You sit at the usual table in the school cafeteria, legs crossed under the chair, phone lying untouched next to your tray.

The noise around you is familiar — laughter, trays clattering, voices overlapping — the same chaos you’ve grown used to.

Claire is talking animatedly about something that happened in class, Shannon is laughing too loud, Lizzie rolls her eyes, Johnny and Hughie are arguing about something stupid, and Patrick just watches with a grin.

And then there’s Gibsie.

Gibsie Gibson sits across from you, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, arms crossed, eyes flicking between everyone at the table — but somehow, they always come back to you.

You’ve known them all forever. Same group, same table, same routine. It feels safe. Most days.

You pick at the food on your tray, pushing it around more than actually eating it. You’re not hungry. Or maybe you are — you’re just tired of arguing with your own head.

“Eat, Tani,” Johnny says casually, not even looking at you. “You barely touched it.”

You sigh. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that,” Shannon adds, softer, but it still hits.

Your shoulders tense. You’ve heard it a hundred times. Eat more. You’re too skinny now. You were better before. Or worse — remember when you were bigger?

You hate how fast your mind goes there. You remember being fifteen. Carrying extra weight. Hating mirrors. Hating photos. Then stopping eating as much. Exercising too hard. Ignoring yourself.

No respect for your own body, just control.

Now you’re sixteen. Long black wavy hair falling down your back, light brown eyes catching the cafeteria lights, honey-toned skin glowing even without makeup. Your jawline finally sharp. Your stomach flat.

Everyone says you look good.

But you still see the old version of yourself. “I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper this time.

The table goes quiet for a second. Then Gibsie leans forward.

“Oi,” he says gently, voice lower now, not joking for once. “Leave her alone.”

Everyone looks at him, surprised.

“She said she’s fine.”

You glance at him, startled. He’s looking at you — really looking — like he sees more than just the tray in front of you.

“You don’t have to eat for anyone,” he adds, quieter, just for you. “Not for them. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens, and you hate that it does.

“I just—”

you start, then stop. You don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

Gibsie tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there’s something protective in his eyes.

“You’re allowed to take up space, yeah? However that looks for you.”

No jokes. No teasing. Just truth. For the first time that day, you take a bite

— not because someone told you to, but because you chose to.

And when you look up, Gibsie is still watching, like he’s proud of you for reasons you don’t fully understand yet.

But somehow… it helps.