t w e n t y - s e v e n

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[Hi, I'm sorry. No excuses but I also can't guarantee this not happening again sorryy.]

I sit on the dining table and he, despite my millions of attempts to convince him that I'm not hungry, forces me to eat.

I request for the number of calories, to no avail. I can't even figure it out.

Maths has always been so hard for me that since I've started dieting I've not had a single topping. Not even while binging.

I wipe my tears and roll the long strands of spaghetti mixed with a bunch of vegetables and tomato sauce around my fork but he thinks I'm not taking enough of it.

He takes my hand and makes me roll enough spaghetti to cover the whole of the fork.

My hands shake, maybe out of weakness? But the sight of so much food is scary too. He takes my hand and sets my hair aside to properly watch me eat.

"Just five bites—"

"—You promised fifteen, Sawera."

"I can't, Azaan."

"Please? For me? I'm starving and I— Don't." He holds my hand and warns me when I try to gobble the whole plate up. "I know what you're thinking of. I'm not going to let you purge this."

"Seven?"

"Fifteen."

"Nine."

"Sawera, stop and start eating."

"No, please."

I realise how baby-ish I'm acting and I hate myself. I pick the fork up and tangle the spaghetti but he makes me take more.

"That's unfair! You're making me finish the whole plate."

He continues feeding me until I take it in my hand and roll it at my pace.

"I need time to digest."

He sighs and rests his head on my shoulder, whining about something I don't care to think of.

I take the opportunity to silently take some tissue out of the tissue box and hide the spaghetti in it but he sees me stuffing tissue back and holds my hand.

Fuck, fuck, fuck

Did he see that?

I hold him back, "I finished it and I'm never doing this again. I'll die of a fucking brain tumour if I keep living with so much anxiety."

He pulls the tissue box to himself and I facepalm, mentally groaning.

"You want a vegetable soup?"

I look behind me when I don't hear anger in his voice. He's looking at the spaghetti inside the box but— he seems calm?

I get off his lap. "No. The deal was of spaghetti."

"Mhm, and did you finish it, sweetie?"

"It's not on the plate, it—"

"Sawera. All I'm asking you is one meal a day. That's it. Don't force me to—"

I whine 'okay whatever' for him to stop scolding me because he reminds me of worse times.

He holds my hand so lightly while pulling me to the kitchen, he knows I can pull it to myself but I won't... I think I've given him enough assurance.

"Why am I not so sure that you'll never leave me? Why do you have this—" oh of course, I realise, I have nowhere to go.

"What?" He asks.

"Nothing."

"Why do I have... what were you saying?"

Zehnaseeb ✓Where stories live. Discover now