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The shared apartment smelled faintly of stale coffee and acrylic paint.
Rowan sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, though he hadn’t drawn anything in nearly twenty minutes. The late afternoon light slipped through the blinds in narrow gold stripes, cutting across his arms and making his skin look thinner than it already was. His hoodie hung loose around his shoulders, fabric pooling where muscle used to sit. When he shifted, he could feel the hard edge of his own hip bone pressing against the floorboards. The sensation made his stomach twist.
He pulled the sleeves down over his hands.
He hated the shape of himself. He despised it.
Not just disliked. Not just uncomfortable.
Hated.
His chest never felt flat enough. His waist never felt narrow enough. His shoulders never looked broad enough in the mirror. When he worked out with Mydei and Phainon, he watched their movements obsessively. The way Mydei’s arm flexed naturally when lifting weights. The way Phainon’s back tightened under a fitted shirt when stretching after long hours of coding. Even Anaxa, who rarely exercised, carried himself with a quiet structured symmetry that Rowan envied.
Rowan’s body felt wrong. Soft in the wrong places. Angular in others. Never aligning with the image he held in his mind.
He had binged three nights ago.
A leftover fried rice with grilled squid from Mydei’s house. Instant ramen for Phainon and a warm Zuppa soup meant for Anaxa. He remembered eating standing up in the kitchen, the salt and oil coating his tongue, panic rising even as he swallowed a single drop of liquid. Afterwards he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and pressed his palm flat against his stomach, utter disgust pooling like acid.
Therefore, he stopped eating. Not completely. Yet enough to balance it out.
Undo everything. To make one smaller, acceptable, and worthy.
He hadn’t realized how visible it had become.
Just as he finished puking his inside, tap water pooling in the ceramic sink, the bathroom door opened.
Rowan didn’t look up immediately, assuming it was Phainon or Mydei going in for a quick piss. The familiar scent of floral laundry detergent followed him in.
Then, three sets of footsteps. Rowan looked up. The white haired fella–Phainon–stood closest to the door, expression unreadable but tight around the edges. Mydei was just right behind him, jaw set in a way Rowan had only seen during arguments about machinery tolerances; especially between calls. Anaxa was just a centimeter away from Mydei, towered by his muscular–tattooed–body.
The shared apartment suddenly felt smaller. Stillness consumed the environment since no one dared to make a single sound from both of their lips or movements. This kind of silence was the worst, the kind that Rowan despised.
Mydei moved first, pushing Phainon the side. He tilted his head towards Rowan, meaning he will be asking one thing, and Rowan must answer truthfully.
“You look exhausted,” he said softly, something that was surprising for everyone in the room.
Rowan’s throat tightened, “I’m fine.”
Mydei’s gaze dropped briefly to Rowan’s trembling hands. They were shaking wildly.
“You didn’t eat at my place yesterday, Mom made your favorite dish, I demand an explanation,” Mydei leaned onto the cold wall, waiting for Rowan’s answer. Rowan’s eyeball darted across the room, sometimes to the floor, sometimes to Phainon, or to Anaxa.
“I told you, I already ate, so I’m full. Plus, I got errands to do. This wasn’t my first time not eating together with your family, you can’t just–”
“You say that every time.” Phainon stepped further into the room, gently nudging Rowan’s desk chair aside with his foot. His words weren’t sharp, yet enough to pierce Rowan’s heart.
Rowan felt heat crawl up his neck, not that acidy feeling before you puke, yet a sign of fear, “Why are you all acting like this? Like this is such a huge war crime I’m doing.”
Anaxa removed his lab coat slowly and hung it by the door, “because your pulse is weaker than any person I have personally met,” he stated quietly, “and look at that, your sleeves are longer. I suggest you learn how to lie better.”
Hearing such bold statements from none other than a Biochemistry student, Rowan stiffened. And Mydei noticed the reaction instantly. His muscular arms reached him out on instinct, then hesitated just a fraction before gently caressing Rowan’s wrist. It was warm, Rowan thought.
Thus far, Rowan flinched anyway.
That flinching hurt more than if he had slapped him.
Mydei didn’t withdraw immediately this time. He just adjusted his grip, gentler, thumb resting over the fragile line of Rowan’s pulse.
“... You don’t have to make such actions… Pulling away from me,” Mydei murmured.
Rowan’s breathing grew uneven, “I’m not…”
Phainon exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Rowan, the snacks I bought last week are still in the cabinet… Untouched… Those are your favorite snacks,”
Rowan looked away. And the silence crept again.
The green haired man, with one eyepatch covering his left crevice moved closer now, “You’re just diminishing yourself at this point,” he presumed. “Intentionally.”
The word ‘intentionally’ landed like a blade, piercing right through his already bleeding heart.
Rowan’s composure cracked.
“I’m not.”
“I SAID I’M NOT!” He snapped. His voice was rising and trembling at the same time. Rowan started to bawled, he collapsed to the floor, lips unable to form a coherent sentence.
“I just– I don’t–” He immediately regretted it. His voice faltered.
Phainon crouched down, hugging him tightly. Mydei followed his actions, caressing Rowan’s head with lenience.
“Please, Rowan, talk to us.”
“I can’t keep up with you,” Rowan whispered between his sobs, the words spilling out before he could think twice. “You guys are just so much… for me.”
Phainon brings his face level with Rowan, “so much what exactly?”
“So much better!” Rowan announced his frustration in just three words, yet his breath hitching uncontrollably. “You and Mydei are strong as hell. Anaxa is disciplined about everything, even eating. You guys are brilliant. You guys have a direction.”
Still between his weeping, Rowan laughed weekly. “I can’t even control my own eating.”
Mydei’s expression shifted, something breaking behind his eyes.
“This isn’t about control–”
“It is. It is. It always is.” Rowan insisted. “If I just fix myself…”
Rowan then let out a shaky sound that might have been another laugh. He’s laughing at himself.
“I binge and then I starve myself to death,” he confessed. “I look in the mirror and I don’t see, well, me. I see someone else completely. An alien version of me? Perhaps. And I keep thinking if I shrink myself enough, perhaps I will finally feel right. A whole complete perfect human.”
Phainon’s hand slid slowly up Rowan’s back, steady, warm. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller for us.”
Rowan shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
Mydei leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched. “Then make me understand.”
Rowan’s eyes filled despite himself. “When we work out together, I feel pathetic. When Anaxa talks about research, I feel stupid. When you cook, I feel useless. I don’t match you. I will never match you.”
The confession drained him. For a moment, no one rushed to contradict him.
Mydei did something simpler; he pulled Rowan into his chest. Not urgent. Just firm and steady, and … loving.
Rowan froze at first, body tense, then slowly sagged into the warmth. He could feel Mydei’s heartbeat through his shirt, strong and even. It made him painfully aware of how lightheaded he felt.
Phainon shifted closer, pressing his forehead lightly against Rowan’s temple. “You think we love you for performance?” he murmured.
Anaxa stepped within reach, his hand resting gently against Rowan’s shoulder blade. “Your worth is not comparative. You are better than anyone else, even us.”
Rowan’s voice cracked. “Then why do I feel like I’m failing?”
Mydei’s arms tightened slightly. “Because you’re hurting.”
The simplicity of that affection shattered him.
He buried his face into Mydei’s shirt and cried, quiet and raw, shoulders shaking. No one tried to fix him with speeches. No one listed counterarguments. They just held him while the storm passed.
After a while, Mydei loosened his hold but didn’t step away.
“I will be cooking,” he said softly. “You’re staying here with us.”
“What you want? You know what, I’ll make your favourite food.”
The kitchen lights flickered awake, pouring a muted amber glow over the narrow counter and the quiet ruin of Rowan’s reflection in the dark window. Mydei did not hesitate. He reached for the flank steak first, laying it flat against the cutting board, his fingers steady as he sliced against the grain into thin, even ribbons, each cut deliberate, almost reverent, as if precision itself could anchor something fragile in place. He gathered the slices into a ceramic bowl and added soy sauce, a cupful of Shaoxing wine, and a dusting of cornstarch, massaging the marinade into the meat with his bare hands until it gleamed dark and wet, the scent rising rich and sharp.
From a small tin, he crushed dried red chilies between his fingers, their brittle skins snapping softly, and added them beside a spoonful of fermented doubanjiang, its deep crimson paste dense with oil and salt and history from Sichuan. The air shifted almost immediately, thickening with promise, with heat, with something alive.
Rowan stood motionless in the doorway, his arms wrapped loosely around himself, fingers pressing into his sleeves as though testing whether he still had substance. “You don’t have to,” he murmured, his voice thin, fraying at the edges.
“I’m not… I don’t need anything.”
Phainon stayed beside him on the couch, one arm resting loosely across Rowan’s back. Anaxa sat on the other side, close enough that their knees touched occasionally.
“You don’t have to finish anything,” Phainon said quietly.
“I don’t know if I can,” Rowan admitted.
“That’s fine,” Anaxa replied. “Attempting is sufficient.”
“Phai, what do you want?” Mydei asked flatly, eyes never leaving the wok. He flicked his wrist, tossing the beef in a smooth arc, catching it again with practiced indifference. “And if you say instant noodles, I’m sending you out from the window.”
Phainon stiffened immediately at his desk, the scratch of his pen faltering into silence. He had not expected to be perceived, let alone addressed with such casual threat, and for a moment he looked almost guilty, as if his mere existence in the room had become an inconvenience.
“Ah, eh… I-I guess I’m fine with anything,” he stammered, shrinking slightly into himself. “I’ll just eat whatever you’re making Rowan right now…”
The garlic had begun to brown at the edges, releasing a deeper sweetness that softened the violence of the spice, and Mydei adjusted the flame with a small, precise motion. Oil snapped and spat against his wrist, but he did not flinch, his body accustomed to tolerating minor harm without protest. He added a final drizzle of dark soy sauce, watching it cling to the meat in glossy streaks, turning each slice into something rich and deliberate.
“Naxy?”
“Stop calling me that, Mydeimos.” Anaxa did not look up from his own work, his voice clipped with restrained irritation, each syllable shaped carefully to avoid betraying fatigue. He adjusted his glasses, though they had not slipped, his movements meticulous in a way that bordered on defensive. “Hmph. I suppose I’ll go with Phainon’s request as well. If possible, please separate the chili and the main dish. I’ll suit myself with it later.”
Mydei finally paused.
The spatula rested against the wok’s curved edge, unmoving, while the oil continued its quiet, restless crackle beneath. He turned his head just slightly, enough for his voice to carry clearly across the room, enough for the refusal to land exactly where it was meant to.
“…This is Szechuan beef, Anaxagoras,” he said, calm and immovable. “It’s just as it is. I can’t do much with the spice.”
Silence followed, thick and immediate.
Anaxa stared at the page before him without seeing it, his pen suspended mid-sentence, as though language itself had abandoned him. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and for a moment he looked like someone standing at the edge of unfamiliar territory, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. The air carried the sharp, numbing heat of Sichuan peppercorns, creeping into the lungs, settling into the senses, impossible to negotiate with.
“…”
“…”
Behind them, Rowan said nothing at all. He remained on the sofa, watching Mydei’s back, watching the quiet certainty in every movement, the unspoken declaration that some things did not need to be softened to be worth offering.
It reminded him of hunger in a way that frightened him, because hunger was no longer simple, no longer something his body asked for honestly. Hunger had become an accusation. Hunger had become failure.
Mydei approached slowly, as if approaching something fragile enough to shatter under the wrong kind of attention, and placed the plate in front of him with deliberate care. The porcelain clicked softly against the table, a small, final sound that seemed to close off all escape routes.
“Here,” Mydei said quietly. “Please enjoy. Just a few bites is fine.”
Rowan stared.
The beef glistened under the light, lacquered in dark sauce, streaked with violent red oil that bled into the white rice beneath it. Thin slices of chili rested between the meat like warning signs, their color almost beautiful in its intensity, while faint steam curled upward in ghostlike ribbons, carrying warmth he did not feel entitled to. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly inward, nails pressing faint crescents into his skin without him realizing it.
He could smell it.
He could remember loving this.
His stomach twisted painfully, confused by the sudden presence of something it recognized as nourishment, something it had been trained to expect and then denied. For weeks, hunger had been something he endured like penance, something he silenced with water, with sleep, with distraction, until it became a dull and obedient ache. But now it rose again, loud and desperate, and with it came the unbearable awareness of his own body, its weight, its softness, its refusal to disappear.
He hated it.
He hated himself for wanting.
Phainon shifted closer on the sofa, careful, leaving space between them so Rowan would not feel cornered. The faint glow of his laptop screen reflected against his glasses, casting pale light over his face, but his attention had long since abandoned the code waiting unfinished behind him. He watched Rowan the way he watched systems on the verge of collapse, quietly, patiently, waiting for signs of stability rather than forcing intervention.
“You don’t have to finish it,” Phainon said softly. “Just… don’t pretend you don’t need anything.”
Rowan swallowed, his throat dry.
His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glossy surface of the sauce, warped and indistinct.
He picked up a single slice of beef. It was warm. Soft. Real.
His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. For a moment, he could not breathe.
Then he ate it.
The flavor exploded across his tongue, salt and heat and numbness all at once, overwhelming in its intensity, forcing sensation into parts of himself he had spent weeks trying to silence. His throat tightened immediately, emotion rising faster than he could contain it, and before he realized it, tears had begun to fall, silent and uncontrollable.
He covered his mouth, ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
Mydei’s hand found his back, steady and warm, rubbing slow circles that asked for nothing in return.
Phainon leaned his shoulder gently against Rowan’s, quiet solidarity without pressure.
Anaxa said nothing at all, but he moved closer, his presence firm and unwavering, like gravity itself.
“You did nothing wrong,” Mydei murmured.
Rowan cried harder.
He ate another bite.
And another.
Not much. Not enough to satisfy his hunger. Not enough to undo weeks of quiet harm. But enough to prove something fragile and terrifying and alive inside him had not died completely.
Enough to prove he was still here.
Rowan did not finish the plate. He could not.
But he did not hide it away, did not pretend it had never been touched, did not lie and say he wasn’t hungry.
He simply sat there between them, breathing unevenly, letting their presence exist around him without apology.
Later that night, long after the dishes had been washed and the lights turned off, Rowan lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling while Phainon slept quietly beside him. His body still felt wrong. Still felt like something foreign he had been forced to inhabit. That had not changed.
His stomach was warm.
Not empty. And in the darkness, Mydei’s laughter echoed faintly from the kitchen, Anaxa correcting him with tired irritation, their voices low and alive and real.
Rowan closed his eyes. He did not feel whole. But he felt held.
And for now, that was enough.
- fin