Problems

|| Chapter 22 ||

Before we get into this chapter, drop everything and go listen to Gabbie Hanna's "Out Loud" and "Medicate," in that order (watch the "Out Loud" music video for the full experience.) I discovered these recently and they both tie in so well with both this and my story, and I see them reflect Alexander and Nicholas' relationship (which we will be getting deeper into in both this and next chapter, you're in for a treat haha). Please listen to them, they're amazing.

TW: disordered eating, panic attack, mention of past and current self harm

X

Here are the things people tell you about eating disorders:

The thigh gap. The stately collarbones. The way you feel in control. The hollows underneath your cheekbones. The feeling of running your fingers over your ribcage, which become your very own xylophone.

Heres what they don't tell you:

The anger that comes from breaking a fast. The nights you spend in the bathroom, biting your fist to muffle sobs, as your boyfriend pretends to type in the next room as you try not to purge. The cold that settles into your bones and turns your skin pale and marbled. The way your heart flutters when you stand up, and the wave of dizziness that follows. The anxiety attacks that come after losing your calorie count. The lies. The frustration. The secrecy.

The shame.

Alex was used to all of this. It had been like that Before, and it was like that After.

The first time he was in the hospital, before The Incident, he'd been diagnosed, but not really. EDNOS, they said. Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.

He wasn't doing it to be thin. He was doing it because he was trying to gain power over himself for once in his life.

He'd never fit inside the boxes people tried to stuff him into. He hadn't fit into that one, either. He wasn't anorexic. He wasn't bulimic. He just...was.

Glamorous. That's what people said. Having an eating disorder was just so glamorous.

(There's nothing glamorous about passing out from restriction or shoving your fingers down your throat.)

X

The tapping of a pen echoed throughout their room as Alex sat in front of his desk, a notebook open in front of him, words that had been scribbled and crossed out scrawling on the page.

Drying ink stained the tips of his fingers, black against pale skin, and he gnawed on the pen cap, an old habit not yet forgotten.

"Any progress?" John asked from across the room, and Alex looked up.

"Nope," he sighed, and set the pen down. "Nothing."

He was supposed to be writing poetry for his Creative Writing class, something about the environment around you, but that just wasn't happening.

"Write about yourself," John suggested, and Alex snorted.

"I hate myself."

"Alex!"

"Sorry, sorry. It's true, though."

"Alexander."

"Fine," he sighed, and picked up his pen.

He glanced over at John, who had his hair in a sloppy ponytail and was wearing a raggedy tee, spinning a highlighter in his hand while skimming through his Biochemistry book.

Black shaggy hair pushed back, sketching light lines onto creamy paper, grinning at Alex through thick lashes.

He started writing.