Endgame ~ Taylor Swift x Travis Kelce

math

tw: eating disorder, body image, mental health, depression, calorie numbers so on so on...

ty ty to abby for finishing this for me <3
taysmirrorball-13

I didn't think I'd be 35 years old and still using math, but here I was, using it every day of my life. I guess my high school teachers were right - it would come in handy.

I sat at the kitchen island, my phone hidden in my lap, fingers tapping frantically on the calculator app. 15 calories in 100 grams of baby cucumbers. But they weren't all the same size. Some were bigger. Some were smaller. How much did one weigh? How much did this one weigh? My grip tightened around the tiny cucumber in my hand, as if I could somehow feel the number, as if knowing the exact answer would make me feel in control.

I exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead. This was stupid. I knew it was stupid. But my brain wouldn't stop. I picked up a second cucumber, weighing it in my palm against the other, trying to feel which one was lighter.

"Did you have some lunch?"

I jumped, startled, gripping the cucumbers "Yep," I smiled, turning to press a kiss onto Travis' cheek.

It wasn't a lie. Not really. Lunch had happened. Food had been on the plate. I had taken bites. It counted.

Travis's eyes flicked to the cucumbers in my hand, then back to my face. "Right." He studied me, "What did you have?"

I forced a smile, setting them down. "A salad."

His hand found my hip, steadying me. "You didn't eat much at breakfast-"

"Trav." I turned, really wanting him to drop it. "I'm fine. Stop worrying."

He didn't look convinced, his fingers lingering against my waist. "Okay," he said slowly.

I nodded, grabbing the knife. "Thank you."

He didn't push, but I felt his eyes on me as I started slicing one of the baby cucumbers into small sticks. I ate them in a few slow bites, then told Travis I was going for a shower, and went upstairs. He knew I struggled with my body image, and knew if I didn't ask him to come with me, it meant I wasn't feeling good about myself - which had been every day for a while now. He never pushed though, not once.

Walking past the laundry, I grabbed a towel from the dryer and went to our ensuite bathroom, hanging up the towel and flicking on the water to give it time to heat up. Mistakenly, I looked in the mirror. It was unavoidable in the bathroom, I knew that.

There it was. My reflection. My face pale and drawn, my hair messy, and those dark circles under my eyes. The pieces of fat clinging to my body. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to feel the panic rising in my chest, but it was already there, crawling up from my stomach, squeezing my lungs. I grabbed the edge of the sink, my fingers digging into the cold porcelain.

I was so tired of this. I was so fucking tired. I wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

The tears came suddenly, hot and burning, and before I knew it, I was sobbing, choking on the sound, my body shaking with each gasp for air. The mirror reflected every flaw, every imperfection, every ounce of guilt that I couldn't shake.

"Why can't it just fucking stop?" I whispered to myself, to the mirror, to the person I didn't even recognise anymore.

I wiped my face, trying to pull myself together, but wiping away my tears was like trying to mop a fucking waterfall. Impossible.

I could barely see my reflection through my tears, but I hated every piece of my body I could see. I hated the way my nose looked when I smiled. I hated how my jawline wasn't perfectly sharp and straight like it should be. I hated the way my boobs sat against my chest. I hated the fatty little fucking pouch on my belly. I hated the way my hips curved, ruining every fucking outfit I wore. I hated it. I hated it. Hated it. Hated it.