Ananya(Student) - How I gave my measurements to the tailor(4 videos) - Scene 8-GOLD!*

[ashuezy2]

Scene 2

Remo cleared his throat. He didn't write anything down. He held the tape in both hands "like a fragile ribbon that suddenly mattered too much."

He looked at the notebook. 

Then the tape. 

Then me.

It wasn't a dirty look. It wasn't the way boys looked at me in the canteen. It was genuine confusion. 

"Madam..." he said slowly. "This will not work with a normal pattern."

My stomach twisted into a knot.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He exhaled sharply. He looked frustrated with himself, not me.

"These measurements don't match the standard sizes," he said. "Your body... it needs a custom design."

His voice was strict, professional. But the words hit me "like a spotlight in the room."

"Special shaping," he murmured, his eyes scanning my oversized chest. "The curves and bends are rare."

I felt naked. He wasn't judging me, but I was judging myself. I stared at the mirror. I saw the girl who always walked fast, hoping no one would notice the bounce, the weight, the "outline beneath" the clothes that I pretended wasn't there.

Remo snapped the tape back into a loop. Snap.

"Look," he said, leaning in so the other customers wouldn't hear. "I am not saying anything is wrong. But if the blouse is not stitched with the right support, it won't sit properly on your shoulder. It will keep slipping."

Support. Structure. Shape.

These weren't just tailoring words. They sounded like "armour I didn’t know I needed." For years, I had just tried to hide. He was talking about holding me up.

I swallowed hard. "Can it be done?"

Remo nodded. He didn't smile. He looked serious, like he was agreeing to build a bridge, not sew a top.
"Yes. But I will need to design it differently. A double-layer. A hidden band inside."

Then, he dropped the bomb.

"The pattern must be cut by Masterji himself," Remo said. "But first... I need to make a mould of the curves and bends. We can't just do this with numbers."

He turned to the mirror. He tapped the glass, pointing to the reflection of my chest where the numbers defied gravity.
"This shape... it is rare. But not impossible."

I didn't know whether to feel relieved or ashamed. For the first time, someone said it plainly. Not a whisper, not a joke, not a pitying glance. My body wasn't wrong. It just needed "different work."

I couldn't breathe. Remo saw my face go pale.

"Sit for a minute," he said gently. "I will go and prepare the mould."

He offered me a plastic stool. I sat down heavily.

Inside, the sewing machines buzzed like bees. Grrr-tak-tak. My hands trembled around the peach fabric bundle. The reality settled in. Tomorrow wasn't just a fitting. Tomorrow, I would have to wear this body—my body—without hiding.

No hoodies. No shadows. No invisibility.
The thought terrified me. But deep inside, a tiny spark—"tiny, but real"—felt like freedom.