TW: eating disorder, depression

There isn't anything to say. Or if there is, I'm too tired to think of it. So I say nothing, and we sit in the car quietly, the rain pounding against the windows and bouncing off the windscreen aggressively. My back has begin to ache from slouching in the seat but I can't imagine pulling myself back up, so I let it continue to ache.

The passenger in the car in front of us opens their door and stands out into the rain, walking a few paces past us, presumably to see how long the queue is. They shake their head as they return to their car; the queue is long.

Beside me, still turned sideways, Noah says, "Looks like we're gonna be here a while."

I nod. Moving my head makes me feel slightly sick and I close my eyes. Now that he knows, the burden of having to tell him has gone, and so all I can think about is how fucking hungry I am, and the more I think about it, the more I acknowledge the aching of it in my stomach, the more sick I feel.

"Andy," Noah says, and I realise he's been trying to talk to me.

Opening my eyes, I look up at him.

"Are you alright?" He asks. "You don't look very well."

"No, I...I'm fine."

"Andy."

"What?"

"Are you really going to lie right now?"

"Who fucking gives a shit," I mutter. "Lie or no lie, we're stuck here because you couldn't just let me drive home before you bombarded me."

"As if you'd have gotten back safely."

"I'm perfectly capable."

"Are you?" He asks.

"Yes, fuck you."

"Andy, look at me."

"I am."

"No, you're not. Look at me. Sit up."

I do.

Noah puts his hands on either side of my head so that I can't look anywhere else but him. "Listen to me," he says firmly. "You're ill, okay? Whether you want to admit it or not, you have an illness. And there's nothing shameful or wrong or anything about that. So stop trying to pretend like you're fine because you're allowed not to be. You don't need to be so stubborn. You don't really think I'm stupid enough to fall for that, do you? Come on, you know I know you way better than that."

I blink and realise my eyes are wet. "Sorry," I whisper. I know he's right. Who the fuck am I fooling? Certainly not myself, at any rate. 

"Just...please be honest with me. I want to help you and if you keep trying to pretend that nothing's wrong, it's gonna be so hard to help."

"What's the point?" I ask.

"In what?"

"You helping."

"What do you mean, what's the point? Because I care? Because you need it? Because I love you? Why wouldn't I help?"

"You helped last time and - well, look how that turned out. I fucked it up, didn't I? I wasted your time and fucked it all up because I don't fucking know how to not fucking do it. So what's the point this time?"

"You didn't waste my time, don't be fucking stupid." Noah moves his hand to my chin, his thumb grazing my bottom lip. "You didn't waste my time, seriously. You needed help then and you need help now and that's okay. And you might need help in the future, and that will also be okay, okay?"

Blinking, I try not to let any more tears escape. For a long time - at least, it feels like a long time - I consider what to say, how to word it, but as soon as I begin to talk, my voice crumbles and I start to cry.

Immediately, Noah pulls me into him, somewhat awkward with the handbrake and gearstick between us. He holds a hand to the back of my head the way he did the first time he found out about my eating disorder and soothes, "It's alright, it's okay. Shh. It's okay."

What the fuck are you supposed to do when you know you have a problem but can't let it go?

Into his neck, I stutter, "I don't - I don't want to - to be this way, I - I can't keep - I can't keep being this way."

"Andy," Noah says levelly. "Breathe. It's okay. It's okay."

"No, I...fuck. Fuck." Taking his advice, I suck in an unsteady breath, his cologne familiar and calming.

The heaviness of the rain against the car is for some reason comforting, perhaps because I know I'm dry and warm and with someone who loves me even when I screw everything up.

I pull away and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Okay," I mumble. "Okay." I breathe out slowly.

God, I'm so hungry.

"Can we turn around and go find a restaurant somewhere?" Noah asks. I knew he would. "I don't know how long we'll be stuck here, and then it's still half an hour from here to home providing there aren't more queues. And I'm hungry; you're definitely hungry."

I swallow, consider the options: sit in a car for probably a few hours feeling absolutely awful and sick from hunger, or accept that if I don't eat now I'll only keep putting it off and agree. I say, "Okay."

Manoeuvring out of the queue and turning, Noah drives back the way we came, puddles already forming on the road. He pulls into a twenty-four-hour McDonalds. "Okay?" He asks.

I nod even though I don't think I am. 

Against the rain, Noah opens his door and slams it shut behind him. For a moment, I don't move. Then I undo by seatbelt and turn to open my door but he is already there, pulling me up and holding me steady while I collapse against him, as we both clearly expected.

"You're good," he says after a few moments without letting go of me.

I blink hard, unsure of whether I can hold myself up. Without my coat, the weather is chilling.

"Andy?"

"Yeah, I'm...I'm good."

"Can you walk? We're getting drenched."

I nod but hope he doesn't move his hands off me, unsure whether it's because I feel faint or simply that I deprived myself of physical contact and now I never want it to end. Either way, he doesn't let go, and we walk through the carpark and into the brightly lit building. Only a few tables are occupied and staff lean bored against the counter. 

Noah guides me towards a table in the window and tells me to sit down. I do so without speaking, and he leaves me there to order.