featherlight ✅

symptoms

"Little do you know
I know you're hurting while I'm sound asleep
Little do you know
All my mistakes are slowly drowning me
Little do you know
I'm trying to make it better piece by piece"

Warning signs of an eating disorder:

- constant/ repetitive dieting e.g. calorie counting, excessive exercise, restriction of eating

- binge-eating e.g. disappearance of food from the fridge, hoarding of food

- laxative abuse e.g. frequent trips to the bathroom after meals

*Note: dieting is commonly seen in anorexia nervosa.

My heart is pounding as I click on the search bar and clear it, chewing on my lip.

Symptoms, I type, then pause for a second to find my courage. It's not meant to be this hard.

Symptoms of anorexia nervosa gives me a whole list of websites. I click on the first one and carefully scan the page.

People with anorexia usually severely restrict their food intake.

Physical Symptoms:

- Thin appearance

Note: Anorexia is not always categorized by the thinness of the person. Eating disorders are mental health conditions, and anyone can suffer from anorexia regardless of their outward appearance.

"Fair enough," I mutter. Not much of a decisive clue, then. I keep reading.

- Intolerance of cold

The cardigan she always wears. Even if I feel hot. Even if we're outside in the sun. Maybe it's because she's always cold how did I not think of that before...

- Preoccupation with food

- Denial of hunger

- Lying about quantity of food eaten

I think back to her not eating a single fry I gave her. I remember her constant excuses of not being hungry, of insisting that she didn't need to eat. And then, earlier today, she lied about buying her lunch before her friends came. It was so obvious, I think. So damn obvious, and I never even knew. Nobody did, a voice whispers in my mind, but it's a lame excuse and I know it.

The list on the site goes on, but after flicking through some other websites, I conclude that I've seen enough. Enough to know what I should've known ages ago. Enough to know that she is a girl with a hidden secret- a secret that is killing her. Enough to know that she's been alone in this for too long.

Why? I think to myself as I slam the laptop shut and slump forward at my desk, my head resting on my forearms. Why? What do you see in yourself that deserves this punishment? Fuck, you don't need to do this.

You don't need to.

I'm scared, I realize suddenly. I'm absolutely fucking terrified. Because hell, I never thought that I'd know someone with an eating disorder, let alone be the one to figure it out. It's something that belongs in books and films and news articles and Facebook posts and school talks about self-esteem in adolescents and-

It shouldn't exist in real life, the voice says again. It should exist in some distant place, some sphere that never collides with your world, because it's something remote, it can't be happening...

I'm not mad at her, and I know it. I'm madder at the world for making her feel like she's not good enough if she doesn't skip her meals and lie about it. I'm mad at her friends- Em included, for that matter- because if I hadn't figured it out now, it would've taken a hell of a long time for someone to notice, and that shouldn't happen. To her, or to anyone.

But most of all, I'm mad at myself. Almost as much as I'm afraid, maybe more. Because I don't know what to do, and I can't wait for her to open up and come to me with the truth. Because I have to be the one to tell her that it'll be okay and that I'm worth her trust. And I'm mad because of all the moments to be a goddamn wuss, this is definitely not it.

And yet...the nerves pound through my stomach.

And I sit at my desk, indecisive.

I don't know what to do. I push my sweaty hair out of my eyes and try to think as hard as I can. I may not be an Einstein, but I am a relatively nice guy. I pick up my phone and swear under my breath when I see that my hands are shaking.

You're a fucking wimp, Ashton McCoy.

I want to reach out to her and shield her away from the world and whatever it is that is hurting her so bad; to tell her that everything is fine because it is, because in my dreams the world is a perfect place where she doesn't feel the way she does now.

But I know that's not going to happen on its own, and wishing for it isn't going to change anything.

Ashton: Hi, Kat. Are you free at the moment?

As I sit and wait for her reply I stand up and walk around the room, trying all the breathing techniques my baseball coach taught me because I used to get assaulted by nerves before games. But I'd rather play a full baseball game right now that confront what I am about to. I go downstairs as calmly as I can, but anyone who looked long enough would be able to see how I toss my phone from hand to hand in anticipation of her text.

My German Shepherd dog Jake jumps up, tail wagging eagerly. I realize that he must think that I've come to take him out for a walk. I crouch and stroke his head ruefully. "Sorry, buddy. I can't." He notices my tone of voice and visibly deflates. He may look like a police dog but he's a real softie. Sort of like how I imagine Steve in canine form.

I really should stop comparing him to dogs.

My phone buzzes and I look at the screen.

KitKat: Yeah I am. Y?

Ashton: Where do you live? Not as creepy as it sounds.

KitKat: Braxton Drive. What is going on?

Ashton: Can you meet me at the playground in a couple of minutes? It's close to where you live, right?

KitKat: yea it is. what's going on?

Ashton: Will do. in person. See you there. :)

I jam my phone in my pocket and jog into my mom's study. She works on editing cookbooks and she's planning to publish one of her own soon, which I know is going to be popular because my mom's one talented chef.

"Hi," I say to the back of her head. "I'm just gonna take a walk." 

She looks up from her laptop to study my expression dubiously. "Should I be concerned?"

"Nope." I grin. "When's the last time you had to be concerned about your son?"

She laughs and returns to typing on the keyboard. "Funny, Ash. What a comedian you are."

"I'm a natural," I reply over my shoulder as I head to the door, tying up my sneakers as fast as I can. The playground's not far from where I live, but I know it's real close to Kat's house and I don't want to keep her waiting.

I could be wrong about all of this, and then what is the point of having my stomach twist so nauseatingly in my torso? No point. It's possible that I'm wrong, I think, trying to convince myself.

Possible.

But not probable.