Romeo arrived at Garry's house late one Saturday afternoon. He hadn't seen his friend in several weeks; their messages had become less frequent, replaced by “don't worry!” and burger emojis.

The golden retriever appeared in casual attire: boxer shorts stretched tight across his thighs, threatening to tear. Even his face seemed softer, almost childlike, but tired.
His once muscular arms had grown thicker, his shoulders had broadened, and his belly now formed a soft, visible roll, spilling over his underwear.
Despite everything, Garry had a smile on his face, an awkward one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Hey, man!” he said in a tone that was meant to be relaxed. “Long time no see! Come in, I was just making myself a workout meal!”

As he entered, Romeo noticed Farah slumped on the large sofa in the living room, fast asleep. She looked peaceful, her breathing slow and steady, the blanket half covering her belly. She had gained weight, too.

Garry lowered his voice as he pointed to his sister:
“She just finished lunch...”

Romeo smiled nervously.
“I can see that.”

The apartment smelled of pizza dough and tomato sauce. On the table were three open pizza boxes, leftover pasta in a salad bowl, and a large glass of fizzy soda. Garry grabbed a slice enthusiastically, as if nothing had happened.

“Want some?” he asked, his mouth already full. “Gotta eat, man. Gotta fuel that keg!”

Romeo smiled weakly. He watched his friend's movements: the energy, the forced good humor, the shifty eyes. Garry talked fast and laughed a lot, but his movements were slower, his breaths shorter.
Every time he bent over to grab something, his shorts stretched slightly, revealing a larger butt than before. He would immediately straighten up, embarrassed, before resuming the conversation as if nothing had happened.

“Are you still working out?” Romeo asked softly.
“Yeah, yeah... well, less so these days. I'm taking a strategic break,” Garry replied, taking a sip of soda.
“A break?”
“Yeah. You have to let your body... assimilate.”

Romeo nodded slowly.
He didn't know what to say. Garry seemed genuinely convinced that it was all part of “the plan,” as if this visible, almost burdensome transformation was simply a necessary step.
But through his smile, Romeo sensed something else: a mixture of embarrassment and self-justification, the fear of admitting that he might have lost control.

“You know, maybe you could lighten the program a little...” he ventured.
Garry burst out with a nervous laugh:
“Don't worry, I've got it under control! It's all intentional. It's... mass before form!”

But in his voice, the word “form” sounded hollow.

When Romeo left, night was falling. He walked slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets. The image of his friend—that great optimist locked in denial—would not leave him.
He thought about his own meals, the fatigue that was overcoming him, the mirror he was avoiding more and more often.

For the first time, he wondered if he wasn't following Garry down a path that neither of them really controlled.

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