My cheeks heat with a mix of embarrassment and anger because I never really stopped to think about how much the world judges and hates anyone who isn’t thin, cisgender, straight, male, abled, and white; I’ve had my own struggles, but I will never understand what Chloe and Sofía have experienced, and they’re such beautiful souls, inside and out. I wish I could take all their pain away.

“Sometimes, I just didn’t want to give people more reasons to look at me. So I went hard at the gym to keep myself tight. My ass even dropped money on those Insta ads for that tea that supposedly makes you lose weight. Scam,” Chloe says.

I raise my hand. “Same. My mom and I did Atkins when I was ten. I’ve never heard a doctor yell so loudly as mine did when he found out I was eating a pound of bacon a day but stayed away from apples.”

“I do Weight Watchers every spring because of my mom,” Sofía adds.

“Oh, see, my dad used to say Weight Watchers was for women,” I say. “And the way he said women was so gross. Like he was disgusted by the thought that I would do something designated for women. So that was a fun additional layer of subtle trauma, which I’ve definitely had to work through. Still am. I don’t know.”

I remember what Dr. Sweatervest said about not needing to nail down my identity with a label, but I can’t help feeling an itch to define myself. Chloe and Sofía seem unfazed, and I realize it really is just me pressuring myself.

“Fuck that guy. Ugh. You know my dad threatened to send me to fat camp over the summer? Literal fat camp if I didn’t join a sport to lose weight. Because that’s manly.”

“Shiiiiiit.” Chloe, still high as a kite, struggles to rise to her feet inside the couch ship. “Look at us. We are three beautiful people. Thick and curvy and delicious. Black, Colombian, and queer queens who have let this shitty world take power from us.”

Sofía leans in. “I think I know what’s coming.”

“You’re damn right,” Chloe responds. “Let’s take it back.” She dives across the ship and grabs her phone. Cookie platters bounce, and crumbs fly everywhere, but she doesn’t care. “Sof, get the scarves.”

“Scarves?” I ask.

Chloe scrambles out of the ship and disappears down the hall into her room. When she emerges, she’s carrying a bundle of colorful fabric and tosses it at our feet. Sofía grabs a cerulean one with sequins in varying shades of blue and wraps it around her shoulders like an old Hollywood starlet. Chloe goes for a blood-orange-and-yellow one with specks of gold and wraps it around her hair, completing the look with a pair of gold aviator sunglasses.