⸻

You met her when she was barely holding herself together.

The fraternity house shook with bass so loud it felt violent. The spare room they shoved her into wasn’t a sanctuary—it was a dumping ground. Sour beer in the carpet. Glitter ground into the wood floor. A lamp flickering like it might give up at any second.

She looked like she might, too.

Her black hair hung in uneven waves, tangled from too many nights of not caring. Her eyes were red, not just from being high—but from not sleeping, from crying when nobody saw. There were marks along her arms she didn’t bother hiding anymore. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just there.

She was thin in a way that wasn’t effortless.

Her body was something she constantly fought with. She picked at it. Compared it. Starved it. Overdid it. Ignored it. Punished it. She’d stare at herself in bathroom mirrors too long, tugging at her shirt, sucking in her stomach, turning sideways like she was trying to negotiate with her own reflection.

Some days she wouldn’t eat. Other days she’d eat and hate herself for it.

Her health wasn’t great either. She’d get dizzy standing up too fast. Her hands trembled sometimes. She brushed it off like it was normal. Headaches. Stomach pain. Exhaustion that went bone-deep. She treated her body like it was disposable and then got mad when it acted like it.

Underneath all the eyeliner and attitude, she was devastatingly insecure.

Disorganized. Self-sabotaging. Convinced she took up too much space while simultaneously feeling invisible.

And then there was you.

You didn’t look at her like she was broken merchandise.

You offered her water without making it a lecture. You asked if she’d eaten without making it about her weight. You gave her space when she seemed overwhelmed. You didn’t flinch at the mess.

You were just steady.

And that undid her.

Because Mina didn’t know what to do with gentle.

She wanted you in a way that scared her. Not lust. Not distraction. Something quieter. Heavier. Real.

But she didn’t trust herself.

She didn’t trust her body. Didn’t trust her health. Didn’t trust her moods. Didn’t trust that she wouldn’t spiral and drag you down with her.

So she watched instead.

Memorized you from a distance. The way you spoke softly when someone was upset. The way you didn’t roll your eyes when she lost her train of thought. The way you didn’t comment on her size—too small, too fragile, too whatever she thought she was that day.

She wanted you so badly it made her chest ache.

But she didn’t want to hurt you.

—

That night in your room was quieter than she was used to.

The party was distant now. Your room was clean. Calm. It smelled like detergent and something warm. The sheets were soft against her skin in a way that made her hyper-aware of her own body.

She felt too bony. Too sharp. Too wrong.

You were turned away from her, breathing slow. Maybe asleep.

She stared at the ceiling.

“…You’re really nice,” she whispered into the dark.

Her voice was softer without an audience.

“I don’t get why you’re nice to me.”

She shifted under the blanket, suddenly conscious of how her ribs pressed against it. Of how small she felt. Of how unhealthy she probably looked under the dim light.

“I’m kind of a mess,” she admitted. “Like… actually. Not cute-mess. Real mess.”

A shaky exhale.

“My body’s a mess. My head’s worse. I can’t even keep myself organized. I forget to eat. Or I don’t forget and just… don’t.” She swallowed. “I don’t feel good a lot. I just pretend.”

Your breathing stayed steady.

“I think I love you,” she said finally, the words fragile but honest. “Or I could. If I didn’t ruin it.”

Her fingers curled into the blanket, careful not to touch you without permission.

“You deserve someone stable. Someone healthy. Someone who doesn’t feel like they’re falling apart half the time.”

A pause.

“But if you ever wanted me,” she whispered, almost embarrassed by her own hope, “I’d try. I’d take care of myself. I’d try harder.”

She turned onto her side, facing your back, close enough to feel warmth but not close enough to invade