𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 - TMR AU, Thomas

𝟢𝟦𝟩，𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

༺ FORTY - SEVEN ༻

It's been a good week before I'm finally allowed to go back to work. I don't know, apparently I was such a mess that no one, not even Newt, found it fitting for me to go to work and to face Thomas.

One week that involved a lot of crying, staring at nothing, not eating, and being exhausted while all I did was just sit and overthink.

Mom drops me off at work. I make my way inside, not ready at all, and put on my apron. I refuse to think about the memories I have in Random Cowshed, so I quickly walk out of the room again.

"You're back," his voice. Just like that, I freeze in my place. Was that disappointment in his voice? Surprise for sure.

I turn around, slowly. He's already wearing his apron, hair more styled than usually, but healthy and handsome as always. "Yes," I say. "Hi."

"Hi." He nods, then he's gone again.

Good start.

I start serving like I always do. Take orders, deliver food, smile at guests while I know I'm anything but happy at this point.

I'm no longer in control. I have absolutely no say in how much Thomas likes or hates me now, I can't control Janson's comments or that company, or anything at all.

Just the number. I can make it go up and down as much as I want. But there it is again, the fear of it going up. It always has to go down.

I feel hopeless. Need more control, and desperately. How? Fingers in my throat along with laxatives. Yes.

I wouldn't have accepted that stupid lasagna if I'd known he was going to break up with me later. I'm not going to binge eat this heartbreak away. I'll starve it away. This time, until I'm satisfied. And I'm far from satisfied right now.

Luca, who I think doesn't know about the breakup yet, waves for me to come over. Once I've arrived, "New ingredients have arrived. They're at the back of the restaurant. You and Thomas mind carrying them?"

"Not at all." I exhale.

Soon, Thomas passes me in the hallway. I touch his arm to stop him, and it both feels illegal but so nice at once. Just a slight touch that can make my whole body warm up. He stops. Turns to me, eyebrows raised.

"Luca asked if we could carry his new ingredients into the kitchen," I explain. "They're outside."

He nods. I follow him outside, where it's still cold but slowly getting warmer through the weeks, and we find at least a dozen packs full of whatever Luca needed.

Thomas takes one and walks inside, while I struggle to even pick it up. Stupid bones.

Then he's back before I've even managed, takes the thing out of my hands, and then looks at me for a while. "I'll do it. You can serve. It's cold out here anyways."

I want to say a lot. I want to ask a lot. But when my mouth opens, nothing comes out. So I end up nodding, then vanish inside.

✵

"How'd it go?" Is the first question I get asked when I sit down at the dinner table.

"Fine," I say, rolling the spaghetti around my fork just to let it slip off again. "Awkward."

"Try to eat and then catch a good night of sleep, alright, love?" Dad lies a hand on my shoulder. "You'll get through it."

I will. Just let me throw this dinner away.

But nope, I eat all of it. Drink hot chocolate with Sonya after dinner, then tell her I'm going upstairs.

Throwing up no longer feels as awful. I mean, I've gotten used to it. And while I once hated taking pills, I think I might love it now. Not the pills itself, but the outcomes of them. Five for today.

Once I'm stretching for ballet, I frown. We've been working on the play for seven months already. Isn't that a tad too long?

But I missed all lessons this week. I know the steps, though. I'm sure the others do too by now. 

I take my phone just to check when the play is, 'cause I've been too busy to remember. Probably soon, I'm guessing.

Logged in on my account at Sports' website, I click on the ballet section. There's one email in my inbox.

From: janson.sprat@wckd.com
To: isaacs.rosalind@gmail.com
Date: February 1st, 07:15 PM.

Hello Rosalind,

This mail may come as a shock, but I didn't get the chance to speak to you about this during classes, due to private reasons. 
I've noticed you're no longer able to dance properly, resulting into you maybe not being the perfect lead of the play. I'm politely requesting to make sure you can dance like you did before, or I'll have to ask someone else to dance for you, unfortunately.

Please do your best.
- Sincerely, Janson Sprat

I'm definitely losing control. I can't lost my role. I've lost Thomas, I've lost weight, I've lost happiness... I can't also lose the last thing I'm cheerful about.

More training. I need to train and train and train and do a lot of stretches and practice.

I take some deep breaths. I'll fix it. I've always fixed the problems these months. This one won't add up.

To calm myself down, I grab the pot of laxatives. It's not a sedate and won't fix anything, but I like the idea of burning calories. So I take two. Pop them in my mouth without water.

Two more. I swallow them away with some sort of smile. It's good knowing the number will be lower tomorrow. Two more, then. Just to make sure.

The thing melts on my tongue, leaving a bit of a weird taste, but I don't mind. My eyes focus on the pot. It's quite full, because this one is still kind of my plan B. Like in the middle of the night when I don't feel good, I take one out of it.

I take two more before I can stop myself. In case some spaghetti never went out. Perhaps it could kill those pieces of my heart, so it'll no longer be broken.

I'm not sure how many I've taken once I feel my eyelids get heavier. I crawl under my sheets, falling asleep quickly.