Chapter Text
The car ride home was quiet, and a bit uncomfortable. I thought so, at least. It wasn’t like Michael was mad at me, right? He didn’t seem mad the entire day. What would I have done to make him mad? What I am thinking is very irrational.
I looked at him, biting my cheek. Chewing the skin off, I hesitated to speak up. I nervously fiddled with my thumbs. “Mikey?” I called out in a quiet voice. He hummed in response.
“You’re not mad at me, right?” Stupid question.
“What?” He looked over at me with a confused look before focusing back on the road. “No, ____. I’m not mad at you. I’m just worried.” He pulled up into our driveway, parking the car and sitting in there for a bit. He looked over at me again. “Why do you think I’m mad, love?”
“Nothing. Just wondered why you wanted to talk. But now I know it’s not really bad..?”
He turned the car off, taking his seatbelt after. “Okay. Come on, then.” He got out of the car, and I did the same.
As we got into the house, a feeling of dread washed over me. I close the door behind us and walk into the living room. “Kay, talk to me.” I turned around to face him, folding my arms together.
“___, are you anorexic?” He asked with nearly zero hesitation. I just stood there, stunned. “Huh?”
“You heard me,” Michael says. “I know you avoid eating.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said, defending myself.
“You literally… hardly eat! I know you, ____! And… and you’re so small!” He gestured toward my frame. “That’s why you wear baggy clothes, right? To cover it?” He seemed to be freaked, and I wasn’t sure how to take this in. I just kept refusing.
“Mikey, I’m okay! Seriously. My medication just.. causes weight loss. It’s not intentional!”
Michael shook his head. “No, stop lying. Please.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I’m so worried. I’m so scared! I can’t even hold you without being scared of hurting you. We don’t even go out for dinner or anything anymore, ____.” He took a small step closer to me, taking my hands into his. “I want you to get better.”
I just stared up at him, unsure of what to say still. “I’m fine.” I pulled away. I looked away, feeling anger bubble up. “I don’t even know why you’re so worried.” I leaned against the couch.
“Seriously? Why am I so worried? I notice everything, ____! God— you’re so…” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I wish I said something earlier. I thought it was just a small phase, but you look dead every day. You can’t even keep yourself up so long.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re hurting yourself. I thought it was just the self harm, but now it’s this.”
“I stopped last week, Mikey.” I said, hoping that would change something at least. “You’re pissing me off.”
“And you’re scaring me.” He said, looking down at me. “____, please. I know recovery is difficult but God— please. Try. I don’t want you to die.”
What he said isn’t going to change me. I know he wishes it does, and I wish it was that easy. But it was either to die from this disorder, or to be happy with Mikey and recover. I was lost.
But I knew what I had to do, and it was to try. Even if it was to have cinnamon sugar butter toast in the mornings with coffee flavored with creamers. Or to have a small slice of cake with fruit instead of just fruit at a party. Even if it’s just one big meal that’s out of my comfort zone.
I know this will be difficult. But not only I’m doing this for Michael, I’m doing this for me.
“Okay,” I said. “Fine.”