I stare at the empty container for a long time, trying to remember the last time I actually enjoyed something I ate, thelast time food wasn’t just punishment or comfort or penance. The answer doesn’t come.
Muscle memory sends me to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind me, the tiles cold and unforgiving under my bare feet. I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and press two fingers against the back of my throat without a second thought.
It happens quickly—the gag, the burn, the flood of relief as everything I just forced down comes back up, leaving me hollow and shaking. I retch until there’s nothing left, until my stomach cramps and my throat burns and tears leak from my eyes. I rest my head on the rim, pressing my forehead to the porcelain, breathing in the sharp sting of bleach and bile.
After a few minutes, I let myself collapse fully onto the floor and curl up there, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tight around my shins. The bathroom light flickers overhead, washing everything in harsh white. My chest heaves, but no sound comes out. I stare at the tile, counting the cracks, the lines, anything to distract from the ache.
I feel empty in a way that has nothing to do with hunger; a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting battles no one else sees. My mind drifts, the world reduced to the ache in my body and the memory of my father’s words echoing in my head.
I didn’t raise a faggot.
My chest aches with a familiar, crushing heaviness. A question presses at the back of my mind, one I’ve tried not to ask for years.
What’s the point?
What’s the point of fighting so hard to exist when the people who are supposed to love me seem determined to erase me? What’s the point of existing if being myself is something that needs to be corrected?
I press my forehead to my knees, arms wrapping around myself while trying to hold my broken pieces together.
I think of Damien’s hands. The way he looks at me, the way he waits, the way he never treats me like something to fix.
And then I think of my father’s voice, cold and certain, promising consequences, promising control.
The space between those two realities feels impossibly wide.
The tiles are cold against my cheek, but I don’t move. My whole body feels disconnected, and my mind is floating outside of it, leaving the rest to rot here. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here—maybe minutes, maybe hours.
My throat is raw, limbs feel hollow, every muscle quivering from the effort of getting up, getting down, getting up again. I’ve already lost count of how many times I made myself sick. My body is so weak, I can’t tell if I’m shivering from the tile or from the ache that pulses behind my eyes and the way my stomach twists with emptiness.
The shirt I’m wearing clings to my skin, damp from sweat and whatever else I haven’t had the energy to clean up. My breath rattles. I try to inhale the way I’m supposed to, but I can’t pull enough air in to make it count.
Everything’s tight. My chest, my limbs, the corners of my vision. Tight and dark and small. That voice in my head—the one that usually shouts—is quiet now. Distant, like it’s underwater. That’s how I feel, too. Drowned. Waterlogged and used up.
There’s a noise outside the bathroom. I can’t even muster the energy to look up, but I hear sneakers pounding against the tile before the door swings all the way open. I don’t lift my head. Whoever it is, they’ll see eventually. There’s no point in hiding now.
Part of me hopes it’s Damien. Hopes he’ll see what a lost cause I am and finally let go. He deserves someone who isn’t broken. It would be easier if he just left.
But the voice that calls my name isn’t Damien’s.
“Noah!” Ryan’s voice sounds loud in the small space, and I answer it with a groan. He moves so fast I barely register it, dropping to his knees beside me, hand bracing my shoulder. “Shit. Noah—Noah, hey. Can you hear me?”
I try to open my eyes, but even that feels like too much. The world spins when I try to lift my head, and I let it thump back down onto the tiles with a groan. I want to reassure him, to say something sarcastic, but my tongue won’t move the way I want. The only thing I can manage is a weak, broken sound that’s some useless echo of a word.
“What the fuck happened?” Ryan’s voice breaks, and he cradles the back of my head, pushing a handful of paper towels out of the way. “Okay, okay. You’re burning up, shit. How long have you been in here? Fuck. Noah, you gotta stay with me, okay? Hey. Stay awake.”
My whole body is shaking. I can hear my own breathing, shallow and ragged, and I realize there are tears slipping down my face even though I’m not crying, not really, just leaking because my body is done fighting.
“Okay, okay, you’re alright, I’m here. I’m right here.” His tone switches to something I recognize—a voice he’s used on me before, when things have gone sideways at parties, when I’ve frozen up in crowds or freaked out at the doctor’s office. Ryan Torres in caretaker mode is a force of nature, all decisive energyand warmth, the kind of guy who will drag you out of a burning building with a joke and a wink. “Hey, Noah, can you look at me?”
I try. My eyes flicker open, everything’s blurry, and I catch a glimpse of his face—worried, determined, nothing but concern. “Can you breathe for me? Just in and out, real slow, okay? Good. That’s good.” He rubs my back in gentle circles, and I try to match my breath to his words, but it’s hard. My chest still feels tight, lungs pinched and sore.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay. I just need to—” His hand leaves my back for a second, and then I hear his phone tapping, his voice going tense and clipped. “Pick up. Pick the fuck up, Damien, come on—Answer your fucking—”
Another pause.
“D, I know you told me to check on Noah in case that fucker was still here, but you need to get here.Now. Noah’s—he’s on the bathroom floor. He’s not responding. There’s—” Ryan cuts himself off, breath hitching. “There’s… There’s vomit everywhere. I don’t know how long he’s been like this. Just—just get here, alright? Bring Nate if you have to, I don’t fucking care, just come. Please.”
I hear his phone clatter to the floor, and feel his hands moving again, searching for my wrist. I realize, distantly, that he’s checking my pulse. “You’re freezing,” he says, half to himself, voice shaking. “You stubborn little shit. Why didn’t you call someone? Why’d you let it get this bad?”
