"You're not fine. You're killing yourself."
"That's dramatic." I push past him toward the sink, turning on the faucet, scooping water into my mouth to rinse the taste. My hands are shaking so badly the water splashes everywhere. "People puke sometimes. It happens."
"People don't puke three times a week in the same hiddenbathroom on a schedule." He's behind me. I can see his worried image in the mirror. "You skip breakfast, you push food around at lunch, and then you come here after dinner. Every time."
"I have it under control," I say, but I want to cry. I'm shivering. It's stupid. It reminds me of my mom. Doing this is getting close to her. She also didn't have any self-control, so she died.
"You don't have it under control. That's literally the definition of a relapse."
"Since when are you a fucking doctor?"
"Since I started studying to be one!" His voice rises. He's trying not to scream. I appreciate that he's trying. I also want him to fuck off. He catches himself, breathes through his nose, lowers his volume. "Liam. Look at me."
I don't want to. Looking at him means seeing the truth reflected back, that I'm the disaster I've always been, that the progress was a mirage, that underneath the jokes and the stolen kisses and the late-night radio, I'm still the same broken kid who can't even eat a meal without wanting to claw it back out.
I look at him anyway, because I'm a masochist, apparently.
"You either stop," Ethan says, his voice steady, "or I tell Griff."
My whole body goes rigid.
"You wouldn't."
"I would. I will."
"That's…" My voice cracks, splinters. "You can't do that to me. Ethan, you can't. They'll put me in counseling, they'll watch everything I eat, they'll…"
"Good."
"Fuck you." The words come out, and I'm always pissed when it comes to this.
But his face doesn't even change. That's the worst part. "I have every right. I'm your leader. I love you. And I won't watch you destroy yourself. I'm trying to help you, but IknowI can't. I'm not a professional. And you need a professional. You won’tbe Daniel all over again."
The wordlovedetonates somewhere in my chest, and I can't process it, can't hold it, so I shove past him toward the door, my shoulder clipping his arm.
"Liam…"
"Leave me alone."
I don't stop. I walk out of the bathroom and down the hallway with my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache, tears burning tracks down my cheeks that I swipe away before anyone can see. He said he loves me, and I can't even hear it, because all I can hear is the roar of my own self-destruction, louder than any radio, louder than any music, louder than anything.
I'm just like dear mommy.
I vomit again two days later. And the day after that. I can't stop. The compulsion is a fist around my throat, tighter than Ethan's arms ever were, and I hate myself for it, but I can't make it stop. I tell myself it’s the last time, but then the next time comes, and I want to promise it’s the last time again, last time already far gone and forgotten. I see Ethan watching me at every meal, that terrible patience in his eyes, and I know he's counting the days, waiting for me to choose. But this isn't a choice. It was never a choice.
On Friday morning, a guard appears at my classroom door and says Griff wants to see me.
He did it. He actually did it.
Fuck.
Griff's office is terrifying. I think I'm having a literal visceral reaction to standing there.
He doesn't beat around the bush. He never does.
"Ethan tells me you've been vomiting after meals," he says. It's a fact, the way you'd say the sky is blue or the cafeteria food is terrible. No judgment in his voice, which somehow makes it worse. Judgment, I can fight, and get angry, but I'm not.
"Ethan should mind his own business," I say.
