𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 - TMR AU, Thomas

𝟢𝟤𝟩，𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

༺ TWENTY - SEVEN ༻

This is my first time eating breakfast in weeks.
I've lost count on how many weeks it's been, but at least four.

Not that I'm planning to let this breakfast stay in my stomach and brew calories.

It's awful that I know I'll be vomiting and taking laxatives after this, especially because the only reason I am eating breakfast is Thomas, who's sitting right in front of me, and that stupid promise I made.

"How'd y'all sleep?" I ask.

It's Wednesday. Sonya is already at school, Mom and Dad at work. Mom's a dentist and Dad is probably going through more business meeting right now. He often has those, only to discuss the finances, seeing he's the employee with the most acknowledgment about that.

I don't know much about it, though. The company is named WCKD and they're connected to all kinds of sports. The reason I started ballet was because my father spoke about it once. About how they were creating a new kind of pointe shoes.

"Great," but not a single answer coming from the three mouths sounds convincing. I'm pretty sure they stayed up 'till very late, maybe gossiping about boys things. I don't know.

"And you?" It's Thomas asking.

"Quite good," I say. It's the truth. After our interactions, which left deeper emotions than I expected, I fell asleep to his words repeating in my head, and I hope my face isn't betraying too much. I must be beaming, looking at him.

Minho stuffs one of mini cakes we baked last night in his mouth. It's the first time I see him without hair gel, and it seems to make him a whole different person. Less... I don't know... neat? Whatever. I just realize it's way different.

"Minho and I will give you a ride to ballet," Thomas says. "We have hockey anyways. Do you wanna come with us, Newt?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

"Then that's settled." Minho attempts to fix his hair with his hands, obviously annoyed by it. "Man, we should've gone to sleep earlier. I look like shit."

Thomas glances at him. "You're not the only one."

Well, I think the bags around Thomas's eyes look quite good.

Is that weird?

"I think you look fine," I say. The words are completely directed to Thomas, but I say them in a way that makes it sound like I mean the plural version.

"Don't say that," Newt hisses. "Minho was fishing for the compliment."

"Of course. I'd never speak the truth about me looking like shit." He leans back. Gives the two boys a triumphant glare. "Because I never would."

"Oh, yeah? When I woke up this morning, I thought it was Thomas's diarrhea in your sleeping bag. Guess what? It was you without hair gel!"

"That's the worst roast ever, Newt."

"At least it's hotter than you."

I laugh quietly at their bickering, then finish the last bites of my toast. Thomas gives me a smile, which I attempt to return. If only he knew.

It makes me feel so guilty, but I have no choice. The thought of seeing the number go up makes me sick.

I think that if I want breakfast out, I only have to think of gaining weight and get so disgusted by myself that I'll automatically throw up looking in the mirror.

"I'm going to get ready," I say. The longer I wait, the longer those calories have the time to stay permanent.

I tuck the strands of my hoodie away and find myself confirming I can indeed throw up just at the thought of gaining weight. It's kind of like my fear of snakes, but worse. Never thought a fear could be that intense.