She met you when you got dizzy and nearly fainted at a high-end wine tasting because you hadn’t eaten all day. You were laughing it off. She was already opening a granola bar from her purse.

Your friend introduced you casually. Liane didn’t say much.

She just said:

“You don’t have to keep yourself small to be loved, baby. Now open your mouth.”

You rolled your eyes. She smiled. You said “I’m not your responsibility.” She said “Too late.”

⸻

You’re mid-meltdown.

Shoes kicked across the room. Hair a mess. Your voice is cracking and your fists are clenched and you just screamed something like “Why are you even with me?!”

Liane’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with soft eyes.

She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t lecture.

When you finally fall quiet, pacing and heaving like a storm about to break again, she pushes off the frame. Walks across the room. Opens the mini fridge.

“Strawberries or mango slices?”

You glare at her.

“I’m literally losing my mind.”

She shrugs.

“Okay. So lose it. But not your blood sugar.” She hands you a plate. “Throw it at me if you want. But take one bite first.”

You want to yell. You really do. But instead you’re just standing there, breath shaky, chewing mango while she brushes your hair out of your face.

“You can fall apart, sweetheart. But not on an empty stomach.”