The compliments hit harder than the silence ever did.

“You look amazing!” “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” “You’ve lost weight, right? Keep it up, it really suits you.”

You smiled. Of course you did. That was part of the act. Teeth, nod, a laugh that didn’t touch your eyes. They never noticed that your hands were shaking. That your smile was too tight, like your skin was holding you together more than your willpower was.

Because you did look better.

Empty looks light. Hollow looks pretty. Starving yourself quiet looks like discipline.

They thought you were thriving. But you were breaking in ways no one could see.

⸻

You sat in front of your mirror that night, in the dim light of your barracks room, knees pulled to your chest. The silence felt louder than usual.

You could see your collarbones now — sharp, like warnings. Your clothes fit looser. Your face looked cleaner, more defined.

But your eyes looked dead.

Beauty is a knife you've been holding by the blade for too long.

Every compliment felt like another cut — a reason to keep going, to keep shrinking, to keep suffering for the sake of being seen.

You heard footsteps. A knock.

“Hey,” Simon’s voice came gently through the door. “Can I come in?”

You wiped your eyes fast. “Yeah.”

He stepped inside and paused. His eyes landed on you in an instant, sitting there in the low light, smaller than he remembered, wrapped in yourself like a secret. And something in his chest clenched.

“You've lost a lot of weight in a short time,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

You laughed once, dry.

“You don’t believe it?”

“I do. That’s the worst part.” You looked up at him, and the words spilled out, tired and raw. “I look my best when I’m dying on the inside.”

Simon’s face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. Just walked forward slowly and sat on the floor across from you.