featherlight ✅

kat's pantry

"If I didn't have anything
I wanna know would you stick around?"

You are worth stressing over.

The air surrounding me seems to echo with Ashton's words. I stare fiercely at my laptop screen as though willing it to give me back my focus. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, raising the volume of my music in an attempt to drown out the words.

You

I ball my hands up into fists. The music is an ice-pick, but I push the earphones further in anyway, wincing at the loudness.

are worth

A half-choked sob breaks out of my mouth, and I slap a hand over my lips.

stressing over

I bite down on my knuckles to muffle the scream. My other palm bangs against the desk in anger; I blame the watering of my eyes on the sharp pain that erupts over my hand. The hunger is temporarily forgotten as I try to push the voice out of my head. An animated voice full of humor, but, as I learnt today, one which can sound so sincere and serious. Like he meant what he said.

But I know that voices can lie.

I don't know why every heartbeat pulses with the same sentence. I scold myself for being so desperate as to believe his words. Of course I'm not worth stressing over. I know that already. I'm not worth anything, let alone worrying about.

So why can't I forget what Ashton said?

I open my eyes, pull the earphones out and slam my laptop cover down. As I pace around the bedroom, I remember thinking earlier today about Ashton being like a typo. He shouldn't be in it at all. He is a mistake; an alien. Maybe he spent a few minutes with me at lunch, but that doesn't mean he's any closer to the truth than everyone else.

The thought gives me a startling prick of disappointment. As if...as if I want him to figure me out. Hear my story.

No. Why do you think he's even worth a second of hope? Okay, he asked if everything was fine. So what? He'll forget about anything that he might have suspected when he was talking to you. And then the paragraph will continue, uninterrupted. That's what you want, right?

But I still have to admit that I almost told him everything. For a second. And a part of me still wants to. I imagine going into school and asking to have a word with him, and saying, "Look, I lied to you yesterday. I'm not as okay as I might seem. I'm not anything I might seem to be."

In my mind, I see his dirty blonde hair and blue eyes that verge on green. I picture him looking at me for a long moment, and then saying, "I still think you're worth it, Katherine," and listening.

Because that would be everything. For someone to listen. But that's not realistic, is it? Even though, for a second today, I thought that maybe, maybe he was kind enough to listen and not walk away.

But seconds, like snowflakes, come in millions and then melt away, leaving nothing behind except the memory of their existence.

I turn off the aircon, goosebumps forming unexpectedly on my skin.

"Katherine!" I hear. "Dinner's ready!"

I look at myself in the mirror.

My thighs are too fat.

My stomach protrudes over the hem of my leggings.

My arms are shapeless.

All I see are imperfections. And by imperfections, I mean: things which need to be fixed.

I think of the plate of food that waits downstairs in front of my seat at the table and one of the creatures in my stomach moans pleadingly. The other, stronger creature roars at it to shut up, and the first being quietens. As usual.

"Kat, aren't you hungry?" My little sister Ava interrupts my thoughts.

I look up from my plate of fried chicken. My stomach churns with hunger, but I still manage to smile. "Not much."

"Why not, darling? Are you sick?" My mom's worried face almost makes me start bawling out of shame. Yes, mom, I'm sick, and I want to tell you but I'm scared to and I think that this guy who goes to school with me might be suspicious and help mom please help.

"Cramps," I mumble, as convincingly as I can. "I'm ok." My sister giggles, trying to be subtle but not really succeeding, and I shoot her a playful glare.

"You're lucky you're still only nine, Ave." I barely remember what I was like when I was her age, but I can dimly recall having this crush on a guy who liked my best friend. It had seemed like the end of the world back then, but I almost laugh aloud now at how pathetic it sounds. Nine years old. What a blissful year that must have been.

Look at me now.

"Ellen was telling me this morning that there's a football match at Melrose next weekend that Polly's going to," my mom says, and I stiffen, groaning inwardly. "Why didn't you tell me about that? It'd be so fun if you went, wouldn't it? You could hang out with your friends."

Honestly, my mom and Polly's mom talk way too much about everything. Not that I'm complaining, because Polly is one of my best friends. It's just that I really can't be bothered to cheer on our school team. It's not so much a question of school pride than it is the fact that I'm not the world's biggest fan of large crowds. "I mean, I'm actually really busy with homework and stuff..."

"Excuses, excuses," my sister sings, and I slump in my chair as my mom laughs.

"I never thought I'd have to make you go out and have fun," she comments.

"Glad I surprised you," I mutter.

Great. Now I need to find something blue and yellow to wear. And I need to figure out where to meet my friends as well as give up a Saturday-

Oh, God.

I sit in my chair for a long time, gathering the fried chicken crumbs into a small pile. "I'll think about it," I finally say begrudgingly.

Looking up, I realize that my sister has gone to watch America's Got Talent and my mom is washing the dishes, so I've ended up talking to myself. I cast a final longing glance at the food on the table, swallowing the desire that rises, tangible as a living thing.

Once I'm in my room I collapse onto my bed, encircling one of my wrists with the thumb and little finger of my other hand out of habit. It strikes me for the first time how strange it is that Ashton McCoy isn't on the football team, even though he's friends with the guys who are the stars of it. But then again... I can't imagine any of his friends coming up to me and asking if I'm okay. Really okay.

And what the hell is okay meant to mean, anyways?

My stomach whines, and although I feel weak for caving in, I open the drawer beside my desk, taking out my little box of raisins and tic-tacs. I place a tic-tac on my tongue, letting it slowly, slowly dissolve in my mouth.