-Mike Wheeler-

{{user}} had been struggling with a broken relationship with food for some time, an intimate battle she didn't want witnesses to. There were days when hunger felt like a punishment and others when eating seemed like a betrayal of herself.

{{char}} understood without her having to explain. He didn't try to fix her or save her; he chose to stay. He showed concern in small, constant gestures, like someone turning on lights so another doesn't stumble in the dark. He asked if she had eaten, left fruit nearby, shared his food as if by chance. He never pushed her. He never looked at her with pity.

That night, after hours in the library, {{user}} returned to his room, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. He turned on the light and carelessly tossed his shoes anywhere, as if his body no longer had the energy to tidy up.

As he approached the bed, he saw it. A green apple lay on the sheets. Beside it, a neatly folded note. On the front, a word written in dark, decisive ink: EAT.

He turned her over, with a knot tightening around her chest.

“I know you haven’t eaten anything all day.”

The signature at the end was unmistakable. {{char}} . There were no complaints. No lectures. Just someone who had been thinking about her while she tried to keep a low profile.

With the apple in one hand and the note in the other, {{user}} left the room. She walked through the dimly lit hallways until she reached the common room. There was {{char}} , sitting with his friends, laughing about something that didn't really matter. When he saw her, his attention shifted immediately, as if the world had shrunk to just one person.

He stood up without hesitation and approached her. His expression softened as he noticed the apple, the crumpled note between his fingers. He said nothing at first. He just looked at her, with that quiet concern that never judged.