"Do you wanna talk about it?" Asks Noah. We're still in McDonald's, sharing a selection of various items that he knows I like. For a while, neither of us had spoken, though I was aware of him frequently glancing at me as I made my way through a box of fries. Truthfully, I don't know what to say. I haven't known what to say for some time, at least a month. There gets a point when so much seems to be going wrong that talking wouldn't help. Or at least that's what I convinced myself. Like, there aren't enough words in the English dictionary to articulate what has been happening. So I decided it was easier just to say nothing about it at all. And, well, look how that turned out for me.

Dipping a salty fry into the pot of ketchup, I look at him. I try to focus on his question and his face and anything other than the fact of what I'm eating. "Huh?" I mumble, not sure what he means by the question. What does he want me to talk about? What is 'it'? The fact I've been starving myself again? Surely we've talked that topic to fucking death by now.

He opens another ketchup packet. "I remember last time, you know," he goes on. "When you first told me. There was a lot going on that didn't have much at all to do with food or your weight. So I'm wondering if that's the case now? Is there something else happening mentally that you need to get out?"

I blink, then yawn and cover my mouth. Of course that's what he meant. Of course he's cleverer than to assume it's just about weight. If only it were that simple. If only I could get away with telling him no, nothing's wrong. If only, if only, if only.

"Lonny called me a few weeks ago," he tells me now. "I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure at the time whether it was something to worry about. But he just said you were acting a little...detached. I think it was over a month ago, before you started to relapse, so..." He drops his gaze after speaking, clearly worrying that he hasn't said the right thing, that he should have told me when Lonny called, that he's done something wrong. The idea of Noah thinking he's in the wrong for something I did makes me feel sick.

"Oh," I whisper. The fry is still between my fingers. I can't focus on the conversation properly knowing that I've already eaten at least a handful of them. My hunger seems to be intensifying despite that.

Dunking a fry in the ketchup he just opened, Noah says, "C'mon, do it with me."

Mirroring him, I eat it, staying silent until I've swallowed. Then I mumble, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay, but you know you'll have to, right?"

I nod. Pick up another fry. Glance at Noah and back at the fry. Drop it back into the cardboard container.

"Uh-uh, you're hungry," he protests.

"I'm tired," I say, as though that makes it okay for me to be avoiding eating anymore.

"I know you are. But that doesn't mean you don't eat."

Elbow on the table, I lean my head on my palm and close my eyes. "I already did," I say weakly.

"Not enough and you know it."

"You don't know shit." Yes, there's that classic insult anyone who tries to help attitude, well done Andy. Why I resort to hostility in situations like this, I don't even know, but I can never stop myself from doing it.

Noah begins running his fingers through my hair. "Do you want a hug?" He asks, instead of snapping back.

Without opening my eyes to look at him, I shrug, repeating that I'm tired, disappointed when his hand leaves my hair and relieved to feel him take me in his arms. He must be standing, since the side of my head rests against his chest, his arms holding me against him. Again, I yawn.

"You're hungry," he says, matter-of-fact. "And denying yourself food is never ever going to make it feel any better. I know you know that. And I know sometimes it feels like it will make it better because that's what the disorder wants, but we both know the disorder is a bully and a piece of shit. The only thing that's going to make you feel better is to eat enough and to talk about what's causing this. And if you don't want to talk right now, that's okay. I get it. We can talk about it when you're well rested. But you'll never be well rested if you don't eat enough."

Suddenly my eyes are wet.

Noah's heart beats against my ear.

"It feels wrong," I mumble.

"What does?"

"I don't know."

"Eating enough? Or something else?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. That's okay."

Freeing my arm from between us, I wrap both around his torso, clasping my hands together behind him. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"You don't need to be sorry."

"I know, but I am."

"Can we eat some more?" He asks, though I know better than to take it as a question; he's telling me we're going to eat more. "Then we can go home and sleep, hm?"

I nod against him, releasing my fingers and slowly lifting my head from his chest. As he sits back down, I take a fry, dunk it in ketchup, and swallow it before I can talk myself out of it. Then I repeat, trying to detach my emotions from the action, trying to see it just as any other action that I need to do. Like breathing. Something I'm supposed to just be able to do in order to survive.

Noah says nothing about being proud which I'm grateful for; I already know he is, and bringing more attention to the fact of me eating wouldn't help the issue.

Together, we finish the food, me having a crispy chicken wrap and him a cheese burger, as well as sharing a box of nuggets. After, we battle our way back to the car in the weather, which is only getting grimmer as the night goes on. Noah drives us out of the car park, and the queue we were stuck in has backed up down the motorway. My eyes fight to close.

"Ah, shit," he curses. "Okay, yeah, I'm not even gonna try and wait for that to move. Hotel?"

I mumble an agreement, not caring where we end up so long as there's a bed. The sound of rain against the car is almost louder than my voice. I close my eyes and lean against the window and try not to think about what I've just eaten. Try not to add it all up, try not to allow the panic to seep in as the number rises. "Noah?" I asks after a few minutes.

"Hmm?"

But now I don't know what I want to say, so I stay quiet.

"What is it?"

That's the problem. I don't know. I don't know what it is.

"Andy?"

"It's...never mind."

"No, what is it?" He asks again, ignoring my weak attempt to dismiss the conversation I started.

"I just..." I sigh, looking out of the window at the dark, wet road instead of at Noah.

"You just..?" He prompts. "Come on, don't shut it out. I'm here, I'm listening. Let me help."

Turning my head, I look at him as he watches the road ahead. "Nothing, okay?"

"No. Don't do that. It's not nothing."

"You don't fucking - "

"-know anything, yes, I know. So tell me. If I don't know, Andy, you need to tell me. Otherwise I'm never going to know."

"Fuck off."

"Stop that."

Without a response to give, I turn my head back to the window.

The hotel Noah finds is a chain, big enough that I don't doubt them having a room free.

Tension lingering from the car conversation, I follow him towards the entrance, shielding my face with my arm. The harsh wind is painful, but maybe it's in my head.

Unfortunately, the woman at reception recognises at least one of us. Usually, I don't mind it at all. Meeting fans in public is a privilege. But right now? There isn't anything worse I could think of.

Noah says as soon as she exclaims that she knows who we are, "Thank you for supporting us. We'd appreciate a room, please."

"This is so crazy," she gushes, instead of booking us in.

"We're both really tired," Noah tries. "Just a double room would be great, thanks."

"Are you filming something out here, or..?"

I feel him sigh beside me, his shoulder against mine. "Please can we book in for tonight?"

She begins typing on the computer. "Double?" She checks.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

"I can't believe you're here. I've always wanted to meet you. Specially Andy. I've been listening to BVB for ever."

"Thank you so much," I say. Still adding up dinner in my head as I have been doing since we left the restaurant. Trying to be as certain as I can be that the number is accurate. Can't stop thinking about it.

Noah must have picked up on my unease - not that it's new - because he moves his hand to the small of my back, circles his fingers over my shirt. "We appreciate the support," he says again. "It means the world. Please can we have the key?"

"You're such an attractive couple," she exclaims now.

Every time I add up the food, it comes to a higher total. I swallow to keep the tears down.

"Thank you," Noah repeats calmly. "Like I said, we're tired, we'd like to go to bed. Do I need to pay now or in the morning?"

She holds the card machine towards him. "I was so shocked when you got together."

The payment goes through. "Oh, right," Noah replies, clearly losing his patience. "Can we have the key, please?"

"When you moved in together, I was like, holy shit, that's awesome!"

"Yeah," he says, glancing at me.

All I want is to crawl under the desk and cry, because I can't stop the number from rising and wish I could shut it out, could just stop caring about it at all.

"Please can we have the key?" His voice is mildly exasperated, sharper.

"You're in room four-thirty-five," she says finally, passing a key card to Noah, who takes it quickly and turns, before she can say anything else. His hand is still on my back as we head for the door.

We stand silently in the lift. I feel an overwhelming need to cry - sob - but refuse to do so in a public space where a stranger could potentially walk in at any moment, so I swallow hard and continue to stare at the glowing buttons. I know there's so much I need to say, so much that Noah will be wondering. I know he's only growing more concerned the longer I avoid talking, but with the numbers so scarily high in my mind, tormenting me with the knowledge of how fucking much I ate, I can't even begin to consider what the hell I might say.

The room in on the fourth floor at the far end of the corridor, and once he's swiped the key card to unlock the door, Noah lets me in first. Without taking off my shoes, I sit on the bed. Put my head in my hands. Wait for the door to close. Swallow again. Attempt to speak, to ask if there are any bottles water in the mini fridge. My voice turns into a sob before I have the chance to say anything at all. I lie back and cover my face with my hands.

Noah lies beside me, pulls me into him, lets me cry.

It's like a valve has been loosened. The onrushing of everything I tried so hard to keep down. Everything I wouldn't write about, wouldn't let myself even think about. Everything I knew I couldn't handle on my own. The very idea of crying alone while everyone around me was unaware of what was going on made me want to vomit, so I refused to allow myself to feel the emotions that would make me cry. And even now, while he knows what's been going on, there's still so much that he doesn't know.

The number won't stop getting bigger. I want to reach inside my brain and pull out whatever it is that's making me think this way. Like a fucking lobotomy.