TW: Eating disorder/weight/depression

Isn't it odd how quickly you can get close to someone? 

It was the first time I had been in Ambrose's house, and yet as he showed me to the living/dining room and gestured to the couch, I felt like I had been there numerous times before. 

The room was painted a comforting dark red and was decorated with his paintings, as well as framed prints from various other artists. I recognised an Escher hanging above the fireplace as I sat down.

My head was swimming, hadn't settled completely since getting up off the floor in the conservatory. I was glad for Ambrose standing near me while I walked, even more glad that he wasn't touching me unnecessarily.

I thought, this man knows how to respect boundaries. 

It's insane how few people know how to respect the most basic of boundaries. 

People have had their hands all over me during shoots and fittings without the need, running fingers harshly across my hips and chest while making out like they were smoothing the fabric. I know better. They just wanted to touch me. 

I dread to think what they do with the memories of touching me. 

My body practically melted into the softness of the couch, the exhaustion making it feel like the most comfortable thing in the world. 

"Do you want another drink?" Ambrose asked, walking towards the open kitchen. 

"Just water, thanks." I tried not to close my eyes because I wasn't sure I'd open them again. "Pretty room." 

"Oh, thank you. Ice?" 

"No, that's okay." 

Pushing the coffee table towards me, he left a full glass on one of four shiny black coasters. 

"I'm honestly so sorry," I said. "I'm being such an imposition." 

"No, not at all. You're good." 

"I don't know where you came from but please never change." 

He chuckled. "The industry has not treated you all that kindly, has it?" 

"Nope." 

 Freezer drawers scraped open, followed by rustling as he routed through the contents. "Alright, so...chips, breaded fish, lasagne, a ton of peas, whatever the hell is in this box, uh, curry by the looks of it, ice cream, an empty ice tray, more peas, chicken nuggets, cottage pie, another lasagne...oh, and another empty ice tray. Why the fuck do I put empty ice trays back in the freezer?" 

"Who doesn't?" 

"True." 

"Do what ever is easiest," I suggested. "I don't want to make more trouble that I have already." 

"No trouble, I assure you. Uh, are you good with fish? I'll put some chips in, too?" 

"Yeah." I thought, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm gonna regret this, fuck, fuck, fuck-

"Alright, great. It'll be, like, half an hour." 

Ambrose came to sit on the other couch once the food was in the oven, said, "If you wanna talk about anything, I'll listen, but don't feel pressured, alright? We can put the telly on if you'd rather not." 

I looked at him to find him looking back, his soft features a stark contrast to my unhealthily angled face. That was the thing. I knew I wasn't well and I knew I didn't look well, but I kept managing to turn that into a good thing. Like, it's better to be unwell; it means it's working. 

Mean's what is working? 

I can't ever find a plausible answer to that question. 

Ambrose is the sort of pretty that isn't overstated. Doesn't intimidate you with his beauty, just lets it exist. I doubt he's fully aware of his prettiness. 

"I don't want to be this way," I told him. "I just don't know how to stop." 

He nodded sympathetically.

"The main issue is that the support system I have is fucking shit at being supportive." 

"Your parents?" 

"Yeah. They just...I don't know. They don't really get it. They just assume that if I eat enough and get to a 'normal' weight, then I'll be fixed, you know? But don't they think that if that were the case, I'd have stopped a long time ago? I mean, it was two years ago that they put me through forced recovery, and it was not this bad then." I shook my head. "I've just got to the point where I feel too far in to stop. So I just...I really, really don't know what to do." 

"Is there any way I could help? Like, what do you need from your support system that you're not getting?" 

"Oh. Uh. I think it's just not being made to feel like I'm an inconvenience. You know? 'Oh Andy, it's so difficult for us.' Like, what? Do they want a fucking medal for putting up with me, or what?" 

"Oh, completely. That's not fair at all. It's not like you chose to do this." 

"No." 

He nodded thoughtfully.

I picked up the water and gulped almost the entire glass down. 

"Is it helpful to eat with someone?" 

"Depends who the someone is." 

"Sure. I get that." 

"I think I just need someone to care more about how I feel than about how it makes their own life difficult. At the end of the day, they can go to bed and not lie awake fucking hating themselves for what they did or didn't eat, you know? They can just not think about it. I can never not think about it. I'm so fucking sick of thinking about it." Returning the glass to the coaster, I shook my head again. "I just want someone to listen to me for once. I feel like no one ever listens to me." 

"And you deserve to be listened to," Ambrose said. 

It was so strange. This man who I barely knew had done more to help me than my parents ever had.