Home Is Where the Heart Is (Brittana)

Chapter 8

TW: Mentions of eating disorders

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Brittany's POV

While cleaning the apartment one day while Santana was at school, I found a notebook between our mattress and the bed. I set it down on top of our bed and didn't open it. I wanted to give Santana her privacy. But, as I continued cleaning the house, I kept going back to the notebook, extremely curious.

After some mental arguments, I decided to open it and immediately gasped. Every page in the notebook was filled with meals Santana had eaten, tiny meals, with their calories written next to each food. That was the moment where it really hit me just how bad Santana's eating disorder had been. Still, something felt off, and I wondered how Santana was really doing.

So, while she was showering the next morning, I went on her phone (guessing her PIN was surprisingly really easy) and checked her calendar, seeing that she no longer had any appointments with her therapist planned. I also saw that she had a calorie counting app on her phone, but couldn't look for anything more when Santana came back into our bedroom.

Eventually, I couldn't keep the secret any longer.

"Santana," I said, "I found something yesterday." I showed her the notebook I'd found.

"Oh, that," she said, nonchalant. "It's old; I haven't used it for a long time."

"Why do you still have it?"

"I don't know. It's just something I don't want to get rid of."

"How's your therapy going?" I asked, forgetting to be calm, and starting to sound accusatory.

"I stopped going."

"Why?"

"Ever since you moved in, I've felt a lot better, so I stopped going."

"And how are you doing with your eating?"

"I asked you not to be my therapist and I'd really like it if you kept that promise."

"Okay, except you are not going to your therapist anymore! I'm sorry for being worried, but I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay!"

"I'm fine!" Santana yelled.

I felt myself start to tear up, blaming my pregnancy hormones, but knowing that the situation had just as much to do with it. I stood up and left the apartment, needing some air.

When I returned later that evening, I found Santana crying in our bedroom. She turned over and acted as though she was fine, but I'd seen the tears on her face.

"Santana," I said gently, "I'm sorry for getting so accusatory."

"No, you're right," she replied, sitting up, allowing me to see her tears. "I'm not fine."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I guess. I'd thought I was fine, I really did. You moving in with me made me feel a lot better for a while, but I guess I can't trust my mind yet. I want to get better, but sometimes, I would just miss my eating disorder. I was gaining weight, and I couldn't handle it. The only time a weight gain made me happy was when I got my boob job, and even then, I lost that weight from other places soon after. I hate that I feel this way, but I don't feel happy when I gain weight."

I paused to see if she would say anything more. When she didn't, I said, "I think you're incredibly brave for saying that and for getting help in the first place. I'm proud of you, and I love you no matter what you look like. Would you like to go back to therapy?"