#day1455

pages 268-270

slight tw for ed

and nothing hurts like you do.

we were over before we started, before you even looked at me while you stood at your car. after years and years. the flames licked at our feet, even then. it reminded me of my demise with brennan. that twisted sickly mutually assured destruction. i always gravitate toward ruin, moth to a flame. i tried not to dwell on brennan, though. not at that moment. not while your lips and teeth were grazing the tendons in my neck, your free hand gently making its way down my chest and stomach. 

“this is concerning,” you drew away to look me in the eye, hand resting on the sharpness of my hipbones. the concave of my lower abdomen. “not sure how i feel about it.”

“what do you mean?” i was breathless, desperate. you could probably taste it. i kissed your soft skin and wiggled around, needy, “don’t stop.”

“i’m just saying, i’m a bit worried,” you did kiss my neck and sternum quickly. once, twice. i hated the tone of voice. every time someone told me they worried about me, my life went to hell, and blew up in smoke. “you’re really skinny.”

i sputtered out a laugh. disbelief. this wasn’t skinny. i knew skinny. i was, once. in high school, when i wouldn’t eat for 1-2 days at a time and did marching band. when my bmi was 15 or so, when i could count my ribs, when i had a nice sharp jawline. when i'd pass out for small periods of time randomly. when i went to the hospital and had a tube running through my sinuses. when i felt prettiest. i used to parse my meals carefully, i’d chew and spit, i’d hide my food in my bedroom closet. i wasn’t nearly that bad anymore. “please be for real. i am not. i’m, like, a healthy weight. i eat plenty.”

“are you actually eating enough?” you shifted a bit, stopping the heavenly torture, and i buried my hands in your hair. it was my favorite physical part of you. thick, dark, long. i couldn’t get enough.

as i dragged my fingers through the strands, gentle with you, i shrugged as much as i could laying in the bed. “sure. i eat one meal a day, which is all i need. i don’t get hungry very often.” i omitted the fact this was probably due to my pills and years of ignoring hunger cues. 

“one meal is not enough, baby,” and i melted, giggling despite the incoming lecture. the lecture i’d heard from doctors, my friends, my mother over and over. “you have to eat way more than that, especially if you’re a runner. you are so tiny and small, i’m scared i’ll break you somehow.”

“i’m fine, i promise,” i huffed, then purred your name, tugging your hair and digging my nails into your muscled back. “please. i need you.”