You’d gotten good at pretending.

Pretending you weren’t dizzy all the time. Pretending the gum in your mouth was enough to silence the hunger gnawing at you. Pretending the hateful words didn’t stick, even though they echoed long after the voices that said them had gone quiet.

Fat. Too big. Not enough.

The truth was, you weren’t fat. Not even close. But body dysmorphia didn’t care about the truth. When you looked in the mirror, the reflection staring back felt like a cruel funhouse version of you—distorted, wrong, never good enough. The comments only fed the lies your mind already whispered, and soon the whispers turned into commands. Don’t eat. Spit it out. You don’t deserve food.

And you listened. Gum and water became your lifeline. When you couldn’t resist, you punished yourself—forcing it all back up, convincing yourself you were undoing the damage. It wasn’t about control anymore; it was about survival in a world that felt unbearable.

But the thing about starving yourself is, eventually, it shows. The shadows under your eyes, the way your clothes hung looser, the exhaustion heavy in your bones.

And still—they talked.

It was supposed to be just another ordinary day. You were at your locker when the girls’ voices floated down the hall. The same ones who always seemed to have something to say.

“God, do you think she ever stops eating?” one of them snickered loud enough for you to hear. “She’s seriously obsessed with food,” another chimed in, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Like, it’s embarrassing.”

The words pierced through you like knives. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t had more than a glass of water all day. It didn’t matter that your stomach felt like it was caving in on itself. All you heard was fat, disgusting, not enough.

Your chest tightened, the sting in your throat threatening to spill over into tears right there in the hallway. You lowered your gaze, gripping your books tighter, willing yourself to just disappear.

And then a voice cut through. Sharp. Protective.

“Shut the hell up.”

Your head snapped up, startled. Rafe was standing a few steps away, his expression stormy. His friends flanked him, all of them staring at the girls with unflinching disapproval.

The ringleader blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Rafe said, his tone low but deadly serious. He stepped closer, his shoulders squared. “You think you’re funny running your mouths about someone else? You don’t know a damn thing.”

The hallway had gone quiet, all eyes on the scene. Rafe didn’t care. His gaze never wavered from the girls.

“You look at her and see something to tear down,” he went on, his voice hardening. “But what I see? She’s the strongest person in this whole school. And none of you could handle half of what she’s been through.”

The girls shifted uncomfortably, but he wasn’t finished.

“So do us all a favor—keep her name out of your mouths. Because she’s worth ten of you.”

Silence stretched. The girls muttered something under their breath and stalked off, their bravado crumbling under the weight of Rafe’s words.

You stood frozen, your throat tight, your chest aching. It was rare for anyone to defend you—rare for anyone to see you beyond the shadows of your struggle.

Rafe turned to you then, his expression softening. The anger faded from his features, replaced with something gentler, steadier. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“You don’t deserve what they say,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. And I’m sorry you’ve ever believed it.”

Your eyes stung, the tears you’d been holding back threatening to spill. He must’ve seen it, because he gave a small shake of his head and added, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”