It starts quietly, the way most dangerous habits do.
Not with a decision, not with a promise to myself, but with a thought that slips in while I’m brushing my teeth or pulling on my jeans. You don’t need breakfast. You’ll feel lighter if you skip lunch. Just today.
Just today becomes a pattern before I notice it’s one.
The morning of my presentation, I stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary. I tug my shirt down, then smooth it back up, turning sideways and then back again. My stomach looks wrong. Too soft. Too present. I suck it in instinctively, holding my breath until my chest tightens.
“You’re fine,” I whisper.
The girl in the mirror doesn’t answer.
I grab my bag and leave before I can change my mind. The cafeteria smells like toast and coffee, but I walk past it without slowing. Hunger flickers briefly, sharp and insistent, then fades into something duller, easier to ignore. I tell myself it’s nerves. That makes it feel productive instead of alarming.
In class, my hands shake slightly as I set up my materials. I steady them against the desk, forcing myself to breathe.
When I start speaking, the words come easily. They always do. This is the part I’m good at. This is where my mind feels sharp, focused, alive.
The applause at the end is polite but sincere. I smile, nodding, my pulse roaring in my ears. A wave of dizziness washes over me as I sit back down, but it passes quickly. I tell myself it’s adrenaline.
After class, I pack my things slowly, careful not to rush. My vision swims just a little when I stand.
“Zoey.”
Professor Wilson’s voice is calm as always, but there’s something else there this time. Concern.
“Yes?” I say, turning.
He studies me for a moment longer than usual. Not in a way that feels invasive—just attentive.
“Have you eaten today?” he asks.
The question catches me completely off guard.
“I—what?” I laugh softly. “Of course.”
He doesn’t smile back. “You look pale. And you seemed lightheaded when you sat down.”
Heat floods my face. “I’m just nervous before presentations.”
“That’s possible,” he agrees. “But it’s not the only explanation.”
I stiffen. “I’m fine.”
He nods slowly. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
It feels like he is anyway.
“I just want to remind you,” he continues gently, “that taking care of your body is not optional. Especially under pressure.”
“I know that,” I say quickly. “I’m not—doing anything.”
He holds my gaze, steady and kind. “You don’t need to convince me. Or yourself.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“I appreciate your dedication,” he adds. “But self-neglect isn’t discipline. It’s self-erasure.”
My throat tightens.
“I’m not erasing myself,” I insist.
“Then prove it,” he says quietly. “By eating. By resting. By not punishing yourself for existing.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with things unsaid.
“If you ever need support,” he adds, stepping back, “academic or otherwise, my door is open. That includes pointing you toward proper resources.”
“I don’t need help,” I say automatically.
He nods once. “If that changes, you know where to find me.”
I leave the classroom shaken, my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety. His words echo in my head as I walk across campus, my thoughts spiraling.
Self-erasure.
Later that day, Ellen catches me staring at my tray in the cafeteria without touching it.
“You going to eat that?” she asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You said that yesterday too.”
“I just had a big breakfast,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me out, but her eyes linger on me with quiet concern.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just tired.”
She nods slowly, unconvinced.
That evening, I try to study, but my head feels foggy, the words on the page slipping away from me no matter how hard I concentrate. My hands tremble as I underline sentences, my stomach gnawing painfully now.
I check my phone. No messages from Chase.
Part of me is relieved. Another part aches.
I stand up abruptly and go to the kitchen, opening the fridge and staring inside. The light feels too bright. The shelves too full.
You don’t need it, the voice in my head whispers. You’ll feel better if you don’t.
I slam the door shut and lean against it, breathing hard.
This isn’t control, I realize suddenly. It’s fear.
Fear of being seen. Fear of being judged. Fear that if I don’t make myself smaller in every possible way, I’ll be punished for taking up space.
I slide down to the floor, my back against the fridge, hugging my knees to my chest.
Professor Wilson’s words replay again, quieter now but no less insistent.
You don’t need to prove your worth by burning yourself down.
Tears sting my eyes.
I don’t know when wanting to be confident turned into wanting to disappear. I don’t know when my body became something to manage instead of inhabit. All I know is that the control I thought I was gaining feels brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest pressure.
My phone buzzes.
Chase: You busy?
I stare at the message, then type back.
Studying.
You okay? he asks.
The question feels hollow, automatic.
Yeah, I reply. Just tired.
I set the phone down and push myself up off the floor. My legs feel weak, unsteady. I grab a glass of water, drinking it slowly, forcing myself to stay upright.
Later that night, lying in bed with my stomach aching and my head pounding softly, I admit something I’ve been avoiding.
This isn’t about weight.
It’s about control in a life that keeps slipping out of my hands.