the waitress comes by our table with our food, seven minutes and 43 seconds after we ordered. the dish that's placed in front of me stares back at me, tendrils of steam slithering up into the air out of the tomato soup. it smells like oregano, even though i'd asked the lady to not add any spices. nerves light up the inside of my stomach, a flame blazing all the way up my throat in the form of nausea. unknown spices are unknown ingredients, and unknown ingredients are unknown calories. tomato paste and hot water is different from tomato paste and hot water and unknown spices. a difference of ten, fifteen, twenty, a hundred or more maybe if i have horrible luck and it has onion powder, or worse, nutmeg.

my family stares at me. i stare at the dull, more-grey-than-silver spoon laid next to the bowl. my dad breaks the silence.

"honey, i know you're on a diet, and i'm fully supportive of your decision to lose weight, but can you not do this for just one day? that soup was overpriced yet you insisted on it, and i won't let it go to waste. besides, it's just soup. it's the ultimate diet food! refusing it is like refusing a salad because it's too 'fatty'—"

"okay, dad. stop it, i was just- i was just waiting for it to cool down. it probably has now so i'll just..."

my dad goes quiet, and my mother and sister who have been eyeing me from the corner of their eyes pick up their cutlery and start chewing. i also pick up my spoon, and it's heavy in my hand, metal denser than it looks. i let it dip into the bowl, and then one shallow spoonful of seasoned tomato soup gets closer, closer to my mouth, so close and then, boom, it's touching my lips and going down my throat. it's actually scalding, heat so sharp it numbs my tongue. i keep on sipping the liquid anyway, not caring about the burn much. if my tongue is burnt, at least i won't be able to enjoy eating as much, and so i'll avoid doing so altogether, right?

right?

i try to placate myself. i've walked over thirteen thousand steps today. not bad, but not great. i could try to burn off a couple hundred calories later on in the day, but i don't get my hopes up. i gave up on those damned youtube workouts a while back. they break my body, leave me so boneless and tired i can't even get off the yoga mat and crawl to my bed when i'm done. instead just falling asleep (more so passing out) right there on the pink yoga mat, sprawled on the floor like a starfish, heartbeat going from too fast to way too slow for comfort underneath the blaring air conditioning. yeah, waking up the next morning is not a fun experience. yet, i keep telling myself to go back to these awful workouts. i've seen too many people end up skinny fat from starving without toning up/maintaining muscle, which can only be done by exercising. i can't end up like that. i can't. maybe today i'll be able to do a short workout. maybe. i doubt it.

dinner ends with an awkward joke and even more awkward polite laughs. god, i bet the neighboring tables think my parents are divorcees that meet up once a month. i barely speak, my sister barely speaks, my parents share passive aggressive comments on each other's lifestyles, we finish eating, we stand up, we walk to the car, two feet of space between each of us.

home is not the appropriate word to describe the house we descend to. it's not much how it looks as it is the people living inside its walls. see, a family would have breathed life into this building, but this collection of humans that spend their day inside steal all the oxygen from it and leave the house a suffocating device.

the staircase is wooden and it creaks in agony under my feet, each inhumane sound a stab to the gut. god, i swear it never makes this much noise when my sister climbs up. am i that much heavier? true, she's always been on the skinnier side. she didn't inherit my mother's child-bearing hips, instead taking after my dad's sisters, so she's flat, narrow shoulders, with a wide ribcage that she always seems to be complaining about. i get it, i do, but also i don't, because she's skinny, not as skinny as i'd like to be, but skinny enough for anyone without a raging eating disorder eating away at them.

what a simple name, when disordered eating habits are just one small, factor of a much, much bigger mess. a mess that slithers into your life so slowly, painstakingly slow as it takes its time, letting you get used to the sweet nothings it whispers in your ear before all of a sudden there's a rapid invasion, and it's breaking every front of normalcy around you and building its own fronts, its own rules, its own abnormalities that force their roots to grow in the shape of your new normal.

i love it.

i adore it, worship it, need it. i need it. nothing will ever feel as euphoric as an empty stomach, or the numbers on the scale dropping, or the dizzy spells that follow me whenever i stand up. the emptiness becomes its own kind of fullness, and the ache is more a reminder of hard work than a form of pain.

ultimately, it gives me control.

i spend an exact two hours after getting home on my phone. i connect my headphones, open spotify to play the neighborhood as background music, before pressing on the black twitter (well now, x) icon, to read about what people ate today, how they felt about their bodies today, what tips could they give on getting thinner, looking skinnier, scroll past the occasional meme about a habit that stems from being anorexic. a while passes like this, before my thumb hovers over the search bar.

deathspo is typed out.

threads upon threads of skin stretched over bone pop up, and i open every single one, take note of each picture shown. there's something hauntingly perfect in those images, something that digs under my skin and settles there. the bones, jutting out like they're too sharp for the skin, look otherworldly— so breathtakingly beautiful.

and every image screams the same challenge. how far could i go? how close could i get to being like this before breaking?  and i listen, listen to the aching pull to get closer, to test the limits, to see how much i could strip away from myself and still exist. in those pictures, each body is hollowed out just right—so that nothing unnecessary remains, only the bare essentials, only what's pure and precise.

so, so perfect.

when the two hours that i've timed are up, i force my eyes away from the screen. i'm too tired to kick away the covers, so i just shuffle out from under them and get off the bed. i'm hit with a rush of lightheadedness immediately, and i near fall back if not for my hand holding on to the dresser in front of me. it feels so exhilarating that i have to smile, standing up straight and making my way to the bathroom.

i pee, then strip all of my clothes and smart watch, hair tie, and rings. i make sure nothing is touching my body before stepping on the bathroom scale, testing the waters with one foot before placing the next one and praying for the best. i haven't drank water since dinner, so there shouldn't be any extra water weight either. i hold my breath and look down.

54.30kg.

i'd gained 0.45kg since yesterday.

i stare at the number for eight seconds before the scale turns off.

the scale sits still, unmoving, unfeeling. and even though i realise i'd do anything, anything, to erase that number, to wipe away the failure, i can barely move, barely think, barely respond. i can barely feel as i step off the scale, ignoring the tightness in my chest.

a sick wave of disappointment floods over me, but it's more than that—it's disgust. the reflection in the bathroom mirror feels like a stranger, someone i don't recognize, someone who doesn't fit into the tiny, hollowed out version i've been trying so hard to carve out.

i laugh, and it's a sound almost as empty as my stomach.

it'll never feel enough.
i'll never be enough.

not when this obsession has a grip on me so tight that even as i loathe it, i'm desperate for it.

so desperate, that even as i feel myself vanishing, disappearing inch by inch, i still keep going back to it, clinging to this feeling as if it's all i have left. i hate the thoughts, the endless counting, the hunger i pretend not to feel. i hate how proud i am of this sickness, of this twisted sense of achievement every time i see myself getting smaller. it's disgusting, and yet i'm caught in it, tied to it, as if it's the only thing that still makes sense.

but not that that matters right now anyway. i'm obviously not getting any smaller, at least according to the scale.

i make my way back to my bed, each step heavier than the one before, then flop down on it unceremoniously. i don't even have any energy left to "fix" my mistake. i just lay there, naked, hoping for death. i eventually crawl under the covers and go back to mindlessly scrolling on my phone. but this time i stay clear from twitter (x?), only looking for movie recommendations and mukbang clips on tiktok. it stays like that for another twelve minutes, before a text from my mother comes through.

i click on it. she sent an image. i wait for it to load, and when it does, i'm perplexed. it's a picture of me. it's recent. i look sick in it, and i fight the urge to smile, the corner of my lips lifting up slightly before i force them back down. another text comes through, and i read it, lips moving to spell out the letters in front of me silently.

look at your chin fat in this photo! i'm glad you're dieting, i know you'll look so beautiful when you're finally skinny, sweetheart.

oh.

i lay there, blinking slowly, letting the words sink in. something inside of me folds in on itself. there is no anger, no outrage, just this unbearable exhaustion. because, what's the point? what's the point of even trying to get her to understand when she'll never really see? what's the point of explaining to her or even anyone else the sick thoughts in my head when they'll probably just encourage me to continue? if losing 22kg wasn't enough, not even enough for a single compliment, a nod of acknowledgment, then nothing would be. not even looking like death itself would.

my body is cold under the covers, but it's not figurative, or a biological reaction because of the words i'd just read. no, my body had lost its warmth a while back. body heat was just one of the many sacrifices you have to give to achieve perfection.

perfection that will never be attained.

yes. i know that i'll never be able to achieve what i desire. i know that there is no end to the cycle, that i'll keep finding something about me that i need to fix. i'm not stupid. or maybe i am, because i keep chasing this dumb dream anyway. but the truth remains the same.

being near perfect is better than being far from it.

i might be going mad, because i smile. tears are forming at the corners of my eyes before they burn their way down the sides of my face. i smile wider, going as far as to giggle, and a weight lifts off of my shoulders as i'm hit, with a sharp clarity, of what i need to do next.

i sit up, hands reaching clumsily for the morphine i'd hidden in my bedside table drawer. a couple years back, my mom had gotten into a serious accident, and she'd been prescribed morphine pills for pain relief because of the severity of the damage the accident had caused. i managed to steal what was left of them, and i've been saving them for this day.

tonight. tonight's the night.

i pop a bunch of the pills into my shaking palm, not even counting how many before throwing them all into my mouth. they taste unpleasantly bitter, and i fight the urge to spit them out. it's even harder to swallow them down, my throat unable to take more than two down at a time. when i'd finally swallowed them all, my stomach bubbles, my throat feels closed up, and i feel the urge to retch everything out already.

i ignore the salt and water that blur my vision and sink down back under the covers, wait for my heart to stop and never start again. i'm not rushing into this. i've had this planned out for so long, a written will is sitting in the left drawer of my desk. i've only been stalling, as if waiting for someone to give me just one reason why i shouldn't take the pills and end my life.

i don't know what i was expecting.

and then.

my whole body is sinking, pulling me under. my head feels heavy, too full, and everything around me blurs at the edges. the room feels hazy, shifting, like i'm looking at it through thick, fogged glass, and i can't tell what's real or not.

then my stomach twists sharply, and nausea hits, climbing up my throat in vicious waves that i can't fight this time. my mouth tastes sour, and i barely make it to the side of the bed before everything comes up, leaving me dizzy and breathless. my heart feels strange in my chest, even slower than it usually is, but loud, echoing in my ears. i can feel my pulse dragging, each beat struggling to catch up.

my skin is clammy, damp and cold, but my forehead feels hot, then all at once, i'm shivering. my vision doubles, everything twisting and shifting. i can't tell if i'm lying down or falling. i reach out for something, anything, but my hand won't cooperate—it just hangs there, useless, heavy.

i can't get a full breath, and my lips feel numb, tingling. everything's dimming now, fading in and out, in and out, in and out, in and-

out.

when i wake up, i am not confused. i am annoyed, irritated, angry even. but not shocked. i check the clock. it's been just less than three hours since i took the pills. with heavy limbs and a heavier body i somehow force myself to sit up. not one movement in and i'm already retching, vomit spilling onto the bedsheets, but i don't care. i heave, literally breathless as i reach with shaky arms to the same drawer that held the melatonin pills for the naloxone spray i kept in there, just in case exactly this happens.

i spray the material into both of my nostrils. after a couple minutes the excruciating buzz in my head quiets down a little, and my heartbeat get's a little closer to normal. part of me wishes i'd died, finally somewhere away from all the pain and suffering. 

but another part?

it's telling me this is good, because this is a chance for me to finally reach my goal weight. and if i'm going to die, better die skinny, right?

i find the strength to get ready to drive to the hospital. i stumble as i grab a protein bar from my desk drawer, where i keep all my dry safe foods. better leave the passing out for another time, i need to be alert when driving now. and i need to get checked in. thank god i'm eighteen and don't need my parents to take me to the hospital anymore. if anyone asks why i'm going out at 11:00 p.m. at night, then i needed to meet a friend because of an emergency.

it's not like they'd bother to make sure i'm meeting with a friend and not running away, not like they'd care to worry if their child is going to hook up with a stranger without protection. not like anyone would look through my room for drugs and see the vomit-stained bed sheets that i've left to clean up when i return (which is probably in the early morning, but they wouldn't care about that either). no, they'd never be caught dead being plagued with the same worries of any normal present parent.

it would have probably taken them over a day to walk in on my corpse had my attempt worked.

i can't believe i did that. it's a good thing i survived. if i want to die, i should die pretty.
i just can't die without having achieved something.

i ignore the tears streaming down my face as i walk out of the house without a single comment or question from my parents or sister, who sat in the living room, with a perfect view of the front door and my back walking out of it.