⚠️ Content Warning:
This chapter addresses themes related to eating disorders, specifically bulimia. If you or someone close to you is going through something similar, please remember—you are not alone. Speaking with a mental health professional can make a difference. This text seeks to represent a fictional experience with sensitivity and respect, inspired by real struggles that deserve care and understanding.
Melissa
When Wenn ran to the bathroom, something inside me broke. Not because of her. Because of me. Because of what that image brought back. Because of what my body felt without permission. I froze, pale, the air turning acidic and the smell of food morphing into noise. The restaurant's hum became a distant buzz, and then I left. I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
Vanessa came after me. Like always. Like that time.
I leaned against the restaurant wall, trying to breathe without letting the past drown me. She didn't speak at first. She just stayed. And sometimes, that's all you need.
"Seeing her throw up…" I said, voice trembling, "reminded me of everything. Everything I was. Everything I hated about myself."
Vanessa looked at me with those eyes that don't judge, that understand, that hold without invading.
My story didn't start with a diet or a magazine. It started with control. With passive-aggressive expectations disguised as advice. Phrases like "you have to be perfect," "the other partners' daughters don't look like that," "look how Valentina dresses," "Camila has better posture than you." Comparisons. Corrections. Silent punishments.
My body became a battlefield. And I was the soldier fighting herself.
At first, I just skipped meals for a few hours, then days. Then I ate in secret, terrified of being judged for doing it in front of others. Later, I started throwing up. Not out of vanity. Out of desperation. Out of a need to control something. Anything.
And it became a cycle with no end—until Vanessa found me. One afternoon, in the club bathroom. I was on my knees, crying, fingers trembling, heart shattered. She walked in. Looked at me. Didn't say "What are you doing?" She said, "Does it hurt?" And that… that saved me.
She helped me talk. Seek help. Understand that I wasn't weak—I was wounded. That I could heal. That I could learn to live with it.
Today, when I saw Wenn, I felt the echo. But I also felt the difference. Because I'm not alone anymore. Because I don't hide anymore. Because I don't hate myself anymore.
"I won't let it win," I told Vanessa, voice steady. "Not ever again."
She hugged me. Tight. Like that time. Like every time. And for the first time in a long while, I felt proud of myself.
Vanessa
Melissa will always be a phoenix to me. She rebuilds herself with magic and grace, and I'll admire her forever.
I watch her wipe her tears with the back of her hand, as if she doesn't want to leave a trace. But I see it. I feel it. And I don't move.
We stay there a while longer, in the cold afternoon. We don't talk much. We just breathe together. The air is fresh, and the restaurant's hum filters in like a distant echo. She sits on the edge of the curb, arms wrapped around her legs, seeking support. I sit beside her, saying nothing.
"Do you want to go back?" I ask, gently.
She nods, but doesn't move yet.
"Just… give me a minute. I'm doing what they taught me."
"What's that?"
"Conscious anchoring," she says softly. "They taught me in therapy. It's for when my body wants to run, but my mind needs to stay."
I should learn how to do that, I think, watching her without interrupting.
Melissa closes her eyes for a moment. Then opens them and begins naming things quietly, almost like a whisper to herself.
"I see a streetlight glowing. I hear a car passing. I feel the cold metal against my back. I smell Vanessa's perfume. I taste the dessert I had earlier."
Five senses. Five anchors. A way to return to herself without having to explain anything to anyone.
When she finishes, she stands. Looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes and smiles. Not like before. Like now. Like someone who's fought for her peace.
"Thanks for waiting," she says.
"Always," I reply.
We return to the restaurant. She walks in with her head held high. She doesn't hide. She doesn't apologize. She simply sits down, takes a sip of water, and joins the conversation as if nothing happened. No one asks. No one pushes. And for her, that's everything. And for me, it's something I'm deeply grateful for.
I glance at Maeson, who's watching me with warmth. I give him a small smile, and I feel completely at peace knowing I can always count on his calm and his care—even if he doesn't know half the story.
I settle beside him, and while the others keep talking about music, pasta, and whether the dessert has enough chocolate, I watch Melissa from afar, chatting with Wenn like nothing happened. Like everything happened. Like the world didn't tremble just minutes ago.
And I know there are battles you don't see—but they're won. Every day. Every minute. Every second. And it all counts.
She will never be alone.
Zane
When Wenn suddenly stood and ran to the bathroom, the restaurant paused—like someone had muted the background noise. My body reacted before my mind. I stood instinctively, but Shawn was already following her. I understood. I respected it. So I stayed still.
But then I saw her. Melissa.
Pale, tense, breathing like the air hurt. She didn't move, didn't speak—just stood there, frozen. And something in me activated. Not out of curiosity, but concern. Because I know how to read faces. And that face wasn't okay.
I took a step toward her without thinking, but just then she stood and walked out. Vanessa followed her silently. And I stayed there—half of me in motion, the other half without permission. Like I didn't know whether to move forward or retreat.
I sat back down. Looked at Maeson, who was quiet. At Konnor, who was too. The mood had shifted. No more jokes. No more noise. Just that feeling that something's happening and we don't know how to help.
"Do you think Wenn…?" I began, not finishing the sentence.
Konnor nodded without looking at me.
"Yeah. I think so."
Maeson didn't say anything, but his jaw was tight—and for him, that's like a scream.
"She hasn't said it," I added quietly, "but it shows. In how she touches her stomach. In how she looks at Shawn. In how she lets him take care of her."
"And in how she threw up the pasta," said Konnor—no filter, but no mockery either.
We stayed silent. Then Konnor cracked one of his usual lines.
"Well, if it's true, I want to be the cool uncle. The one who teaches skating and gives unnecessary gifts."
Maeson chuckled softly. So did I. Because humor, when it's not cruel, helps you breathe.
"Whatever it is," Maeson said, "we'll be there. All of us."
I nodded. Because yes. That's what we do—even when we don't know how.
And then, like a wave pulling us under, we shifted to Melissa.
"Did you see her?" I asked. "Before she left. She looked… bad."
Konnor grew serious.
"Yeah. But I don't know what happened. I don't want to assume."
"Me neither," I said. "I just… got worried. I don't know her that well. None of us do, really."
Maeson nodded slowly.
"There's a lot we still need to learn about them. All of them. And that's okay. But we have to stay alert. Not everyone screams when they need help."
We stayed like that. In silence. Watching the door they walked through. Waiting for them to return. Waiting for them to speak. Waiting to be let in. And meanwhile, without saying it, we decided something:
We'll be there. Even if it's just to hold the silence.
When Melissa and Vanessa return, the atmosphere shifts. Not because they say anything. But because of how they walk. Because of how Melissa sits—back straight, eyes clear, with a dignity that's most visible when someone's been broken. No one asks. No one pushes. And for her, that seems to be enough.
I watch her for a moment. Not out of curiosity. Out of respect. Because there are battles you don't see—but you feel them. And she just won one.
Vanessa settles beside Maeson, who smiles at her with that calm that seems to wrap around her. And I keep watching Melissa, now chatting with Wenn like nothing happened. Like everything happened. Like the world didn't shake just minutes ago.
And I think there's something beautiful in that. In the way they rebuild. In the way they don't ask permission to heal.
I look at Konnor, doodling on his napkin. At Maeson, still silent but more at ease. And I tell myself yes—we'll be there. Even if we don't know how. Even if they don't ask. Even if it's only to hold the space where they can breathe.