Trigger Warning: This depicts description of eating disorders. Please do not read if this could be triggering to you in any way. This was in no way written to romanticize eating disorders.
Eating Disorder Outreach: https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/where-do-i-start-0
Your POV
I pace around the living room of our apartment, running my fingers aggressively through my hair.
I ate too much. I ate too much. I ate too much.
I need to burn the calories off now, or I will panic.
I run through what I ate today in my head:
1. A small cup of coffee, no sugar, and no cream, to boost my metabolism
2. Six saltine crackers
3. Two slices of an apple
Why did I eat those apple slices? Apples are full of sugar. And I was only supposed to eat five saltine crackers. Not six. How many calories are in a saltine cracker??
I continue to pace, starting to feel dizzy. I stop and place a hand on the wall to steady myself.
I've been living like this for almost two months now. I know it's not good, and I know I'm relapsing into my old habits, but I can't stop. I don't want to stop, because I'm not small enough yet. I'm huge, ugly, fat, disgusting.
I lean my back against the wall and slowly sink to the floor, sobbing silently as tears flow down my cheeks. I can't move, I only feel guilt, and the pang of the loss of control because I ate too much. I scream through clenched teeth with pure anger and self-loathing. I faintly hear the door open, and register that someone is walking in.
"Y/N?" it's Timothèe. He's home from his meeting.
I can't get myself to answer. I don't want him to see me like this, fighting back sobs. He walks into the living room, setting down his things, not seeing me at first. When he does his green eyes widen in concern and he rushes over to where I'm sitting pathetically on the floor, my knees drawn against my chest. I burst into sobs again, not being able to contain them any longer.
He crouches down, instantly wraps his long arms around me, and holds me tightly. I shake in his hold, my forehead pressing against his shoulder.
"Y/N..." he says, his chin tucked behind my shoulder. "What's wrong?" I can hear his voice catch. I don't answer at first, I can't answer at first. I only continue to sob into his chest, leaving damp spots all over his shirt. Almost three minutes later I have finally calmed down a bit, and I pull away from him, looking into his eyes. They are red. He was crying too.
"I'm... I'm sorry," I say feebly, sniffling and wiping my face.
"Don't apologize. Ever," he says, holding my shoulders with both hands.
"I need to tell you something..." I say, avoiding his gaze.
"Okay. Anything," he says.
I take a deep, shaky breath.
"I told you about my anorexia in the past but I didn't, like, talk about it that much but I think I'm relapsing but I don't wanna stop," I ramble very quickly. He squeezes my shoulders, and I finally move my eyes to meet his, which are still red and swimming with tears. He doesn't say anything, but pulls me into him again, squeezing me tighter than before.
"I knew something was wrong," he says over my shoulder. I close my eyes and suppress more tears. "I wish you would've told me sooner. I kind of knew but I didn't want to bring it up," he says.
I figured he had some sort of idea. I've been weird about meals, and he was bound to notice.
He pulls away again and stands, holding his hand out to help me up. I take it and he guides me over to sit on the couch. I stare down at my fingers and fiddle with my rings.
"How can I help you through this?" he asks after a few moments. I can feel him looking at me but I can't bring my eyes to his.
"I don't know." I say. He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear.
"Is this why you haven't let me touch you for a while?" he asks carefully.
"Um... yeah..." I say. It's true, we haven't had sex in almost two months because those feelings of self-hatred have completely resurfaced. I didn't want him to see my body at all.
"Y/N... you're so beautiful. You're so beautiful," he says. I finally lock my eyes into his emerald ones.
"I just feel so ugly," I say my voice cracking again.
"I don't know how. I wish... God I wish you could see yourself the way I do. You're so fucking beautiful," he says, holding my wrists. "I can't watch you do this to yourself. You're wilting away in front of me."
"I'll get help," I blurt out. I don't want to get help. But we both know it needs to happen.
"I can help you through this. We will get through this," he says, hugging me again.
We will get through this.