She stopped locking the bathroom door.
I noticed after the third time. At first I thought it was accidental. People forget things when they're tired. That was the excuse I gave her without saying it out loud. She didn't comment on it either. She would shower with the door slightly open, steam leaking into the hallway like breath from a mouth that didn't close properly.
I could hear everything.
The water hitting her skin sounded different from before. Heavier. Like it was hitting something denser than it used to. Sometimes she would stand there without moving, letting it run over her shoulders for too long. I timed it once. Twenty-seven minutes. No soap sounds. No shifting. Just water.
When she came out, her skin was red in patches. Not evenly. Blotchy. Like her body couldn't decide where the heat should stay.
"You okay?" I asked once.
She looked at her arm, as if noticing it for the first time. "Yeah. Just sensitive lately."
Sensitive was her word for a lot of things. Hunger. Irritation. Guilt.
That night she asked me a question she already knew the answer to.
"Do you ever feel like your body doesn't belong to you anymore?"
I didn't answer right away. Not because I didn't know what to say, but because silence makes people keep talking.
She rubbed her wrist as she waited. The skin there looked thin. Almost translucent. I could see a faint blue line underneath, pulsing slowly. I wondered how much pressure it would take to stop it.
"Sometimes," I said finally. "When people don't listen to themselves."
She nodded. Too eagerly. Like I had confirmed something she was hoping was true.
After that, she started asking me to remind her of things.
Small things at first. What time she left for work. Whether she ate breakfast. If she had already told her friend about the argument they'd had.
"You remember better than me," she said, smiling. "I swear my brain is broken."
I laughed softly. "It's just stress."
Stress is a useful word. It explains everything and nothing. It makes people hand over responsibility willingly.
Her phone stayed face down more often now.
When it buzzed, she flinched. A full-body reaction. Shoulders tightening, stomach pulling inward like it was trying to hide behind her spine. Once, the vibration went on for so long that she pressed the phone against her thigh to muffle it.
I watched the skin there ripple.
Later, when she was asleep, I noticed she had started grinding her teeth.
Not loudly. Controlled. Like she was chewing on something she wasn't allowed to spit out. The sound made my jaw ache in sympathy. Or anticipation. I wasn't sure which.
In the morning, there were faint cracks along one of her molars. She ran her tongue over it and winced.
"I think my teeth are getting worse," she said.
"You should stop clenching," I replied.
She looked at me strangely. "I didn't know I was."
I shrugged. "You do it when you're anxious."
She accepted that without question.
Over the next week, she started losing weight, but not in the way people usually do. Her face didn't hollow out evenly. One cheek sank faster than the other. Her collarbones became sharp, almost aggressive, like they were trying to push through her skin.
When I touched her, she felt different. Not thinner. Looser. Like her body wasn't holding itself together properly anymore.
She asked me one night if I thought people could change from the inside without realizing it.
"Like rot?" she said, half joking.
I didn't smile. "More like pressure," I said. "Things build up. Eventually something has to give."
She went quiet after that.
Later, in the dark, she whispered my name like she was checking if it still worked. I answered. Of course I did. I always answered.
Her breathing slowed once she knew I was there.
Under the pillow, her phone vibrated.
She didn't move this time.
Neither did I.