I start counting calories without meaning to.
At first, it’s subtle. I skip breakfast because I’m “running late.” I drink coffee instead of eating lunch because it makes my hands shake just enough to feel awake. I tell myself it’s temporary. Practical. Controlled.
Control feels good when everything else is slipping.
By the third day, my stomach growls so loudly during class that the girl next to me glances over. I pretend to cough. My notes blur. My head feels light, floaty, like I’m hovering a few inches above my body.
I tell myself I deserve it.
If I were smaller, quieter, easier—
If I took up less space—
Maybe I wouldn’t be such a problem.
The thought scares me with how natural it feels.
I avoid mirrors when I can’t handle them. When I can’t avoid them, I stand too close, examining angles and shadows like they’re evidence in a case against me. My jeans feel tighter one day, looser the next. I don’t trust my perception anymore. I trust the numbers more than my own body.
Numbers don’t lie.
People do.
By the time Ellen notices, I’m already too deep to pretend it’s nothing.
We’re in the library, sitting across from each other at one of the long wooden tables. She’s reading. I’m pretending to read while my head throbs dully behind my eyes. The smell of someone’s sandwich drifts through the air, and my stomach clenches painfully.
“You didn’t eat again,” Ellen says suddenly.
I look up too fast. “What?”
She closes her book slowly. “You didn’t eat.”
I scoff. “I had coffee.”
“That’s not food,” she replies flatly.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She studies my face, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “You’re not.”
“I didn’t ask you to monitor me,” I snap, too defensive too quickly.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I am.”
I push my chair back slightly. “You’re being dramatic.”
She leans forward. “You’re being self-destructive.”
The word lands hard.
“I’m just stressed,” I say. “Everyone skips meals sometimes.”
“Everyone doesn’t look like they might pass out every time they stand up,” she replies.
My chest tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Zoey. You’re not hiding this as well as you think.”
I open my mouth to argue—and suddenly can’t remember what I was going to say. My vision swims slightly. I grip the edge of the table, grounding myself.
Ellen notices.
“That,” she says quietly. “That right there.”
“I’m okay,” I insist, even as my voice shakes.
“No,” she says firmly. “You’re not. And I’m not going to sit here and pretend otherwise just to be polite.”
Her tone isn’t cruel. It’s worse.
It’s honest.
“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, gathering my things.
She reaches out and grabs my wrist—not roughly, but enough to stop me.
“Sit down,” she says.
Something in her voice makes me obey.
I sink back into the chair, my heart pounding. The library feels too quiet now, every sound magnified. I feel exposed, like everyone can see right through me.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Ellen says. “And you’re pretending it’s discipline.”
Tears prick my eyes immediately, furious and unwanted.
“I just want to feel good enough,” I whisper.
She blinks. “For who?”
The question cracks something open inside me.
“For… anyone,” I say, my voice breaking. “Everyone.”
My throat tightens painfully as the words spill out faster than I can stop them.
“I don’t feel good enough for Chase,” I say. “I don’t feel good enough for my mother. I don’t feel good enough to be here half the time. I’m either too much or not enough, and I don’t know how to exist in between.”
Ellen doesn’t rush to comfort me.
She watches me carefully, like she’s assessing something fragile.
“Starving yourself isn’t going to fix that,” she says.
“I know,” I sob. “But it feels like the only thing I can control.”
“And when it gets worse?” she asks. “When controlling it isn’t enough anymore?”
I shake my head, tears slipping free. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the problem,” she says quietly. “You’re gambling with your body because your life feels unstable.”
I wipe my face angrily. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not,” she replies. “I’m warning you.”
I look at her, really look at her. She isn’t angry. She isn’t soft either. There’s fear there. Real fear.
“If you don’t fix this,” she continues, “it’s not just your health that’s going to suffer. Your mental state will spiral even harder. Lack of food messes with your brain. Your mood. Your ability to make decisions.”
I laugh weakly. “Feels like everything already is.”
“And you think depriving yourself is going to help?” she asks. “Or are you punishing yourself because you think you deserve it?”
The words hit like a punch to the chest.
I choke on a sob. “Maybe I do.”
“No,” she says sharply. “You don’t.”
I flinch at the intensity in her voice.
“You’re not broken,” Ellen continues. “You’re overwhelmed. And instead of addressing the source, you’re turning on yourself.”
I stare at my hands, my fingers trembling. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“Yes, you do,” she says. “You just don’t want to yet.”
The honesty hurts more than comfort ever could.
“Listen to me,” she says, lowering her voice. “I won’t sit by and watch you destroy yourself slowly. Either you take this seriously, or I stop enabling it by pretending it’s fine.”
“That sounds like a threat,” I whisper.
“It’s a boundary,” she replies.
We sit there for a while longer, the intensity settling into something steadier. Eventually, Ellen stands.
“Come on,” she says.
“Where?” I ask.
“Cafeteria,” she replies. “I’m not letting you skip again.”
I hesitate, panic flaring immediately. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “And you will.”
The fear is loud. But underneath it, something else stirs—relief, maybe. Or trust.
I stand slowly, my legs shaky but steady enough to hold me.
As we walk, I feel exposed, raw, like my worst coping mechanism has been dragged into the light. Part of me wants to resent her for it.
Another part knows she might’ve just saved me from something darker.