the door. I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed, or frustrated, or angry with me. I should have let you know I was coming. After all, it’s been a few years. I even have your phone number. I could have called. Why didn’t I call? There’s no answer for a few long minutes, even after I knock a second time, and then again a third time. Then, just slightly, the blinds in the window move. “Hey,” I say, clearing my throat awkwardly and feeling sort of stupid, speaking to a closed door. “I—I’m sorry to surprise you, but I’m freezing my ass off out here.” There’s the sound of footsteps, and then nothing. I wonder, briefly, if I have the address wrong. Then I wonder if you’re just going to ignore me; just refuse to open the door. I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say but determined to say something, when your voice, familiar and comforting as an old t-shirt, drifts through the door. “Goddamn it, Nico.” “Good to see you, too,” I say sarcastically. “What a warm welcome. This feels great, standing on your fucking porch in front of a closed door and—“ The door swings open, and I immediately shut my mouth. And I let it fall open again. And shut it again. “Holy shit,” I blurt out. You are—well. There’s no tactful way to say it, except that you are fucking huge. And not like, ‘Oh, I see you’re taking steroids and you’re unnaturally muscle-y’ huge. Like ‘Wow, I think you doubled in size and swallowed a person’ huge. You are frozen in the doorway, neither telling me to leave nor inviting me in. You’re just standing there, very very still. I think wildly that if you hadn’t spoken before you’d opened the door, I’m not sure you would be recognizable. That’s how much weight you’ve gained. Your features are blurred; your high cheekbones buried under pouches of chub. Your jawline, never razor-sharp even when you were skinny, is completely gone now, invisible beneath a double chin that’s threatening to triple. You’re wide, filling the entire doorway. Your belly is enormous, almost comical, and I feel absurdly, crazily guilty for dropping my eyes to your swollen midsection, but I’m completely unable to keep from looking. I inhale, bringing my gaze back up to your face, looking you in the eye. And there, that’s something recognizable; a blush spread across your cherub face as you look away. “I’m sorry. I should have called, huh?” I say, because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. What’s the protocol here? Dear Abby, the man I love and haven’t seen in years blew up like a fucking balloon. What should I do? “It would have been nice to have some warning,” You say mildly, and before I can stop myself, i nod in agreement. “Yeah, a heads up would have been useful,” I say, wishing I could swallow the words as soon as they fall out of my mouth. “I needed to see you, I guess.” You just flush. “Come in, I guess, you pushy shit.” You move out from where you’re standing in the doorway and I can’t help but imagine that one day I’ll make it hard for you to fit. (pt 1) - note: i may end up writing less in April because that’s a busy month for me + i’ll be 20 and celebrating. I will, however, keep posting my normal content. thanks for your patience and understanding!!!! :)