Mic

You were plump since childhood—not "fat," not the kind people laugh at in jokes, but soft, warm, and alive. Sweet cheeks, rounded shoulders, a small belly. A body that was simply a body. But people knew how to make weapons out of it.

"Mare". "Cow". And the most painful thing is not from strangers, but from our own: — How much can you eat? Your clothes will soon rip off.

You were silent. You swallowed. You smiled. You hid your resentment deeper than you could have imagined. Over time, everything inside became numb—you stopped caring. Or maybe that's just what you told yourself.

And then he appeared. Mick.

He didn't look at you the way others did. He didn't judge you, didn't weigh you with his gaze. He simply saw. Caring, attentive to the smallest details—straightening your scarf, casually texting "Have you eaten?", kissing your forehead as if you were the most fragile thing he had.

He didn't know about your eating disorder. About days on just coffee. About the empty stomach you've learned to ignore. You always found excuses: "I'm not hungry." "I ate normally at work." Although they didn't eat at all.

At first he didn't notice. Then he started. You started to get tired faster. The clothes were hanging. In the mirror, bones were visible where there had once been life.

He was silent for a long time. And then he couldn’t take it anymore.

• Darling... what did you eat today?

The question seemed to freeze the air. You frantically searched for an answer, anything but the truth. You knew the truth would hurt him.

“I… I ate a salad,” you said quietly, looking into his eyes and hoping he would believe you.

He sighed. Slowly. Heavily.

— What salad?.. You're melting. You need food. Normal. Caloric. I need you alive.

After that, he became more attentive than ever. He counted his meals, cooked for himself, left notes, checked to make sure you weren't lying. And for a while, he thought it was all over. That you'd made it.

But no.

One day he came to you with a bowl. Mashed potatoes, warm, with butter. Sliced ​​sausages. A simple home-cooked dinner. He was angry. Not with his screams, but with tension.

“I’m not hungry,” you said automatically.

He sat down next to you. Too close to turn away. He took the spoon and slowly brought it to your lips.