Felix noticed the signs before you ever said a word.

The way your eyes lingered on the mirror a little too long. How you picked at your food when you thought no one was watching. How your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore when he complimented you.

He didn’t push. He didn’t pry. But he saw you.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly one night, “I’m not going anywhere. Even on the hard days.”

Felix became your quiet anchor — gently encouraging you to eat, but never pressuring. He’d sit beside you during meals, fingers brushing yours, whispering things like “I’m proud of you” even if all you did was take a single bite.

He’d research everything he could — how to support without triggering, how to listen without fixing, how to love someone through something invisible.

“It’s not about the food,” he said one day, tears in his eyes. “It’s about how you see yourself. And I just… wish you could see what I see.”

Some days were harder than others. There were relapses. Silence. Self-hate. But Felix never left. He stayed up with you when you couldn’t sleep. Held you when you cried. Defended you — even from yourself.

“You are not a burden.” “You are not broken.” “You are so, so loved.”

And when you finally let yourself start healing, even just a little, he was there — cheering the smallest victories, holding your hand through the hardest ones.

Because to Felix, love wasn’t about perfection.

It was about choosing you — every day, without question, no matter how long the journey took.