TW: Eating disorder/weight, depression

It's remarkably easy to lie about how much I'm eating or not eating. Not that Noah is dumb and unable to pick up in the signs, because he certainly isn't, but simply that now I know what he noticed the last time, I can make a conscious effort not to do that again.

Like, I haven't done the fingers around my wrist thing once in his presence for months, and I'm not tracking anything in my phone notes app anymore. Too risky, though every time this thought crosses my mind I wonder why I'm so desperate to conceal it from him when I know - I know - I need him to know. It's fucking pathetic. 

I am tracking, of course. Just in a notebook this time, rather than my phone. The one with the lyrics to VALE in. Something no one would ever think of opening because it's old now, from a time when we still had that godawful bassist. A time that no one in the band wants to remember, a time that anyone close to me knows not to bring up. There's no need to look in a notebook from back then. 

So it's prefect, really, and there are plenty of empty pages at the back that I can write in. Thing like calories for each day, weights, and the occasional sentence or two of thought, but I try not to do this too often because the more I think about it, the worse it seems. The more serious it feels.

I suppose that's because it is serious, and we're all aware of that. It's not good by any means to starve my body, and I know this. I know it so well that now, stuck in this downward plummet, I daren't fucking acknowledge it. Better to just focus my attention on the positives, even if those are prickled with issues within. Can't have the good without the bad. Every silver lining and all that. 

But still, giving my attention to the dropping numbers, letting myself feel the terrible euphoric pride, is better. In the short term, at least. 

Anyway, this notebook. I keep it with my other BVB stuff. The old merch I have folded into drawers in my podcast room. It goes among the shirts, out of sight to anyone who may open the drawer. Not that anyone ever does. The only people in this house unless it's some sort of occasion are me and Noah, and what use would he have to snoop in my old memorabilia? No one looks in here.

Apart from me, right now. At gone midnight.

While Noah is showering, I pull the stiff drawer open, find the notebook beneath a shirt with an Andy Sixx design printed on it, and sit back on my ankles as I flip to the back pages. 

In the spine, I keep a pen, and clicking it with my thumb, I begin to write. The date. The weight. The calories. The usual. Then I close the book and hesitate, like I do most evenings. Thinking, I should tell Noah. 

But I haven't told him. I don't know how I would. Even if I wasn't putting it off because of the inevitable weight gain it'd lead to, I still couldn't tell him. He thinks I'm better. They all think I'm better. How do I ruin that? 

Besides, it's not a big deal.

It's not a big deal, it's not a big deal, it's not a big deal. 

But didn't I black out in the shower and nearly hit my head? Didn't I have to sit down in the middle of the supermarket and insist to everyone around me that I was fine, I just hadn't had enough water? Aren't they reasons why it is a big deal? 

I push the notebook back into the drawer and stand up. It's fine. If it was a big deal, I'd tell someone. I'm not stupid. 

Upstairs, I can hear the shower running. Oh, yeah, that's another thing. I haven't showered with him for a few weeks, which is the only thing he might pick up on. He'd pick up on it more if I did shower with him, though, because even in my unhealthy blacking-out-means-it's-working mindset, I know the facts. I have been writing them down every day after all. The numbers. I know I've dropped enough weight that he'd notice. 

Not enough to stop, mind you. 

In the bedroom, I strip from my clothes and into the long tee shirt I sleep in. That's another thing. I haven't gotten changed with him in the room for a while, either. Fuck, maybe I'm not being as secretive about it as I thought. But he hasn't said anything, so I must be doing enough. 

Not enough to stop, mind. 

Maybe he has noticed but just doesn't care. Maybe he thinks, fuck you, Andy, why would I go to the trouble of helping you again if you can't stick to it? 

Maybe I wasted his time the first time, and now he's choosing not to let me do that again. I wouldn't blame him. I wouldn't blame anyone except for myself, for being so naïve as to believe it ever was better. 

The shower cuts off. I open the book on my bedside table and try to read it, but find I'm caught on the idea that perhaps he has noticed and doesn't want to help. Somehow, it makes perfect sense. Like, why would he do it all again - the hugs, the scribbling over calories, the questions about therapy and how I am - if it didn't work the first time? 

I stare at the page until it's blurry, and then the bedroom door opens, and I watch Noah sit on the end of the bed with a towel around his waist. 

He turns to meet my gaze and smiles, and I think, what if he's noticed and doesn't care? What if he's noticed and he doesn't care? What if he doesn't care? What if- 

He says, "You good?" 

I blink. "What? Yeah." I really have to stop blanking out. 

"You're looking at me funny." 

"No I'm not." 

"If you say so." 

I look back at my book but catch him shake his head and sigh, like I've somehow frustrated him, which is very possible. 

I decide he must have noticed. I decide it's best he doesn't care.