‘Where do you want to go? I’m thinking Thai, maybe,’ Elija asks. He picked me up a few minutes ago and now we’re trying to figure out what to eat.
‘That works for me. I’m not a picky eater.’ Okay, I know what you think but it’s not a lie. I’m not a picky eater, I just can’t eat. But he wants to grab lunch so I’ll have to figure something out.
After half an hour, he and I are sitting on a blanket in the park, eating our takeout. I’m playing music in the background and there are a lot of distractions around, making it easier for me to stomach my food. When the song that’s currently playing is interrupted by the ding of a message, I check who it’s from.
Mom replied to your story
I’m surprised enough to open the message. After all, it’s not usual for my mother to text me on Instagram.
I posted a picture of my food and the park on my story a few minutes ago, to which my mother said.
Her: Are you sure you want to eat that? I’ve seen the picture from last night, Honey. Your clothes nearly burst at the seams.
I stare at my phone, rereading the message as a lump grows in my throat. Why does she have to do this? Now, of all times. Sure, I’ve noticed that my parents have started being less discrete about their dislike of me, less eager to keep up their façade but this? This was so uncalled for.
I can’t help myself, I go on my account to see my most recent post. It’s a picture I took of the outfit Elija chose for me. It was risky to post since I was in his room but apparently, my parents are more concerned about my figure than my whereabouts.
I delete the picture, blinking back tears. I honestly really liked it and was proud to show off what Elija dressed me in but that’s ruined. Before, I saw myself smiling happily, now it’s a girl with clothes that can barely keep it together. I don’t recognize myself, it’s just a distorted body.
A warm hand touches my arm, making me aware I’m shaking. I look up to see Elija’s worried expression but I don’t hear him speak. I can’t hear the singing birds, my music, or screaming kids in the background. It’s all tuned out by the insults flitting through my mind.
When I feel a familiar rhythm against my skin, I realize Elija’s tapping it. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe, focusing on the beat. I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s just words, they can’t hurt me. They don’t mean anything.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur finally, keeping my eyes shut. I don’t want to look at Elija. I don’t want to see the pity or confusion.
‘What happened?’ he asks softly. I chuckle watery.
‘Nothing.’ When Elija doesn’t speak up again, I decide to look at him. He’s staring at his hand on my arm but looks up to meet my eyes. His jaw is clenched but I can tell he has things to say. I sigh before handing him my phone wordlessly.
He reads the message from my mom before looking at me with furrowed eyebrows. ‘What is this?’ he asks.
‘Mom being mom.’ I shrug.
‘She’s kidding, right? Florence, she’s talking absolute shit. Your last post is beautiful and your clothes fit perfectly,’ he protests but I just shrug again as I lie down on my back. If we’re really having this conversation, I’d rather look at the sky than him.
‘Wait, where did it go? Did you take it down?’ he asks a few beats later. I nod. ‘You can’t let her get to you, Florence.’
‘Whatever,’ I tell him.
‘Come on, don’t shut me out.’ He tugs at my arm until I sit up again. Then he nods to my food, attempting a smile. ‘Your food’s getting cold. Let’s eat,’ he suggests. I can’t help it, I bite down on my bottom lip to stop it from quivering as my eyes fill with tears. I don’t want to do this in front of him.
‘Hey, don’t cry. What’s wrong? What did I do?’ Elija asks hastily pulling me into a hug. It’s awkward since we’re both sitting but it’s a cute attempt. It just doesn’t do much to help me right now.
When he pulls back, he cups my face and wipes away my tears.
‘Talk to me,’ he begs.
‘I can’t,’ I whisper hoarsely. My throat hurts with the effort to keep down the few bites I’ve already eaten.
‘You can’t what?’
‘Eat,’ I clarify, looking anywhere but him.
‘What are you talking about? It’s fine, you just have to calm down a bit. Tell me how to help.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Elija, I can’t eat. I have an ed.’ The words taste sour in my mouth and I feel like taking them back as soon as they’re out. I’ve never told anyone. It’s no one else’s problem and I regret my decision of speaking up when Elija’s face falls. The crease between his brow deepens as he searches my face and I feel him pulling back further. All the while my heart is cracking. Fuck, I’m tired of this.
‘I-‘ Elija breaks off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he finally admits, looking lost. It twists the knife in my stomach. I’m stupid! So stupid for telling him!
I wish I could take it back. It doesn’t matter, I’m fine. He shouldn’t know. No one should.
I chuckle watery even as I feel like breaking down or running away. Then I grab my food and start loading up the next bite.
‘I’m just kidding.’ I laugh again. I must look like a lunatic as I shove the food into my mouth, chewing as if it were sawdust. ‘It’s fine,’ I add after swallowing. I don’t dare to look at Elija again but force down the next bite.
‘Florence,’ I hear the guy beside me say softly but I don’t turn. Instead, I prepare my next bite, even as tears flow down my cheeks.
‘Florence, hey, stop!’ Elija says again, taking hold of my arm again.
I shake my head, crying harder and finally meeting his eyes. ‘It’s fine.’ I attempt a weak smile.
‘Fuck. Stop saying that when it’s not. Now, calm down and tell me how I can help, please.’
I try to do as he told, taking deep breaths to calm down. As soon as my frenzy wears off, I can feel the food I ate like a rock. I clamp my mouth shut against the bile crawling up my throat and clutch my stomach, digging my nails into my skin to feel anything but that. Anything but dirty.
‘Don’t do that. You’re fine, Florence. It’s fine,’ Elija says desperately, placing his hands over mine again. He taps my rhythm softly.
‘You don’t have to stay,’ I tell him quietly. This must suck for him. He wanted to have a nice date and I ruined it by acting like a nutcase. Even worse, I can’t seem to pull myself together.
‘I’m not going anywhere, okay? Let’s just calm down and talk,’ he says.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask.
‘Florence, I care about you. I hate to see you cry but I’m certainly not going to leave you when you’re feeling bad.’
‘You’re being too nice,’ I tell him.
‘Please don’t say that,’ he mutters.
‘Why?’
‘Because it seriously makes me wonder how you’ve been treated by others up to now and I don’t think I’d like the answer.’
‘I’ve never been treated poorly,’ I protest.
‘Florence, if you think me sticking around in a moment like this is some heroic behavior, you haven’t been treated the way you deserved.’
