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“TK, lunch is on the table! Where are you? C’mere before it gets cold!” Paul is calling from the kitchenette, the noises of the rest of them pooling around the table and teasing someone — most probably Mateo — reaching him as he sits on his bunk. He has his head in his hands, fingers spiking the short hair wherever they’re touching his scalp, mouth completely dry, a pounding headache finding its way through his system until all he can feel is the pain radiating off himself.
“Start without me!” he calls back, wincing as he lifts his head to be heard when he speaks, the sound piercing his ears. He hangs his head low once again, but even that small movement brings so much pain to his skull, up to the point that he thinks it might rip in two.
He wasn’t that hungry to start with, so he might as well skip this meal and lie down on his bed. Maybe a little bit of silence and a ton of darkness will do wonders to his migraine.
He’s about to do so when he hears footsteps behind him, reaching the threshold of the sleeping room and approaching slowly toward him. He suppresses a groan when he hears his father’s voice, low and worried.
“Are you alright, son?” he asks. TK can feel the bed dipping where his father takes a seat at his feet, and this time he actually whines. “Is it your head? Another migraine?”
“Yeah,” he manages to say. The word resounds in his head, echoing against the invisible walls of his mind, and he feels like being sick. Fortunately, there’s nothing in his system that could go back up except for bile, but still, he doesn’t want to vomit in front of his father as if he’s some sort of little kid who can’t even control his own body.
“You should eat something,” his father tells him. There’s a hand on his thigh, massaging through the fabric of his sweatpants, and even that slight movement sends chills up his spine that end up shaking his already whumped brain. “That could make the headache recess, and you could take something for the pain after. The doctor said you shouldn’t take any medicine on an empty stomach.”
“I’m pretty aware of what the doctor said, I was there,” TK retaliates, almost grumpily. He manages to keep the rudeness out of his voice. Mostly.
“TK, I get that you’re in pain,” his father sighs. “C’mon, son, get up and we’ll go have lunch together. Paul’s made chili chicken, and you already know it’s his best dish.”
“Not hungry,” TK mumbles, reaching for the sheet and trying, in vain, to pull it up. His father is sitting on top of it, preventing him from cowering away underneath the fabric.
“I’m sure once you try a bit of Paul’s chicken you’ll feel better,” his father urges, this time grabbing TK’s hand and pulling him up. TK struggles to remain on his back, but it’s hard to fight his father when he feels so strong and TK feels so weak. “You got out of the house so early this morning without even having coffee, I bet you’re starving.”
“Grabbed breakfast with Carlos,” TK mumbles, loud enough for his father to stop pulling at him. He tells himself that it’s technically a lie — he went out to have breakfast with Carlos in the morning, but his father doesn’t need to know that everything TK’s had up until this very moment is a glass of Boba while Carlos practically inhaled his bagel and two cups of coffee after a particularly difficult night shift.
His father doesn’t need to know that Carlos spent all the time he wasn’t chewing or swallowing just hinting that TK wasn’t eating anything. That would only worry him, and TK doesn’t want his father to worry about anything that isn’t his own recovery from the last chemo sessions.
“That was hours ago,” his father insists. “I’ll help you up,” he continues, tugging at TK’s hand until he manages to make him sit up on the bed. “Let’s go down to lunch. I can help you walk there, I know how dizzy these migraines make you feel,” he keeps on.
“Okay,” he finally relents. “But I’m not taking any strong painkillers,” he warns his father.
“Just a mild painkiller won’t do anything to tame that migraine, son,” his father tells him, but he shakes his head when TK shoots him a look that speaks volumes about his decision not to endanger his sobriety — not even to get rid of a stomping migraine. “I think we have some Tylenol around.”
TK nods slightly, trying to keep the bouncing of his neck as stiff as possible so it doesn’t make his headache worse. He follows his father outside and into the light space where they usually have their meals together when they’re on shift. Almost as a reflex, he drops his father’s hand upon stepping into the open dining space, squinting his eyes to adjust his vision to the light. Around the table, set up for nine people, he can see his chosen family already eating what smells like Paul’s chili — and TK loves everything Paul cooks.
“Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence,” Judd teases him, already pulling out a chair by his side, the legs of the chair scratching the ground and making TK wince. “Migraine again?” he questions in a soft voice when he notices TK’s reaction.
“Yeah,” TK whispers, all but dropping down on the chair offered and closing his eyes once again. “A bad one, it seems.”
“Lemme grab some Tylenol,” his father offers, still puttering around the table before sitting down, bottle of medicine in hand. “Now, you need to open your eyes if you want to see what you’re eating, son.”
TK shakes his head but obliges, staring right into a large plate of chicken chili Paul has left in front of him. He’s sure he won’t be able to finish it — he hasn’t been able to finish a meal for weeks now — and right now he’s feeling nauseous just by the smell of the food. If he were in better spirits he would even joke that he’s pregnant. But he isn’t — in good spirits, that is.
He’s been moody for a long time now; even Carlos has begun to pick up on it, and TK knows it won’t be long until someone addresses his mood swings and his general air of tiredness that hides an exhaustion he isn’t even able to describe with words.
Determined not to let another bad mood top his headache and make his already shitty day a lot more horrible, TK picks up his fork and begins to attack the food. Halfway through his second forkful of chili, though, he feels his resolve crumbling as he’s unable to taste anything when he dives the fork into his mouth. It all just tastes like sand — like something bland and gross that he can’t stand. With a sigh, he begins pushing the chili around his plate in what he thinks is a very stealthy way — he keeps looking out of the corner of his eye to check that nobody is paying him any attention when he doesn’t manage to eat the whole dish and instead destroys it by ripping it apart and mashing it up several times until it’s an unrecognizable ball of mush.
He misses the quick glance his father shares with Judd over his own head, too busy trying to feign that everything is alright.
While it's easy to lie to his father, to make-believe heʼs eaten when he hasnʼt, TK finds it really hard to get away with his eating habits whenever heʼs with Carlos. He doesn’t know why that is, although he suspects it's because TK always spends the night — and the following hours they both have off work — when schedules align. They're bound to see each other much more than he sees his father when heʼs home. And Carlos loves to cook, which makes TK both ecstatic to taste new meals and terrified of how those new meals could fuck his eating habits up.
TK opens his eyes to an empty room, the sheets by his side slightly cooler than he expected them to be. There's a dull noise coming from the general direction of the kitchen — a few feet and a couple of walls away — and TK can make out Carlosʼ voice humming along to some tune that's distinctly coming from the radio, way too loud for comfort. He smiles.
Carlos has always loved to cook while singing.
TK bounces off the bed, grabbing an APD t-shirt, well-worn and way oversized on him, and he saunters to the kitchen. He halts himself on the threshold, short of stepping inside, trying to commit to memory the image in front of him — Carlos wearing an apron over his boxers, his wide back glistening with sweat as he stirs something on a pan, whistling along to the radio.
“Good morning to me,” TK greets him with a sneer. Carlos turns around and grins widely at him.
“Good morning indeed,” he retaliates, beckoning him to come closer with a crooked finger. TK obliges, receiving a sweet welcoming kiss. “Hungry?”
“Not much,” TK tries to play it down. Maybe if he manages to convince his boyfriend that he doesn’t need much food, he might get away without breakfast.
“You didn’t have much for dinner,” Carlos points out with a frown. “And after all the, uh, exercise we did last night,” he keeps going, blushing ever so slightly, making TK wonder how he can be so dirty-mouthed behind closed doors and so innocent-looking in broad daylight. “After that, you must be starving.”
“I am not,” TK insists, stubborn as ever. “Believe me.”
“Iʼve made scrambled eggs and some sautéed vegetables,” Carlos tells him. “Try them for me?”
TK knows he canʼt refuse, not when Carlos has already noticed how little he had for dinner. Not when Carlos has made him his favorite breakfast in the world. There’s no way out for him. So he nods, taking a seat on a stool and grabbing a fork from the stack of utensils Carlos neatly keeps around. His boyfriend places a plate with assorted vegetables and a spoonful of eggs, and he sits down across the kitchen isle with his own breakfast plate.
“Yummy,” TK tells him around a bite of green asparagus. They're tasty but TK canʼt help the rise of nausea in the pit of his stomach as he munches on them. It’s just a matter of time until it takes over.
“Really?” Carlos beams at him. “Iʼm so glad. Iʼve noticed you've been eating less, and I wondered if it was because of my cooking skills.”
“No,” TK is quick to reply. The asparagus has begun to do somersaults in his stomach, upsetting him in a way he knows will only end badly. “I’ve been having a rough time lately.”
“Want to talk about it?”
TK doesn’t really want to say a thing about the reasons why he hasnʼt been eating properly as of lately. He doesn’t know for sure what has triggered old habits these days — it's been a while since he last monitored everything he ate, chastising himself whenever he got too much for dinner, praising his efforts to keep in shape by skipping some meals. All he knows is that he needs to control something in his life when everything seems to explode around him. It happened when he first started using — drugs gave him the mistaken idea that he was in control, and they also helped him into his first spiral down toward whatever this is, now.
He notices Carlos staring at him, but he canʼt say anything. He isn’t sure whether Carlos is expecting him to actually reply. All he knows is that his stomach is suddenly upset, that the food heʼs laboriously chewed down is now swirling around and finding its way back up his throat. He needs to get away. He needs a bathroom.
He needs to stop needing to control everything.
“Excuse me,” he mumbles, stumbling off the stool and finding his way to the nearest bathroom, where he manages to empty his stomach without making a pyrotechnic show out of it. He dry heaves, trembling as he hugs the toilet, hair glued to his forehead by the sweat, as he pushes the little food heʼs had out.
He almost forgets he’s left the bathroom door open in his haste to get inside, but the sudden scratch of sneakers against the tiles reminds him.
“TK?” he hears at his back. He canʼt turn around, he canʼt face Carlos right now. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he calls back, wishing Carlos won't step into the bathroom. “Will be out in a minute.”
“Hey,” Carlos says, one hand on TKʼs shoulder — too much wishful thinking for his boyfriend not to set foot inside. “Are you sick again? Maybe youʼve caught a stomach bug.”
“What do you mean, again?” TK replies, defensiveness in his voice evident through his words.
“Well, you were sick a couple of days ago, and your father told me you vomited at the station during the last hour of your shift yesterday,” Carlos tries to explain, but TK can only hear his own heart beating in his ears.
Carlos has been keeping tabs on him. His father has been keeping tabs on him. And together, they're ganging up and making him their punching ball — someone to pick on and mock.
“What, now you're gossiping with my father about me?” he snaps.
“I—”
“Iʼm doing fine,” TK tells him angrily, pushing himself up and off the toilet. He feels a bit dizzy when he straightens up, but he doesn’t let his stance sway and show it. “I don't need you to control me.”
“Itʼs not control, TK, I just—”
“I don't need you to babysit me,” TK keeps on.
“TK, we are just worried,” Carlos attempts to explain again. “Iʼve noticed you haven't been eating as much as before and I just—”
“Stop!” TK yells. “There’s nothing wrong with me! You don't have any right to police what I eat or don’t eat, and you sure as hell don’t have the right to talk to my father about it!”
TK storms past his boyfriend, who's now staring at him completely aghast. He doesn’t even bother with picking up the duffel bag heʼs brought with him from work to spend a couple of days at Carlosʼ apartment. He doesn’t know where he’s going, all he knows is that he canʼt be inside.
He ignores Carlos as he calls after him. Instead, TK sprints down the road and into the sunny streets, away, away, away, until Carlosʼ voice is just an echo but his own vicious words latch onto the seams of his soul.
You'll never be enough for him anyway.
It ends up blowing up on his face in the least convenient moment. He should have seen it coming, but he's been naively thinking he was safe from the downfall of his own stupidity.
TK has foregone breakfast this morning, again. He really should change his ways, because he knows not eating before a day shift messes with his work performance, and he’s already one step away from being assigned desk duty for the rest of the month, at the speed his mistakes are piling up in front of him.
TK knows he should eat differently — he should change up his eating habits. He knows it's not good that he stuffs himself when he’s alone, only to regret it later on and start a fasting regime that has him feeling dizzy and weak for days. But he's also aware that he’s his own worst enemy. He’s the one holding the sword of Damocles over his own head.
Carlos assumes he's just stressed, but it's only a matter of time before his boyfriend realizes TKʼs habits and calls him on them. TK has been feeling the tension building between them ever since the night he stormed out of Carlosʼ apartment after vomiting. He doesn’t know how to explain he’s not making himself sick on purpose — his stomach canʼt hold food sometimes, more often than not when he forces himself to eat after a particularly long fast or when he’s trying to appease someone's worries about his well being.
His father has long ago given up on trying to understand him. TK has the feeling that he’s allowing him to get away with this only because they already have enough on their plate, what with his father’s chemo sessions, and uprooting themselves from New York City to someplace TK had never even given a thought to. Regardless of the real reasons behind that move — regardless of how messed up TK’s life had been that he’d been willing to give it up entirely — TK’s aware his father knows something’s up, but he’s choosing not to say a thing about it, for now.
What TK isn’t counting on is his fellow firefighters getting a glimpse of what it’s like to put up with him, and deciding he’s not worth the effort anymore.
He had been terrified when he first told them about his addiction and his past in New York City. It wasn’t the first time he’d come clean to his coworkers, but it certainly had felt like the only time it really mattered. As though his new firefam’s opinion of him meant much more than anything else. As though they could match the importance he gives to his father’s opinions of him, or Carlos’. He’d never been more scared of other people’s idea of himself than in the moment before he spilled his guts about his drug addiction to Judd, Paul, Marjan and Mateo. The relief he felt when they’d held him in a tight hug had been both weird and familiar at once — like coming home to a place he’s never been before and still being able to recognize all the smells.
But right now, with Judd nearly having a stroke onsite while Paul and Marjan try to save someone’s life, TK has the feeling they’re not liking him as much as they used to.
He’s been standing next to the truck, with the Jaws of Life close to him just where Mateo has told him they would be before focusing on crowd control, helping Austin Police to keep the bystanders at bay. He catches Carlos’ eyes when his boyfriend turns around for a brief second to check on his surroundings. They share a small, private smile before Carlos gets back to his task — TK can’t help but watch the sway of Carlos’ hips, clad in a uniform that shouldn’t be that fitting.
And if he feels dizzy for a second — if his vision swims a little and his brain feels like it’s disconnected from his body for the slightest of moments — he’s blaming his distracted mind for any missteps he might make at work today. It’s definitely only his heart guiding his actions, and not the lack of whatever nutritional intake he should have gotten before shift. He refuses to believe anything other than that.
“What are you thinking about, TK?” Judd is yelling over the boisterous street noises, a few car alarms going off after a multiple-vehicle crash has taken place in the middle of Austin’s most populated street. “Get going! Strickland and Marwani need you!”
TK shakes himself off the reverie that has taken upon him in an attempt to get rid of the nostalgia that always takes a hold on him whenever he thinks about how he’s reached this point in his life. The lack of food intake in his system always makes him slightly slower, a little bit dizzy, and a lot moody, and he can’t help not being able to focus on the task at hand or even snapping at his teammates in the worst moment possible.
“On my way! No need to be peevish about it, geez!” he replies, brushing Judd’s glare off as he saunters toward where Paul and Marjan are trying to extricate someone from a wrecked car. “Oh shit,” he mumbles to himself, turning around once again.
He’s almost forgotten to pick up the device that will help Paul and Marjan to save lives. Cursing his own clumsiness, TK reaches the rest of his team and tries to focus on the task at hand. And he manages to do so for a grand total of seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds, right before he feels his sight blurring a bit and his hand slipping.
He thinks he hears Paul warning him. He thinks he hears Marjan’s shouts to just jump back.
His brain doesn’t give his body the correct orders in a timely fashion, and therefore he doesn’t move as fast as he should have.
There’s a whole chunk of metallic debris that falls unhinged on top of him, avoiding crushing the victims inside the car, paralyzed by both fear and the weight of the car roof that’s no longer above them. He grunts, following the large piece into its fall until he’s completely laid out on the ground, his right arm caught underneath the rebar.
“TK!” Marjan exclaims, kneeling beside him and tugging at the rebar. “What were you thinking? Judd, Mateo, we need help here!”
TK shakes his head as he struggles to get free from the metal. When he finds out that he can’t — and what’s worse, it fucking hurts to move his wrist — he gives up. “I don’t know what happened,” he offers, but from the huff he receives from Marjan he knows he’s really messed up this time.
Paul and Judd help the victims out of the car — in what’s good shape given the circumstances, with just a few bruises and the beginning of a panic attack after having witnessed how a firefighter got trapped under the wreckage — while Marjan and Mateo stabilize him so they can lift the car without doing more damage to his already hurt arm.
He doesn’t have a recollection of what’s going on around him until he finds himself on a gurney inside an ambulance, staring up at Michelle as she checks something on the monitors above his head, his wrist hurting in an almost unbearable way.
“Welcome back, Strand,” Michelle says jokingly, but there’s a hint of something he can’t discern in her eyes. “About time you decided to stop spacing out on us.”
“I wasn’t spacing out,” he protests.
“So you remember exactly how you’ve ended up in gurney of all places, right?”
He blinks at her, opening his mouth to retaliate, only to find himself at a loss for words. The truth is he doesn’t really remember how or why he’s on a ride to the closest hospital. He purses his lips and frowns at Michelle.
“I bet you don’t remember other things as well,” she keeps on. “Like the reason why Judd was the acting captain on today’s shift or why your father will be waiting for us at the hospital instead of riding in this ambulance with you.”
“I—I don’t,” TK finally admits, a hushed thread of voice getting out of his throat. As much as he racks his brain for answers, he comes up with blanks. “Why don’t I remember anything? Have I been shot again?”
“Not at all,” Michelle shakes her head. She places one hand on top of his arm, squeezing enough for him to feel her without risking injuring his wrist further. “A rebar fell down and trapped your arm. You’ve got a broken wrist as a present for being clumsy today at work, even if you don’t remember it. But I’m pretty sure you know why you don’t remember. I’m pretty sure it has to do with the fact that you’re avoiding food like a plague. Have you even eaten something before shift today?”
TK closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Panicking now will definitely not help him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The team has started to notice, TK,” Michelle explains. “Carlos has come up to me of all people with his concern. Your father is worried sick about you. I have to admit I am, too.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” he says stubbornly. “I eat. I just wasn’t hungry this morning.”
“Sure, TK,” Michelle dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “I may not know why or when it started, but I can see the signs. Everyone can, as a matter of fact. And I know you don’t want to acknowledge it, but I think you know what’s going on here. I know you know you have a problem with food.”
“I don’t have a fucking eating disorder,” he exclaims, trying to sit up on the gurney, but the restraints he hadn’t noticed before keep him in place, lying bare for anyone to see. “I haven’t been overly hungry lately, but it’s just a phase.”
Michelle tsks. She leans in to loosen up one of the straps on the gurney so it doesn’t trap his injured wrist. “Have you felt dizzy as of lately? Have you felt like you could faint from time to time? Do you have trouble remembering simple things? Or, even better, have you been moodier than usual?” She doesn’t allow him to reply, not that he was about to say a thing that would interrupt her tirade — he knows better than to cross Captain Michelle Blake when she’s set her mind on something. “Those are side-effects of different eating disorders, TK. And I know you don’t want to admit it, because it’s scary, but I’m afraid you’re suffering from one.”
TK shakes his head. He doesn’t trust his voice to get past through the sudden lump in his throat, so all he does is cough awkwardly as he wills the tears welling up in his eyes to go away. “I just—”
“You’re not alone, TK,” Michelle reassures him, squeezing his hand softly. “Believe me, we’re here for you. Your father, the team, Carlos, me. Everyone’s in your corner. Let us help you.”
He first shakes his head, but when he can’t stop the tears from falling, the wobbling in his lips from being noticeable, TK nods helplessly. He doesn’t know when or how he ended up in the bottom of this well of despair, but what he does know is that he would have never agreed to ask for help if he hadn’t been called out on his behavior.
Maybe he isn’t as alone as he thought he was, even surrounded by all his friends and family — both by blood and chosen. Maybe he’s still savable.
Maybe there’s still hope for him.
He stands outside the building, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, debating whether or not to enter. The sign outside the entrance door is enticing but he still has doubts.
TKʼs had his own share of therapy experience over the years. He’s quite familiar with the steps to follow — ever since his parents divorcing sent him straight to children's therapy because he had a hard time accepting it, heʼs been in and out of psych wards and shrinksʼ waiting rooms. He just hadn't thought he would come back to group therapy because of something as silly as not being able to control his impulses about food.
It's not that he eats too much or not enough; the doctor he first saw when he was admitted for his broken wrist told him that it wasn't a problem with food but an issue about control. TK didn’t see it at first, too busy with denying having any mental breakdown about eating, but the signs had been there all along. Refusing to acknowledge and address a problem didn’t make it go away — it just got worse with time, along with the symptoms and side-effects he hadn’t noticed.
Now he wants to kick himself every time he remembers how badly heʼs snapped at everyone, how heʼs been treating Carlos, how much heʼs neglected his father. TK can't take back what's already been done, but he can make amends somehow.
The first step is to enter the building and sit down at the circle he’s sure he’ll find inside. The second step is to speak up, voicing the problem so he canʼt escape it. After that, there will come dark times. But he canʼt make himself take that first step toward the door. It’s like his feet are glued to the ground, heavy with a load of lead he canʼt shake.
He looks down at his feet, his sneakers kicking the dirt around. He’s still trying to make up his mind about this whole ordeal.
“TK Strand?” says a voice close to him. When he looks up, he’s surprised to find a middle-aged woman sporting a warm smile standing in front of him. “I had a feeling I’d find you here. My name is Amanda Leyton, but you can call me Mandy.”
He vaguely recalls his therapist giving him information on the local group led by Amanda Leyton, but he was busy trying not to think about everything he was feeling at the moment — he was busy trying not to drown in the guilt he felt every second of the day whenever he thought of how many things had gone awry in his life. He plasters on a fake smile and offers his left hand. “Yeah, I’m TK,” he introduces himself. “Nice to meet you, Mandy.”
“Wanna go inside?” she tells him, her brown eyes gleaming. They remind him of Carlos’. “The meeting will start any minute now.”
“I—I’m still not sure if I want to,” he confesses. He picks up on an invisible pearl of dust on the cast on his right wrist, still healing from being broken under the weight of a car. He knows how long it’s going to take his bones to go back to normal, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to accept the stress and anxiety that he feels whenever he realizes he may never get over the psychological pain he’s inflicted upon himself.
“It’s okay,” Mandy says. “It’s okay if you don’t get inside, and it’s okay if you do. Just know, entering doesn’t mean you have to talk. We’re happy to have you any way you want to share yourself with us.”
TK nods, swallowing hard. He watches as Mandy studies him before turning around and entering the building. She leaves the door open, just a fraction of an inch, but enough for TK to notice it. It’s a small gesture, but somehow it makes him feel wanted.
It’s been a while since he’s recognized the signs of being wanted.
Of course he knows Carlos wants him. And he knows his father loves him, and the team accepts him the way he is, drug addiction and overdose and eating disorders included. But he can’t shake the feeling that by being himself he’s burdening the people he loves — the people who love him back — with a weight no one should ever carry.
“Love is never a burden,” his doctor at the hospital had told him, and TK had wanted to believe it, but it’s difficult with the crushing weight of all his failures making it impossible to breathe.
He’s been in therapy for almost two months now — he keeps track with the countdown to his cast to be removed, in just a few more days. And during his one-on-one sessions with his doctor, he’s talked about almost everything, from his drug addiction to his childhood as the son of divorced parents. Every single, tiny detail matters in the quest of healing, he’s been told.
It’s been painful to dig into his past and see it from an outsider’s point of view. It’s been hurtful to revisit his memories in an attempt to pinpoint the exact moment when it all turned to shit. Was it when his parents told him they were divorcing? Was it his first boyfriend, the guy who introduced him to oxycodone? Was it Alex, with his rejection and the discovery of his cheating?
Or has it always been him, with his low self-esteem and the desire to end things whenever he encountered an obstacle he didn’t think he could surmount? What if this eating disorder is just another way to fuck up more the lives of the people who surround him?
What if. What it. What if.
What if he stops trying to control everything. What if he tries to let go for a moment. What if letting go of his old ways — of the fear of rejection, of the absolute panic of failing, of the need to make sure he controlled even a fraction of his life in the form of counting calories and binge-eating — just could lead to a better life?
What if. What if. What if.
Everything in his life has been about control or lack thereof. He’s tried to rein in his life at different times, but all he’s managed is to get lost in the maze of existing — get lost in drugs that took up everything from him, get lost in relationships that overrode his identity, get lost in himself enough to think that not eating or eating too much was the only solution to achieve a resemblance of control. And, by some sort of miracle, he’s not alone in his fear anymore. He should be able to overcome anything life throws at him — everything he sets himself up to face.
What if he chooses to be happy. What if he refuses to give in to despair. What if he makes it through the darkness and comes out the other way stronger than before.
He has his father. He has his family. He has Carlos. This time he might even make it through.
What if. What if. What if.
He doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s setting foot in a room where a few people sitting in a circle look up at him.
“My name’s TK,” he says, wearily, hating how his voice breaks as he speaks. “And I need help.”