𝘖𝘏 𝘈𝘕𝘈 - 𝘛𝘖𝘔𝘔𝘠𝘐𝘕𝘕𝘐𝘛

thirty-one.

a/n: she's back!! sorry for the long awaited chapter, i slowly drifted out of the mcyt community for a while just cause i wasn't that interested anymore, but i'm back now! tommy's lore streams never disappoint :) check out my one-shot book if you wanna, too! new update there :) hope ur all well! take care of yourselves! <3
p.s i'm not very happy with the way this chapter came out cause my writing's rusty haha go easy on me

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"sometimes you have to take a step back to move forward." that's how he thought the message went. so why, he tried to understand, why he was here, standing behind the line that he used to call the start, sent so far back he could barely differentiate which road was his to take?

it's five in the afternoon when one of the nurses he's grown to become familiar with (despite still not knowing her name (he figures the only ones important enough for him to remember are those of the people who are supportive without being obligated to)) knocks on his door to announce her arrival, clipboard and pen in hand. she explains something familiar that's long grown muffled in his ears, but with the amount of times he's managed in memorizing the hospital's schedule, because what else would there be for him to do aside from staring at a popcorn ceiling and playing connect-the-dots, tommy mutters back a short 'okay,' and she's closing the door seconds later.

he briefly wonders what the other patients will be having for dinner, considers asking his roommate when he gets back from group. they haven't spoken much, though tommy can't seem to blame anyone but himself for their missed conversations. maybe if he stopped pussying out, had a meal once in a while, his stay here would be easier. maybe he'd be able to befriend a few of the kids. maybe the staff wouldn't give him such a hard time. his mind is effortlessly showcasing the things he needs to do and how to do them, but he can't seem to get past the barricade of performing said actions. not when the thought of willingly swallowing something makes him want to throw up the single glass of water he's been harboring in his stomach for who knows how long.

his feeding tube is overwhelming. he has no say in how its permanently taken a home in his body and supplies him with the nutrients he's been slowly killing himself over attempting to avoid, to restrict. its nullifying the days upon weeks of calorie counting and notes app of excuses hesitantly crossed out because he can't recall if he's used them already or, wait, was it the one above it? its the one thing in the way of getting him where he wants to be (thin, his mind helps, and he thinks that he could tear it out from his nostril right then and there), and yet, the very last resort to keeping him alive. he wouldn't be breathing if it weren't for that damned thing, and fuck if he knows if he wants it to or not. his brain is scattered, hazy. there's a constant dizzying feeling driving him mad every time he thinks too much, and it's embarrassing enough to think about how he looks towards the ceiling and tries to find the big dipper in search of collecting himself, let alone admit it aloud.

maybe if he clawed at his skin hard enough it'd help shed a couple of pounds. in his mind he's given a pair of scissors with the sole purpose of cutting off what he wants gone (he refuses to acknowledge that it's everything he wishes to get rid of), a gentle reminder that when he gets out of this place, he's going to work hard to lose all the weight he's been willingly putting on. if he hides it well, if he just stays home more often, if he puts on larger sweaters, he won't end up here again. he won't have to imagine the scissors or the patients or the rooms, or the sickeningly sweet staff or the bed he's currently strapped in, or the feeding tube. or any of it. he just has to do better, to try harder, to push and push until he's skinny and pretty and nowhere close to what he's at now, cause who would love him when he looks as horrible and full and as healthy as—

—he feels something graze his hand.

it's soft, warm, and yet, he recoils. his arm pulls into his chest and he's yet again reminded of his constant suffering because the walls are painted a suffocatingly white color, and not the faint baby blue that should be greeting him every time he returns from school. tommy settles back into the hospital room, and, oh, when did his friends appear in front of him when all he remembers seeing is the rhythmic wave of a lonesome heart monitor?

"hey, big man." a fit of brown hair that's long overdue for a haircut. bee-loving boy. his best friend.

the click of a door reveals another presence. he's humming a short "how are you, tommy?", and with a quick fix of a maroon beanie, the man takes a seat at the foot of his bed, patient smile apparent. a brotherly nature. blunt but caring. his favorite musician.

they stare at him, gentle yet expecting, and for the first time in all of his visitations, he wishes that they weren't there.

he swallows. he can't bring himself to respond.