It’s past midnight. The kind of late where everything feels heavier, like the silence is pressing down on me from all sides. I’m sitting on the cold bathroom floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them. My stomach aches—not just from the pills I threw up, but from the hunger that’s always there, gnawing at me quietly.

I shouldn’t have taken them. I knew better. Ten Cheerios and half an apple isn’t food. It’s barely survival. But I told myself it would be enough. I wanted to be better today. I really did. The nausea hit so fast. I didn’t even make it to the toilet in time, not completely. Now there’s that bitter taste in my mouth, like punishment. I don’t know if it’s from the meds or just... everything.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror across from me. I don’t recognize her anymore. My eyes look too big for my face, ringed with shadows. My cheekbones are too sharp, like my body’s trying to disappear piece by piece. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s the point. I pull my hoodie tighter around me. I don’t know if I’m cold or just numb. Maybe both. The tile under me is freezing, but I can’t bring myself to get up. It’s like the floor is holding me in place. Or maybe I just don’t have the energy to move anymore.

My phone buzzes—a reminder I set earlier: Take meds. I laugh under my breath, dry and humorless. Too late. I whisper into the dark, like maybe someone out there is listening: "I’m so tired of this." Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of trying to eat, then hating myself for it. Tired of being trapped in this loop—sick, starving, spinning. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore. Just surviving feels like too much work some nights.

And tonight... tonight, I don’t want to fight. I just want to sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try again. Maybe not. Right now, I just close my eyes and stay where I am—curled up on this bathroom floor, hoping the quiet doesn’t swallow me whole.

But it hurt. It hurt so much. So fucking much. When can I be happy? Isn’t this what I wanted? Look how controlled I am! It's all going to be okay. Isn't it? No. Hell no. I need to stop. This isn't the right way. But how? How could I fucking stop? People would know I'm just a disgrace. A miserable person. Sigh. Let's do this. I took my phone. Scrolling through my contacts while tears stream down my cheek. I hate it. I couldn't stop them. There it was. Your name. It's been a couple days. Should I do it? I mean, the worse you could say is no. Right? Ugh.

I punched the number on the line. Put it on speaker and wait. The silence was loud—for me at least. Finally, it picked up. "Uhh... Can I talk with you for a second? I'm losing my mind."