juniper @junibeecortez - Tumblr Blog

origami bones

» dating model gojo makes your insecurities go skyfall.

(!) warning: eating disorders (ED), body dysmorphia, self-hatred.

you never really told him. not in so many words. not in any words, actually. how could you? how could you look at satoru gojo, with his endless, blinding smile and his love for everything sweet and decadent, and tell him you hated it?

you were barely a child when your mother began comparing you to your older sister. "yes, that’s a lovely dress indeed, but it won’t look quite like that on you. it’ll suit your sister better." she used to say.

and just like that, every piece of clothing you ever loved ended up in her closet. they wouldn't even pass them down to you when she outgrew it or stopped wearing it. they always bought you dull trousers and generic US state t-shirts because, why not? anglo-saxon culture was popular all over the globe.

at every family gathering, they always showered your sister with compliments. you’d get a fleeting ‘well done’ for your grades –which were always better than hers–, but beauty was the only thing that truly earned an audience. how could something so temporary leave such an eternal mark on people’s minds?

you never had a taste for cake; it was always too sickly sweet. besides, you spent every birthday crying. you knew deep down they weren't there for you –they were there for her. every time you blew out the candles, your only wish was to finally be better than her. people always ‘forgot’ your gifts or promised them for later, yet they’d show up with two for her.

but even though you envied her, you still loved her.

when she hit her teens, her curves became a standard you felt destined to fail.

"listen to me, sweetheart." your father would say, buckling your helmet before you hopped on your little scooter. "the important thing is that you don't grow up to be fat. people won't want you if you are."

he was the one who bought you the clothes you actually liked, hiding the shopping bags from your mother.

you’d spend hours in front of the mirror, smearing on your sister’s stolen makeup, daydreaming about the day you’d finally bloom just like she did. you couldn't wait to grow up. you couldn't wait to finally be beautiful.

that day never came.

your small backside was barely lifted, and you never made it past an a-cup. high-schooler mahito would mock you every time he had the chance, but honestly, you weren't going to let that scumbag get under your skin.

you met satoru gojo in your twenties.

it happened on a monday at noon in jingumae neighborhood, shibuya district.

you had gone to treat yourself to a purin a la mode at blue bottle coffee. the reason? you’d just landed a job as a casting production assistant at «satoru japan inc.», a highly prestigious modeling agency –your dream destination to launch a career in the world of beauty.

you were just about to step out of line, the realization that your cash and cards were sitting forgotten back at the office burning in your chest. but before you could retreat, a man’s voice rose to the rescue.

“i’ll have a nola float, and whatever she’s having, please.”

you froze. you had seen him before –on the glossy pages of a magazine, of course. he was a rising star. he was currently the most important and influential face in the industry. he had exploded across social media and was now a global phenomenon. every manager fought for the mere chance to even mention their agency’s name in the same breath as his.

and there he was, making a gesture so understated that it left every customer in the cafe spellbound. the cashier didn’t even blink; she just stood there with her mouth hanging open –and god forbid a fly should wander in.

“i’m sorry, you didn’t have to.” you murmured, feeling the heat of a blush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. “i’ll pay you back at the office.”

he arched an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “you know who i am? no, wait –scratch that. you work at «satoru» too? does that mean we’re doing a photoshoot together soon?”

a dry laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head as if he’d just said the most absurd thing in the world. “no, no. i’m the new casting assistant. y’know… nothing to do with showing off this face, and everything to do with being buried behind a computer screen.”

satoru smiled then –not because of what you said, but because of the spark in your voice. “in that case, you’ll have to give me your number for an appointment. y’know… everything to do with auditions, and absolutely nothing to do with me wanting to take you out.”

you pulled out your phone –not to give him your number, but to check the calendar and make sure it wasn't eipurirufuru (april fools’). when you finally handed it over (and he heard your name for the first time), his smile widened threefold.

"got it. i'll consider us even if you let me take you to dinner. bring your best outfit and an empty stomach. see you around."

how could you even begin to describe satoru gojo? he was… perfection. his hair looked like a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, fresh with morning dew. his eyes were the clear sky after a storm –the kind of sky you’d skydive into, knowing that eventually, the fall would bring you back to earth. his milky skin was like raw wool, untouched by bleach or dye. he stood taller than the expectations they had for you, and he was more of a dreamer than your own goals. not a single pore was visible. his laughter… it was the sound of church bells ringing after a saturday wedding.

his sense of humor was utterly ludicrous, to say the least. he’d sit with one leg crossed over the other whenever he was acting like a show-off, but he’d sit with his legs wide apart the moment he turned serious. he had a habit of clapping his hands whenever he told a joke, and he never once turned down a photo, no matter where people found him or how many asked.

and he loved food. truly, voraciously loved it.

that was the satoru you’d come to know after a month of dating him.

“why did you ask me out that day?” you’d asked him during your second dinner together.

he simply shrugged, his gaze steady on yours. “because you have the most beautiful smile i’ve ever seen. it’s so genuine.”

in the casting room, you spent hours staring at high-resolution headshots on a massive monitor. you had to zoom in to check for "imperfections," but there were none. no pores, no scars, no stray hairs (except occasional moles you had to brush away in photoshop).

it was a parade of god-like symmetry. you felt like a thumbprint on a pristine lens. every time you walked past the full-length mirrors in the hall, you’d suck in your breath, trying to match the geometry of the women on the screens.

when you got home, you would lock yourself in the bathroom, standing before the mirror in a desperate attempt to rid yourself of every annoying blemish. you’d shape your eyebrows until they were identical, searching your forehead for any hint of a wrinkle, or checking if the whites of your eyes had begun to lose their luster. you’d obsess over whether your teeth were still perfectly aligned, haunted by the years of braces and the countless nights you never dared to skip wearing your retainers.

before going to sleep, you’d settle in with an anko-filled dorayaki and a glass of fruit milk, scrolling through the endless voice notes satoru had sent you throughout the day.

that evening, one message stood out. he wanted you to come along to a get-together at arata’s –a guy with straight, chin-length blonde hair. you sat there for a long time, staring at the screen and weighing your doubts, before finally worked up the courage to say yes.

atara’s penthouse was mediterranean-inspired vaulted ceilings with exposed wood beams, arched entryways, and terracotta tile floors. its striking teal cabinetry paired with white marble countertops and a gold "pot filler" tap above the stove was ridiculously expensive and marvelous.

the room was full of models from the agency, guys with legs that went on forever and skin that looked airbrushed even under the harsh overhead lights. the legendary yuki tsukumo was there, deep in conversation with suguru geto about their ‘ideal types’. then there was yorozu –known for her fearless nude shoots– who was now draped in a tight, short white dress that gracefully accentuated every curve and her stunningly long, raven-black hair.

shoko ieri was also there, leaning against a balcony door; takako uro was draped across a velvet sofa, looking like a high-fashion editorial come to life. her skin was perfectly tanned and her body so toned and fit.

satoru greeted everyone, even those he didn’t know. they greeted him back, because there wasn't a soul who didn't know who he was.

a little while later, everyone gathered around the large, beautiful live-edge walnut table, sharing expensive salmon and delicate nerikiri –exclusive kyoto artisan pieces that weren't something you could find just anywhere.

"you should have seen him back then." shoko said, her voice dry as she swirled a glass of wine. she was looking at satoru, who was currently inhaling a plate of wagyu beef. "he was so obsessed with mikie hara –posters, lockscreens, everything you like– and he convinced himself he was going to be her boyfriend. he actually started modeling just to get into the same circles."

the whole place erupted in laughter. satoru grinned, a piece of yellowtail halfway to his mouth. "hey, half the plan was done, wasn't it? vanity shouldn't be so demonized after all."

you tried to laugh along, but your throat felt tight. suddenly, the namagashi you’d eaten earlier felt like lead in your stomach.

of course he liked models and sculpted bodies –everything in its right place. what were you thinking? what were you expecting? that the man whose face had been voted the most beautiful on the planet would be humble and lower his standards? no, of course not. the whole thing felt like a cruel joke.

you looked down at your hands, hidden under the table. trembling, slicking with a cold sweat at the realization. you were that puzzle piece they’d bend and force, yet no amount of effort could make it fit. you were that scratch on a glass jar, invisible until the flashlight hits it. this world wasn't for you; it rejected you like a failed transplant. it cut you off like a stray thread.

satoru pulled you out of your own thoughts, reaching over to offer you a piece of his melon shortcake. "try this, it’s incredible."

you shook your head, your guts twisting in a sudden, violent knot of revulsion.

"i’m full, thanks."

five months later, you were living in his mansion in shoto, the beverly hills of tokyo.

maybe it was the laughter he pulled out of you, the celestial sex, or the unrepeatable experiences, but now you were lying on his 500,000 yen bed with his head resting on your stomach.

"rakuten week is frying my brain." you said, running your fingers through his hair. "it’s been casting after casting. i don’t think i could keep up with all the info i have to process and store."

"tell me about it. i’ve spent hours in fittings, having clothes adjusted to the millimeter. good thing my metabolism is a marvel; otherwise, they’d waste half their lives just designing outfits for me." he said, staying in a fetal position, his arms wrapped around your waist.

"don't you have a show right now?"

"no, just the evening slot today. from tomorrow on, i’m booked for both. you should come see me later –i’ll be sensational."

you gave a smirk. "no doubt about that."

he sighed. his thumbs danced below your iliac crests, where fine white lines were tattooed into your skin. those undesirable stretch marks.

"i like them. they look like ocean waves." he said about your welts, playfully biting the skin. "and i like your belly. it’s so comfortable, warm, soft... and that little roll just barely peeking out makes it even more adorable."

it had been a long time since satoru’s compliments had felt like compliments. instead, they felt like insults –like the discovery of imperfections you didn't know you had, or hadn't paid enough attention to. you no longer liked hearing him say what he liked about you, because it was everything you disliked about yourself.

in a way, it felt like he was mocking you. and it weighed on you, mostly because you knew he didn't mean any harm. he was just on a level where insecurities and complexes didn't even exist.

you cleared your throat, quickly changing the subject.

"i’ll be there."

the air outside the venue was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and car exhaust.

paparazzi were a wall of frantic motion, their cameras firing in a staccato rhythm that felt like physical blows against your flesh. flash. flash. flash. every burst of white light burned the silhouette of the crowd into your retinas, leaving you blinking at blue-black ghosts. satoru moved through the chaos like he had been born from the light itself.

he looked impossibly tall in a tailored charcoal suit that made his hair look like spun silver and those dark glasses made him irresistibly enigmatic. he didn't flinch at the strobing glare; he leaned into it, his smile effortless, his hand resting casually on the small of your back.

"satoru! over here! satoru, is it true about you and utahime?" a reporter screamed, thrusting a microphone forward. "there are rumors you’ve been seen together in roppongi! is she the one?"

utahime iori was walking just a few paces ahead of you, draped in a traditional silk gown that had been modernized into something lethal and sleek. she was gorgeous –a disciplined beauty with a seared mark across her cheek that, unintentionally, only served to make her look more like a work of art. the photographers were losing their minds, the shutters of their cameras sounding like a swarm of metallic insects.

"she’s a goddess, isn't she?" satoru chuckled into the roar, his voice light and teasing. he didn't deny it; he played the game, his thumb tracing a slow, absent-minded circle on your hips.

you felt the cameras pivot toward you for a fleeting, mocking second before dismissing you. you looked at utahime’s perfect, swan-like neck and then at the screen of a nearby monitor showing a livestream of the red carpet. in the high-definition glow, your face looked wide, your skin looked dull, and your body felt like a heavy, black-clad intruder.

satoru strode down the runway in a structural masterpiece that blurred the line between haute couture and cosmic horror. the base was a skintight, matte-black bodysuit made of obsidian-reflecting latex, acting as a 'void' that sucked in the room's light. over this, he wore an oversized, floor-length opera coat crafted from stiffened taffeta organza in shades of deep violet and hollow blue.

the pièce de résistance was a mechanical, sculptural harness arching from his shoulder blades. instead of traditional feathers, the 'wings' were composed of hundreds of shattered crystalline shards suspended by invisible wires, creating a halo effect.

embedded within these shards were hyper-realistic, hand-painted glass eyes of varying sizes. as he moved, the shards vibrated, making it look like a thousand cerulean eyes were blinking in unison, tracking the audience.

he wore a wide, translucent band of black liquid-metal mesh. it obscured his eyes from the cameras while allowing him to peer out with that signature predatory grace. he also wore a single ear cuff –a silver ring that never quite touched his skin, appearing to float through magnetic suspension.

his coat trailed six meters behind him, embroidered with silver thread in fractal patterns that mimicked the mathematical complexity of the infinity.

the atmosphere shifted instantly, even though it remained dead silent. it wasn't just admiration; it was veneration.

he was blinding. untouchable. a masterpiece of biology. the distance between you felt like light-years.

the light caught the high bridge of his nose and the sharp, porcelain curve of his jaw. you saw him wink at a camera, a casual gesture that sent the front row into a frenzy.

as you watched from the wings, you felt a surge of pure, agonizing envy that made your teeth ache. you envied the way his clothes didn't just fit –they obeyed him. you watched the models line up for the finale, their bodies a rhythmic, formidable spectacle of perfection. you hated them. you hated the way their hipbones sliced through the air like knives. you hated the way they looked at satoru –with an easy, shared language of beauty that you would never speak.

the applause was deafening –so was the math in your head. satoru loved perfection. and you didn’t just want to be with him; you wanted to be him –weightless, effortless, and entirely, brutally perfect.

you would fold yourself. you would trim the edges. you would become as thin and sharp as the paper-thin models on his phone screen.

"have you eaten yet, babe?" satoru asked one day when you got back from work. in a rare moment of domesticity, he’d actually decided to try his hand in the kitchen, and the smell of nikujaga hit you like ofukuru no aji (mother’s home cooking).

your stomach craved it by instinct, even if you knew your palate wouldn't get a single chew.

"yeah, i grabbed some teppanyaki on the way home." you said, sitting at the kitchen island and fixing your eyes on the stove. "you should’ve told me you were cooking. i don't want the food to go to waste."

he just smiled, his expression as warm as the pot simmering over the flames. "it won’t. we’ll finish it later."

in the nine months you’d been together, you’d come to realize one thing: his love language was, unequivocally, food.

it was always a new discovery, a new treat. "look at this, hon! they opened a new mochi shop downtown, and their mango daifuku is insane." he'd appear in the doorway, all six feet three inches of him, a glorious, chaotic force of nature, holding out a delicately wrapped box like it was a treasure chest. and to him, it was.

you'd manage a smile, a genuine one, because his enthusiasm was infectious. you'd take a single, small bite. "mm, that’s really good, satoru." you’d murmur, letting the sweetness bloom on your tongue for a moment before pushing the rest of it back towards him. "but i just had a huge lunch."

lunch had been a carefully measured handful of plain almonds, chased by two glasses of water to fool your stomach. but he’d just shrug, pop the rest of the daifuku into his mouth, and grin, a smear of red jam on his perfect lips. "more for me, then!"

you’d watch him, the way he devoured every bite with such unbridled joy, and a part of you –the small, starving part– would ache with a longing that had nothing to do with hunger. it was the longing for that freedom, that casual indulgence.

models watched every single thing they ate, counting calories like prayers on a juzu. but then again, satoru had been blessed. like he’d told you himself: grams of sugar and yeast never took a toll on him. not many of his colleagues could boast that kind of luck –and it was obvious most of them were jealous that everything just came so easy to him.

they had to sacrifice every drop of sweat just to earn a spot in a job they weren't even sure they’d keep. and so did you, out of the sheer need to prove to yourself you could be better. that you could be pleasant to look at. that beauty could be a part of you, too.

so your mornings began before the sun dared to crack the horizon. while satoru was still tangled in the sheets –a warm, heavy weight beside you– you were already slipping out of bed. your feet would hit the cold floor, and the checklist would begin.

three liters of water. every. single. day. the first liter was gone before your neighbors even thought about brewing their coffee. it felt like cleansing, like purifying. flushing out the sins of the previous day, making space for a new one, untainted. you’d feel it slosh in your stomach as you pulled on your oldest running clothes, the ones that felt loose even after a 'bad' day.

then, the run. an hour straight. no matter the weather. rain, shine, or the icy bite of winter. your body screamed, muscles protesting, lungs burning, but your mind pushed harder. faster. longer. burn it all off.

your dedication made satoru set up a private workout area just for you (you wouldn’t touch a single dumbbell; you didn’t want to get big). he would needed it too someday, to keep those abs of his razor-sharp. it made it so much easier to track the calories burned on the machine. you knew the display never gave an exact number –only an estimate– so you always pushed yourself to do a little more, just in case. first it was 300, then 350. that climbed to 450, then 530, and once you hit 620, you decided that 700 was the only number that felt right.

once you hopped off, you’d stare at yourself in the mirror: your face an impossible shade of crimson, hair drenched as if you’d just stepped out of the shower, skin prickling with goosebumps –and that disgusting, flabby fat that just wouldn't go away.

which is why the walking came afterward. two hours. sometimes you’d wander through quiet parks, sometimes through the bustling city. your phone would be tucked away, music unheard, your focus solely on the rhythm of your feet hitting the pavement. left, right, left, right.

it was so easy. why did people find it so hard to exercise? merely excuses. where there’s a will, there’s a way –and you wanted this more than anything else in the world. it was exhausting, it drained your energy, but you knew the long-term reward would be sweeter than any of the candies you were missing out on right now.

you'd get back to the apartment, heart still hammering, and satoru would be awake, often making coffee. he’d glance up, those bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "morning, sleepyhead! you're up early again. training for a marathon?" he'd tease, already pouring you a mug.

"just enjoying the morning air." you’d deflect, shaking your head at the coffee. "black. no sugar. no milk, please."

he’d huff, amused. "have fun getting all jittery."

at work, he’d drop by your office to leave you a couple of kisses along with a bag of glazed donuts from ‘bontemps’ and a hot chocolate to sweeten your morning. but it was too sweet, jesus. how could he not know? did his taste buds never get tired of that cloying, syrupy taste? you’d end up giving it all away to your boss and the editing team.

seeds became your best friends.

you would spend an hour cracking the shells with your teeth, the salt stinging the small fissures in your lips and the raw spots on your tongue. you would stir a single teaspoon into a massive bottle of water. you’d watch them swell into gelatinous, grey orbs. you’d drink the sludge, feeling the slimy texture slide down your throat. you would count them out in multiples of three or seven. you’d bite them in half, meticulously peeling away the green skin, turning a five-minute snack into a forty-minute ordeal.

it kept your mouth busy and your brain was tricked into thinking you’d had a full meal, even though you’d consumed almost nothing.

that 'almost' was still something –just enough to keep you functioning through your daily routine. and that 'something' was meticulously jotted down in a notebook specifically made for tracking your daily intake.

breakfast:

1 large black coffee (2 kcal - remember!! beans contain natural oils)

3 pomegranate seeds (1 kcal)

lunch:

1.5 liters of cold water mixed with 1 teaspoon of chia seeds (20 kcal)

40g white fish (cod or sea bass). steamed with no oil, no butter, and no salt. (15 kcal)

50ml miso soup. no tofu, no seaweed, just broth. (10 kcal)

12 sunflower seeds (18 kcal)

dinner:

10 pumpkin seeds (15 kcal)

1 cup of ice shavings (0 kcal)

½ liter of water (0 kcal)

midnight:

1 liter of water (0 kcal)

estimated intake: 81 kcal

it was no longer about eating for pleasure, but something that helped you get by. and for a while, it worked –quite well, actually. but of course, having satoru gojo as a boyfriend tended to get in the way of that kind of 'progress'.

he loved going out. "let's try that new ramen place, babe! i heard they have the best tonkotsu broth!" he’d suggest, pulling you from your laptop. his warmth a comforting, yet terrifying, presence. his arm would wrap around your waist, and you’d instinctively suck in, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but one you were acutely aware of.

at dinner, you'd sit across from him, watching him slurp noodles with gusto, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. he'd offer you a piece of his chashu pork. "just try it! it’s amazing!"

you’d take a bite. one. a single, small, polite bite. and in that moment, two things would happen simultaneously. the first: a genuine pleasure. the flavor would explode on your tongue, rich and savory, a taste your body craved with every starving cell. the second: the instant, overwhelming wave of guilt. it wouldn’t be long for that knot to tighten in your throat.

you’d push your own bowl around, making it look like you were eating, picking at a single noodle, moving a piece of nori. "it’s delicious, satoru, but i’m just not that hungry tonight. had a big lunch." the same old lie, served up with a convincing smile. he never questioned it, always just accepted, thinking you were a light eater, a graceful little bird compared to his insatiable appetite.

on weekends, when you spent the entire day together, lying was nearly impossible. you had to fall back on an old trick you’d learned as a child for when you hated an ingredient: you’d start a pleasant conversation –which was easy with satoru, since he loved talking–, take a bite of whatever you were eating, grab a napkin to wipe your mouth, and the second he looked away, you’d spit the food into it and hide it in your pockets.

the clothes were filthy, but your conscience remained spotless.

some days were worse than others. the binge days. the days when the hunger, the restriction, the sheer exhaustion would snap something inside you. it usually happened when satoru was busy –at a photoshoot, negotiating new contracts, doing interviews. you didn’t even have the time or the headspace to get jealous.

you’d find yourself by the refrigerator light, in the kitchen, grabbing anything, everything. cookies, chips, yesterday’s leftover takeout, bread, jam, sweets satoru had forgotten about. the food wouldn’t even taste good anymore. it was just a frantic, desperate stuffing, a void you were trying to fill, a frantic scramble for comfort that always, always ended in deeper despair.

you’d eat until your stomach ached, until you felt distended, sick. the physical pain was a perverse comfort, a punishment for your failure. and then, the shame would crash over you, hot and suffocating. the shame would drown out everything else. the miles you’d run, the water you’d drunk, the hunger you’d endured –all wasted. all ruined.

that’s when the other compulsion would kick in. the one thing you hated above all else.

the purging.

you’d lock yourself in the bathroom. the tiles were cold; the porcelain of the toilet was even colder. but your throat burned, and as you crouched there, bile rose through your nose and you let it all out in stages. tears would stream down your face, not from the physical discomfort, but from the abject self-hatred.

even puking took practice: the first time, you’d done it in the sink, and there was so much waste that it flooded. took you nearly forty minutes to drain and unclog it, and another twenty scrubbing it with bleach. you started using the handle of your toothbrush instead of your fingers; your knuckles had grown calloused, the skin was peeling, and they were red spots.

sometimes satoru would be asleep in the next room. sometimes he’d be out. but he’d always be oblivious. not because he didn’t care, but because he saw you through the rose-colored lens of his own boundless affection.

you’d always make sure to turn on the faucet, let the water run loud enough to mask the sounds. you’d wipe down everything meticulously afterward, spray air freshener, brush your teeth until your gums ached. erase all traces. pretend it never happened.

those days, the next morning’s run would be even more brutal. an extra mile. an extra thirty minutes.

other days, the eating was compulsive but didn’t lead to purging. those were the days you’d just eat, and eat, and eat, until you were physically unable to move, and then collapse into bed, the food a heavy, immovable weight in your gut. no purging. just the crushing weight of physical fullness and mental failure. and the next morning, the ritual would begin anew, intensified, a penance for your perceived weakness.

you’d cry for two hours straight –sometimes loudly, sometimes in silence, depending on where you were– but that disgusting feeling followed you even after you’d finished your workout for the day.

he started buying you food even more often.

he’d leave little snacks on your desk when you were working. a bag of expensive artisanal potato chips because you once mentioned liking salt. a tiny, perfect brownie because he thought you had a sweet tooth just like him.

"just something for later!" he’d hum, ruffling your hair, his touch sending a jolt through you that had nothing to do with hunger.

you’d smile, thank him, your heart aching with a complicated mix of love and despair. the snacks would sit there, sometimes for days. untouched. a monument to his affection, and to your unspoken struggle. sometimes, when he was looking, you’d eat a single chip, just to reassure him, to pretend. and then you’d make a mental note to add an extra five minutes to your walk tomorrow.

to celebrate your anniversary, satoru cooked apple and honey curry –his favorite meal ever. a rich curry, fragrant and steaming. a perfectly seared steak, glistening with juices. he watched you with those bright, naive blue eyes. anticipation clear in his gaze.

"so? how is it? did i nail it?" he’d ask, leaning forward, eager for your approval.

you’d take a bite, a tiny one, savoring the complex flavors that your starved body screamed for. "it’s incredible, satoru. really, really good." and it was. it truly was. but the words were choked by the rising panic in your throat. too much oil. too much fat. too many calories.

you’d manage a few more polite bites, enough to appease him, before pushing the plate away. "i’m so full. you’re such a good cook, satoru. i couldn’t eat another bite."

he’d pout, a ridiculously endearing expression on his handsome face. "aw, come on! i made so much! don't tell me you're getting full after just a few bites." he’d nudge the plate back towards you, his concern genuine. "you need to eat more, sweetcheeks. you're too skinny." his voice laced with gentle worry.

sweetcheeks. skinny. the first part was true: the fat on your cheeks refused to budge. the second part was a lie: there was still so much left on your arms, on your stomach –which only looked worse when you sat down. would it ever go away? would anything ever be enough?

you’d force a laugh, light and airy. "nonsense! i’m perfectly healthy. just didn’t tell you i’ve had a stomach bug this week, and the doctor told me not to eat anything too heavy. you know, just lots of fluids to make up for what i've lost and all that."

he'd frown, a fleeting shadow across his bright face. he never lingered on it, always brushing it off, always moving on to the next playful tease or a new campaign. but you saw it. you saw the flicker of concern, the tiny questions forming behind those brilliant cyan eyes. he just didn't have the language for it, nor the context.

the truth was, you had lost weight (39kg your current). there were no scales at home, but at work, they were everywhere. numbers had become just that –just numbers–, because you couldn't see a single difference. you didn't even know where the weight had gone, because you still looked terrible. and it wasn't just your huge, wide, shapeless body; it was the insulting features of your now-haggard face.

when you were showering, or when you thought he was distracted by a game on his phone, you’d check. your collarbones, your ribs, the sharp angles of your hips. you’d lean into the mirror, your breath fogging the glass, and stare at the angry, red pimples blooming along your jaw. you had denied yourself every drop of fat, every gram of sugar, yet there was your skin, slick with a desperate, sickly grease. you felt like a swamp. every blemish was a physical manifestation of the filth you felt inside, a filth that no amount of concealer or cold water could wash away.

you’d check the lines on your neck. the right side of your face more prominent than the left. the threatening expression lines on your brow and around your smile, which offered no mercy for your youth. your ears larger than you’d like. and your nose. your hideous, repellent, offensive nose. you hated it so much it made you uncomfortable just knowing it was there, breathing air that felt contaminated simply by being exposed to it.

satoru wouldn’t let you spend a single yen of your own money, but if you told him you wanted to remove a couple of ribs or get surgery, he’d likely give you a lecture on self-love and beauty from his place of privilege, and it would end in a massive fight. so, you could only save what you earned to do it yourself –to get rid of those poorly made burdens (they weren’t even flaws).

but for now, you had to do something to improve. to walk the streets and move among people without shame. how could you deal with others if your deformity was going to distract them from your skills?

the answer was those facial massages you’d found online for asymmetry, those tactical breathing exercises for your abdomen, and using tape to correct your monstrous nose. or pressing hard on the bridge, the nostrils, pushing up the tip to alter it even by a few millimeters.

you did it every single time you remembered.

and because of your repulsive appearance, you and satoru had stopped having sex. at first, you asked to do it in the dark; then, in the dark with your clothes still on. but now, the excuse was that you were too exhausted from cardio and workload to even have blood flow in your genitals. he didn't protest. he just gave you space, thinking it was something temporary. but he was starting to notice that all physical contact was slowly fading away.

one night, you were lying in bed, tangled in his arms. his breath was warm on your neck, his steady heartbeat a lullaby against your ear. you felt small, safe, cherished. it was one of the rare moments when the voice in your head was quiet, momentarily drowned out by the sheer force of his presence.

he kissed your hair, then your temple. "you know, love," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, "i sometimes worry about you."

your heart stopped.

"worry about what?" you managed, your voice barely a whisper, pretending to be sleepy.

he shifted, pulling you closer. "just… you’re so delicate. always so quiet with your food. and you’re always running and walking. are you sure you’re getting enough rest? enough energy?" he squeezed you gently. "i just want you to be healthy, you know? strong. like me." he chuckled softly. "you should eat more cake. cake makes everything better."

he drifted back to sleep then, his worry appeased, his mind moving on. but you’d lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, the words echoing in your mind.

the next morning, you woke up before him as usual, the internal alarm already blaring. but then, something happened that hadn't been usual –or at least, not conscious: you found long strands of your hair on your pillows, on your sweaters, in his hands. and your shower drain became a graveyard of clumps –which was ironic, because your body started to grow a fine, peach-fuzz hair over your face, neck, and back (you’d shave, of course).

days later, while checking the calendar for casting calls, you realized your period was a full month late –and the possibility of pregnancy was definitely out of the question. a doctor’s visit would mean facing uncomfortable questions you’d rather avoid, so for now, you’d just wait for it to come back.

it was a stroke of luck that satoru was away on a business trip to paris.

one afternoon, as you watched a live broadcast where he appeared with his spectacular aura and unmatched elegance, you were pedaling on the spinbike you’d insisted on install in your bedroom for your 'convenience' –though, in truth, it was so you wouldn't waste a single moment in bed that could be spent staying active. that's when you noticed her on his arm: a woman nicknamed ‘mei mei’. nothing out of the ordinary, just a gentlemanly gesture, but it made your throat tighten until you could no longer breathe, let alone continue.

you added an extra fifteen minutes to the walk. you drank your three liters of water, feeling the cold liquid fill the emptiness. you felt a desperate, almost manic energy. you weren’t working hard enough. you weren’t enough. nothing was enough.

as you ran at full tilt, you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to disappear. would it feel as light as floating in water, or in the air, like a cloud decomposing into particles? no. it would feel like having your thinned-out blood sucked away for 166 minutes by roughly five hundred 10mL syringes, only to be inflated of helium with an electric pump.

maybe that would be for the best. to lose weight until there was nothing left. to disappear from every plane of existence. this was looming far above you.

and you knew it because of the cramps that seized your muscles the moment you stepped onto the treadmill –cramps you tried your best to ignore. you knew it because of the sharp sensitivity in your teeth whenever you drank cold water or chewed on ice. you knew it by the way your heart tugged and faltered, a result of cardiac wasting and a body with no energy reserves left. you knew it by the way your vision went black every time you stood up. you knew it by your hormones misfiring, by your swollen glands, by your estrogen crashing, by your nails thin as wet paper.

your body was so starved of nutrients that it had forgotten how to regulate itself. it was just recycling enough protein to keep you upright. your brain decided that ‘luxury’ systems –reproduction, vanity, and bone density– were no longer worth the energy.

satoru came home with an ispahan from pierre hermé.

"this is for my wonderful, precious girl, whom i missed so much i was on the verge of throwing myself off the eiffel tower screaming her name." he placed the dessert on the table, leaving a wide-open velvet box beside it, showcasing a pair of exquisite diamond and white gold earrings. "and these are for making you miss me. baby, what happened?"

your nose was bandaged. the night before, you’d collapsed in front of the mirror. the discomfort with your nose had escalated to the point where those obsessive pressures turned into small blows; you had ended up striking it with such force that, while it didn't break, it bled and began to swell. now, it looked even worse. you hated it. you hated that motherfucking bitch.

"i’m fine, babe. i was picking some things up under the shelf, misjudged the distance, and bumped my head." you lied. once again. each day it became easier, and yet more impossible to tell where the truth even began.

"my poor little blossom." he said with that effortless smile. "you're still the prettiest thing in this room, even with a little bump. wait– did you gain some weight? that’s fantastic!"

no, you hadn't gained weight. you were wearing three extra layers of clothing underneath to disguise your skeletal frame –and to keep yourself from freezing.

from that day on, no matter how many layers you wore, no matter how high satoru cranked the heat in the house, your blood felt like slush. you were a creature of winter living with a man who was a permanent summer.

when he pulled you against him at night, his skin was always radiating that effortless heat, and you would press your freezing nose into the crook of his neck, shivering.

"you're like an ice cube, honey." he’d mumble, rubbing your arms to warm you up. "are you getting sick? do i need to get a doctor?"

"just poor circulation," you’d whisper into his skin. "i’m fine. go back to sleep."

thursday was ‘new dessert day’. satoru had made it a rule.

every thursday, he would hunt down the most elusive, high-calorie, sugar-dusted treat in tokyo and bring it home like a trophy.

he came through the door at 7 pm, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses, a white box held aloft. "victory is mine!" he announced, his voice echoing off the walls. "cream-filled croissants from that bakery in ginza. the ones that sell out by 10 am. i had to pull some serious favors for these."

your stomach didn't growl. it shriveled.

you were exhausted. you were starving. you were terrified.

"they look amazing, satoru." you said, your voice steady despite the way your heart was leaping in your throat.

"they don't just look amazing. they’re life-changing." he opened the box. the scent hit you like a physical blow –butter, yeast, toasted almonds, and heavy, sweet cream. it was the smell of everything you had denied yourself. the smell of failure.

he pulled one out, the pastry flaking perfectly under his fingers, and held it to your mouth. "first bite goes to the girl of my dreams."

you looked at the croissant. you looked at the cream oozing from the side. you could practically see the numbers –the calories, the grams of fat– floating in the air around it like a curse.

if you ate it, you’d have to run another hour. you’d have to walk until midnight. or, worse. you’d eat it, and then you wouldn’t be able to stop. you’d eat his, too. you’d eat the whole box. you’d tear through the pantry until there was nothing left but crumbs and a burning, acidic shame in your throat.

"i... i have a headache, satoru." you lied, stepping back. "the smell is a little too much for me right now."

the smile on his face didn't drop, but it shifted just a fraction. "another migraine? it’s probably because you haven't eaten. this will make you feel better, you’ll see."

"i don’t think so. i think i need to just lay down in the dark."

he set the croissant back in the box. he didn't eat it. he just stood there, his long shadow stretching across the kitchen floor. "someone from work told me you haven't been in all week because you’re feeling unwell. suguru told me he heard you throwing up the other day. tell me what’s going on. no bullshit." a pause. "are you pregnant? if you are, it means it’s not mine. because, as you know –besides stopping going out to dinner– we’ve stopped having sex."

you looked at him coldly. your voice matched your gaze. “i’m not in the mood for jokes, satoru. whatever argument this is, we can leave it for tomorrow. maybe i’ll feel better then."

you didn't feel better. you felt worse.

you woke up from hunger pangs. they were a dull ache, so sharp it felt like a blade twisting in your gut.

satoru was already gone –an interview in sendai– and the house was quiet. the white box was still in the fridge.

you told yourself you’d just look at them. then you told yourself you’d just smell them.

ten minutes later, you were sitting on the kitchen floor, the box empty. the butter was a film on your lips. the cream was a heavy, sickening weight in your stomach. you hadn't even chewed; you had just swallowed, frantic and animalistic, tears streaming down your face because you knew what came next. you knew the cycle.

thank heavens you’d covered all the mirrors. you couldn't stand another minute looking at your loathsome reflection, only to turn around and see the paragons satoru posed with on tv. you couldn’t even look at the photos your sister posted on instagram anymore.

toothbrush handle down your throat. gastric juices in the toilet. faucet running. bleach on the porcelain. the only pipes the food he bought ever traveled through were the ones in the plumbing.

it was fucking exhausting. and the bulge in your belly was still there. little did you know, the food just sat there, rotting and fermenting, because your digestion had slowed to a crawl. it caused agonizing bloating that made you look, in fact, pregnant.

with your face pale and your eyes bloodshot, you dressed in your running gear. you had to fix it. you had to erase the box. you had to erase the morning.

you only lasted twenty-five minutes before the air felt too thin to fill your lungs. your airway had suddenly closed up, and the gasps you pulled in were of no help. you stepped down with that same ache in your calves and knees –ligaments worn thin from so much impact. your heart gave a strange, fluttering kick.

it was fine. you were fine. you just needed a moment to compose yourself. maybe you could stabilize in the bathroom, flushing out the liters of water you had just gulped down.

sitting down made you feel better. momentarily. your breathing regulated and the dizziness dissipated. you didn't know how long you sat there, composing yourself, but you knew it was time to get up and keep going.

you couldn’t.

you finished, your hand reaching for the metal latch on the door. you tried to push yourself up from the seat. you gripped the handrail.

stand up, you commanded yourself. just stand.

you pushed. you felt the muscles in your thighs strain, but there was no power there. it felt like trying to lift a building with toothpicks. your knees shook with a violent, rhythmic tremor, knocking together as they gave out. you slumped back down, the impact jarring through your spine, leaving you breathless.

you sat there, staring at your legs. they were a mottled, sickly purple-blue, the skin marbled by the cold and the lack of blood. you looked at your hands. they were shaking so hard you couldn't even keep them flat against your lap.

"come on," you whispered, your voice a dry, pathetic rasp. "just get up."

you tried again, putting everything you had into your arms. you managed to get halfway, your body hovering in the air, your vision spinning with black spots. you could feel the cold sweat breaking out across your forehead, the ‘oily’ feeling you hated so much slicking your skin. then, your elbows simply buckled.

you didn't just sit back down this time. your foot slipped on the smooth slate floor, and you tumbled sideways, your shoulder hitting the toilet paper dispenser with a loud, hollow crack. you ended up on the floor, your face pressed against the cold stone, your legs tangled beneath you like a broken marionette.

you tried to crawl, to reach for the door, but your arms felt like they were filled with lead. you couldn't even lift your chest off the ground.

the front door opened.

"i’m home." satoru said, his voice flat. this time, without food.

you didn't even try to get up again. you knew you couldn't. your body had failed you. it was still failing you, just as it had all these years. it wasn't fair. you, who had pushed yourself so hard, who had dedicated yourself like no one else ever had, were now further down than where you started.

you began to whine. first, a pitiful, muffled sound. then, a pained howl, as gut-wrenching as your still-lacerated throat would allow. it was the only effort your body would permit: a plea for help.

heavy, frantic footsteps rushed down the hallway, and the bathroom door swung open, revealing satoru. his face twisted in horror at the sight.

“i can’t get up, satoru.” you wailed, trying to pull your legs in to protect yourself from the cold. your entire body was trembling, shaking as if you were seizing.

satoru’s stomach lurched. the air in the bathroom turned stale and heavy, tasting of the iron in his own blood as he bit his tongue to keep from retching. he felt a sickening, dizzying vertigo, as if the floor had dropped away.

he stared with a panicked, wide-eyed incomprehension. to him, the person on the floor was no longer recognizable as the woman he shared a bed with.

your collarbones jutted like the cracked handlebars of a bicycle. the hollows above them were so deep the skin looked painted on, stretched and bluish, clinging to bone instead of flesh. your sternum rose sharp under paper skin every time your lungs jerked for air.

you could count the individual ribs from across the room –not just the bottom ones, but all of them, marching up your chest like the rungs of a ladder no one would ever climb again. your elbows looked obscene, two protrusions threatening to tear through.

wrists so narrow he could’ve circled them with thumb and middle finger and had room left over. thighs had collapsed inward until the space between them was wider than the legs themselves; inner didn’t even touch anymore, just two parallel lines of tendon and shadow. your kneecaps bulged forward like doorknobs. ankles looked ready to snap under nothing.

the weight he thought you’d gained turned out to be nothing more than a prosthesis.

“i can’t get up, satoru.” you keened again.

the discovery hit him like a bucket of ice water. deep down –very deep down– he already knew; he just hadn't dared to face it, and now, he couldn’t unsee it anymore.

defenceless didn’t even begin to cover it. you looked taxidermied.

satoru took one step forward and stopped again.

“…god.” he breathed. the word cracked in half. he dropped to his knees so hard the sound bounced off the walls.

his hands hovered over you, shaking. the fine tremor of someone trying not to touch something fragile and failing to decide where it’s even safe to begin. he didn't know how to lift something that felt like it would dissolve into dust if he applied the slightest pressure.

he looked at your face last –he was afraid of what he’d find there. your cheeks were sunken into shadowed pits; your eyes looked enormous in the ruin of your skull, too big, too alive for the rest of you. lips cracked and bloodless. the tip of your nose red from cold and friction against the floor.

he finally touched you, sliding his hands under your armpits to lift you, and the physical reality of it nearly leveled him. you didn't weigh anything. you were just a collection of hard, angular edges. he could feel every single vertebra of your spine against his forearm.

"i'm here. i've got you." he rasped, his voice thick with a suffocating, ugly grief. he pulled you against his chest, but there was no comfort in it; he was too large, too much, and you were so small that he felt like he was crushing you just by holding you.

guilt arrived in waves so ferocious they blurred his vision, each one carrying the same vicious question: how many nights had he slept soundly while your body ate itself to stay alive? he wanted to scream, to roar, to weep, to kick and thrash –to tear down every last inch of reinforced concrete in that godforsaken house until there wasn't a single grain left for an ant to tread on; but if he let go even for a second, you might simply unravel into nothing he could ever pull back.

"i didn’t finish my miles." you whimpered, huddling against him.

satoru discreetly wiped away his tears with your fine hair, which frayed into a few loose strands with that simple movement.

"it’s okay, sweetheart," he rocked you, fighting the crack in his voice. “we’ll finish them later.”

the first two weeks were spent in a high-security medical wing, far away from the flashing lights of the runway. doctor yuta okkotsu took over as the primary overseer.

"your heart is the size of a withered plum." yuta told you as he pointed to an EKG monitor. "if we give you a full meal right now, the shift in your electrolytes will stop your heart in ten minutes. it's called refeeding syndrome, and i won't let you die for a 100-calorie mistake."

he pressed a finger into the skin of your forearm. it stayed indented for a few seconds, a sign of how badly your body was struggling to hold onto fluid.

"look at this. your body is eating its own connective tissue."

he moved to the end of the bed and pulled back the blanket to check your feet. they were a sickly, mottled purple-blue from poor circulation. satoru flinched as if he’d been struck. he leaned forward, his face inches from your bruised, cold skin, his hand tightening around yours.

"does it hurt?" satoru asked, his voice barely a whisper. he wasn't asking yuta. he was looking at you.

"everything hurts when you're this thin." yuta answered for you, his voice softening just a fraction. "even the weight of the sheets feels like lead on her bones."

you were placed on a refeeding protocol. it began with a nasogastric tube –a thin, clear straw that threaded through your nose and down into your stomach. for a week, you didn't ‘eat’ at all; you were fed a specialized, liquid-gold formula at a slow, drip-fed rate. every drop was a calorie you couldn't count, a muchness you couldn't purge.

satoru sat by your bed every single day. he’d cleared his schedule –a move that sent shudders through the modeling industry, but he didn't care.

he didn't bring fashion magazines anymore. he brought books on architecture and ancient history, things that had nothing to do with bodies. he watched the bags of potassium and magnesium drip into your veins to repair the chemical havoc your three-liter water binges had caused.

one day, he didn’t bring anything aside from shame.

"hey, so, i called your mom. she said she couldn’t make it... she’s been too busy."

you knew it was a lie. she never really cared how you were doing. it was always just easier for her to walk away than to actually be there for you.

"your dad’s probably on his way. he saw my messages a few hours ago."

a weak huff escaped you instead of the mocking laugh you intended. your dad had abandoned his own sick mother; you couldn't expect any better.

"i don’t know how to do this. i mean– i don’t know how to apologize. you’ve deserved a proper apology for a long time now, and i… i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry." he choked out, the first sob breaking through. "i was so focused on the agency, on the lights... i was so blind, baby. the signs were all there. you wouldn't let me touch you, you wouldn't let me look at you... there was no warmth left in your body. and i had the nerve to question your loyalty. i’m such a jackass. i didn't see you disappearing right in front of me."

he slid off the chair and buried his face in the mattress near your hand. he didn't care about his dignity or the nurses passing by the glass door.

"i saw you picking at your food and i thought you were just stressed. i saw you getting thinner and i told myself it was just the 'model aesthetic' of the office rubbing off. i even joked about how much you loved that bitter coffee." he gripped the bedsheets, his knuckles white. "i failed you. i’m such a failure."

you looked down out of the corner of your eye, then up at the ceiling. you understood that guilt; you’d felt it too. a single tear tracked slowly down your temple, vanishing into the pillow of the stretcher.

"please," he begged, his voice desperate. "forgive me for being so selfishly perfect that i made you feel imperfect. i don’t want a masterpiece. i don’t want perfection. i just want you to breathe. and i know i’m being selfish again, asking for this on top of your forgiveness, but i want you. i want you to be okay. i want you to eat, to enjoy your food... i want you to be heavy. i want you to stay."

he reached out and very gently pressed his forehead against your hand, his tears wetting your skin.

it was the first drop of bodily fluid to touch your skin in months that wasn't your own vomit.

when the tube was finally removed and you were allowed your first solid meal –a single piece of steamed salmon, a small scoop of rice and a slice of yokan– you stared at it for an hour.

"i can't." you muttered. you pushed your back against the pillows, trying to create distance between yourself and the tray. "satoru, take it away."

satoru didn't move the tray. he leaned in closer, his chair scraping the floor. he didn't look at the food; he looked at your eyes, the way you dissociated just to escape reality, since you couldn’t get up and run for the exit.

"just a few ounces, honey." he said calmly, but there was an undertone of powerlessness he couldn't hide. "just the bowl."

he placed his hand over yours. his skin was warm –terrifyingly warm compared to your own– and he didn't pull away when you tried to flinch.

"i don't want to be heavy," you sobbed. "i don't want to be here."

he reached for the plastic bowl with a slow, deliberate motion.

"i know you don't," he said, and for a second, his voice broke. he cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay grounded. "i know it feels like you're losing. i know it feels like this stuff is going to ruin everything you’ve worked for, but y’know what? your brain is lying to you. you are now working for staying alive, right? i know how much you love working for what you want, how dedicated you are once you set your mind to something. and right now... we’re just focusing on making sure you don't disappear. i want to share more things with you... things that aren't just memories."

he picked up the small plastic spoon the nurse had left, dipped it into the rice, and held it near your lips.

"one bite." he said. "not the whole thing. just one. i’m right here. i’m holding the bowl. if you feel like you're falling, i’ve got you. but you have to do this."

you looked at him –at the red in his eyes and the way his hand was shaking just as much as yours was. the jealousy of his perfection was still there, a bitter coal in your gut, but the look of absolute, unvarnished fear on his face was stronger.

you opened your mouth, just a crack. the grains were heavy and coated your tongue like lead. you chewed, then swallowed, and for a moment, the world felt like it was tilting. you waited for the starchy feeling to consume you, for the weight to crush you.

satoru watched your throat move. he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a lifetime. he didn't cheer; he didn't make a scene. he just dipped the spoon again.

"again." he whispered. "just one more. you're doing it. you're still here."

doctor okkotsu prescribed a regimen of fluoxetine and low-dose anti-anxiety medication. the pills weren't meant to make you happy; they were meant to put a ‘buffer’ between you and the obsessive thoughts.

"is this it?" he asked yuta. "we just give her this, and she stops seeing a monster in the mirror?"

yuta didn't look up from his chart. his silence was a heavy, suffocating thing. "no, mr. gojo. the medicine just lowers the volume of the noise. it doesn't turn it off. right now, her brain is so starved it's essentially short-circuiting. fluoxetine is just a placeholder until we can get enough fat back into her system to let her neurons actually fire."

"she told me she felt enormous today." satoru whispered, his eyes stinging. "she’s nothing but bone and shadow, and she felt enormous. how does a pill fix that?"

"it doesn't." yuta said, finally looking at him. "only therapy and time. medicine just keeps her from jumping out of her own skin while we wait for her mind to catch up to the reality of her body."

once you were physically stable enough to walk, therapy began. satoru was invited into some of the sessions, where he had to face the reality of the world he lived in.

he had to listen to you describe the runway show, the paparazzi, and the jealousy you felt toward him, your sister and the models. he had to hear how his own perfection had felt like a weapon used against you. he also had to see the notebook you used to track what you ate. it was emptier than the days he went without sugar.

his role became one of ‘active support’. under the therapist's guidance, he performed exposure therapy with you. it started small. one afternoon, he brought a single almond.

you stared at it for twenty minutes. 0.6g of fats, 0.5 of protein and carbs, 7 total calories.

"it's just an almond, baby." satoru whispered. "it’s not a picasso. it’s just fuel. eat it for me. or better yet, eat it so you can stay here with me. i promise you won’t pull a marge dursley."

you laughed and ate it. actually ate it –no napkins, no tricks. you didn't float away.

satoru had deleted every wallpaper from his phone. he’d taken down the posters and stopped showing off his perfection. that part had been relatively easy –but telling you about his day was more complicated. he couldn't help it, even though he practiced exactly what to say to you the entire way home.

eight months later, he found you looking at a fashion magazine. he tensed, ready to take it away, but you stopped him.

"you know?” you said, flipping through the pages without stopping on any one in particular. “i saved up a lot of money for surgeries. i’m not so sure i want to spend it on that anymore."

he smirked, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. flesh was starting to build up there.

"good, ‘cause you’re buying me an extra super double shortcake from satsuki once we’re better. it’s non-negotiable."

satoru looked at the calendar. it had been seven years since he’d found you on the bathroom floor. seven years of therapy, of bitter arguments over supplement shakes, and of yuta’s cold, clinical progress reports.

therapy had stopped being an obligation to heal and had become a safe space where you could say every single thing that crossed your mind without feeling judged. sure, you had your fiancé, but his heart-eyes didn’t exactly allow him to be objective with you.

still, thanks to those heart-eyes, you’d found the motivation to reach your potential. his compliments had shifted from an impossible expectation you couldn't meet to the push you needed to try just a little harder.

and of course, he’d also become something of a personal trainer to you. the only thing you looked at in the mirror now were those jaw-dropping quads starting to show on your strong, resilient legs –not to mention those arms that could now lift satoru’s entire weight.

every day had been a victory. a congratulations just for still being there.

"want some coffee, darling?" he asked.

the walk to blue bottle was an experience. the streets were still the same –the same glass buildings, the same drifting models, the same dazzling shibuya sun–, but the air felt different this time. you weren't trying to shrink your shadow to hide behind his. you were walking with your shoulders back, the weight of your body feeling like an anchor rather than a burden.

"table for two." satoru said to the host, his voice bright. as bright as your reflection got caught in his dark glasses.

when the waiter arrived, you didn't reach for the menu to scan for the lowest numbers. you looked at that item –your absolute favorite–, the one you hadn't eaten since the first time you two met.

"two purin a la mode," you said. your voice didn't shake. "and two lattes. whole milk."

satoru’s grin was blinding –a genuine, messy thing that no runway photographer could ever truly capture. "make mine extra sweet." he added, winking at you.

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