You’d think that six years spent continents apart would be enough to unravel the tight-knit threads woven between childhood friends. But for Grace, Mia, and me, distance only deepened the ties.

We were, in every sense, like sisters. Our mothers had been inseparable since high school, and miraculously, they all became pregnant around the same time. It felt almost surreal, like fate stitching our lives together before we even took our first breaths. That shared history made our friendship feel unbreakable—even when I was halfway across the world.

Thanks to FaceTime calls and social media, the miles never felt too wide. We whispered secrets, celebrated milestones, and consoled each other through heartbreaks and awkward adolescent phases. Our bond never faltered; it was constant, a warm anchor in the choppy seas of growing up.

My house had long been the epicenter of our childhood expeditions. I think it was partly because I was an only child then—no siblings to butt in or complicate things, unlike Mia’s two mischievous brothers who thrived on pranks, or Grace’s baby sister who always demanded attention, especially when left out.

Plus, I had the biggest backyard on the block, complete with a rickety but beloved treehouse that had witnessed countless adventures. This open space invited not only us girls but also the neighboring boys, especially Lucas and his closest friends, Aidan and Dylan.

Dylan was the light of the group—blond hair tousled perfectly, blue eyes shining with mischief, and a smile that could melt any grump. He was outgoing, the kind of kid who could make friends with anyone. Aidan was his opposite—tall, quiet, with rich dark skin and deep brown eyes that twinkled when he cracked a joke. He was hilarious, always pulling funny faces or stories to make us laugh—and secretly, he had a crush on Grace.

And then there was Lucas.

Lucas towered over us all, gangly with limbs that seemed to have a mind of their own and hair that refused to be tamed. His hazel eyes sparkled with a mischievous light every time he flashed that signature grin, those dimples tempting me to reach out and poke them. Even at ten, he carried a cocky charm—not arrogant, but confident—and beneath that, a gentler kindness that occasionally peeked through.

He was my first crush, the one who unknowingly carved the deepest impressions into my heart. That’s why his teasing stung more than it probably should have; it wasn’t just any voice making those jabs—it was his.

Looking back, the torment he inflicted wasn’t brutal. It was subtle—like when I’d ask for an extra slice of cake after dinner and he’d quip something about me being a 'bottomless pit,' or when he’d poke at my cheeks and squeeze my stomach, calling me 'squishy.' And then there was the nickname: 'Belly.' A cruel little pun on Isabella, highlighting my rounder figure.

In truth, Lucas was probably just being a kid, teasing without malice, maybe even trying to be funny. But because it came from him, it felt like a verdict on my worth.

I liked him, and that meant every teasing comment felt like a crack in the fragile wall I’d built around my self-esteem. It whispered that I was too much, too different, and that perhaps I’d never be enough to catch his eye in the way I dreamed.

Among Grace, Mia, and me, I was always the shortest and plumpest. Mia was slender and a little taller, Grace was statuesque, almost model-like. In school, girls around me looked like they stepped out of magazines—some even modeled for ads—and there I was, stubby, with an awkward haircut that only amplified my insecurities.

Lucas's teasing planted a seed of doubt that grew into a crushing obsession. I watched the numbers on the scale like a hawk, scrutinized every bite I took, and obsessed over calories as if they were my enemy. Some days, I barely ate at all. This spiral ended painfully when I collapsed at school at thirteen and was rushed to the hospital.

My diagnosis of anorexia sent shockwaves through my family. My parents, already strained, began to blame each other for missing the signs. Their arguments escalated, wearing away at the fragile bonds that once held us together. Three years later, their divorce was final.

Dad became a workaholic after we moved to London, his presence slipping further from our lives. Mom took custody of me and Sofia—my baby sister—and packed us off back to our hometown in the States, hoping to find healing in the familiarity of old roots.

And here I am, back where it all began.

Despite the bitterness that lingers in some memories, I realize now that every piece of my past—every friendship, every hurt, every laugh—has shaped the person I am. The playground of my childhood, once a stage for teasing and pain, still holds the possibility for new beginnings.

Tomorrow, I might even see Lucas again. And maybe this time, I’ll find the strength to face him—not as the girl who was 'Belly,' but as someone who is still learning to love herself.