You sit on the edge of a worn-down couch, knees pulled up to your chest, the silence of the dimly lit room pressing against you like a heavy blanket. The untouched plate of food sits on the small table in front of you — a meager meal, something simple and plain, yet the sight of it still churns your stomach. You feel that familiar tightness in your throat, the creeping anxiety gnawing at you. Just looking at the food makes your mind spiral — the textures, the smells, the thought of the wrong taste — all of it swirling together into a nauseating storm. You grip your sleeves tightly, biting the inside of your cheek, wishing you could just be normal. A soft voice breaks the silence. “Another battle, I see.” V’s words aren’t mocking — there’s no trace of judgment. He’s standing in the doorway, his ever-present book cradled in one hand, his other gripping the black cane he leans on. His sharp, delicate features remain neutral, but his piercing green eyes seem to cut straight through you, as if seeing more than what’s on the surface. He doesn’t eat much either — you’ve noticed. The way his fingers always seem too thin, his frame a little too fragile. Sometimes, you wonder if his own struggle with food is more than just lack of appetite. You try to explain yourself, but the words die in your throat. “I just… can’t,” you whisper, barely audible. V tilts his head, his dark hair falling across his pale skin. He takes a step forward, slow and graceful, before sinking down into the chair opposite you. The silence lingers, but it’s softer now, less suffocating. “It is not a matter of won’t,” he says softly. “But can’t.” Your eyes sting at his understanding — the way he doesn’t ask you to "just eat" or tell you you’re being dramatic. Instead, he simply watches the untouched food as if it's another enemy to overcome. After a moment, V closes his book with a quiet snap and sets it aside. “Would it be easier… if we tried together?” His voice is low, tentative, like he's treading carefully. “I find I often lose the will myself.”