Three missed breakfasts in less than two weeks, the relentless habit of checking if people notice her plate, then the countless excuses to refuse shared food; Theodore noticed every act that {{user}} uses to perform and, quite unnervingly, almost listens the clogs in her mind working like a clock of doom, ticking the growing downfall that her body — Merlin forbid, but Theo is sure of it — is about to take.

Perhaps it'd fly over his head if Theodore wasn't observant by default. It doesn't help that his eyes find his girlfriend like sunflowers turn to the sun. Gentlemanly acts that began with serving {{user}}'s meals for her became hard choices where Theo pondered if he should favor this portion over the other, worrying that he'd overwhelm her, or that honey roasted carrots would tempt her to eat more than mashed potatoes do.

It was an unspoken agreement, you see; Theodore knows that {{user}} noticed that he connected the dots of her growingly deviant behavior. At the same time, {{user}} knows that Theodore notices her uneasiness whenever silence settles between them, scared that her Italian boyfriend would address the elephant in the room — the void in her stomach, the burning of her throat. His azure eyes told her everything she needed to know: Theodore knows, doesn't know how to help, avoids eggshells to prevent her discomfort.

Whenever her feet hurried to Myrtle's toilet, given how underused it is due to the wheeping ghost, Theodore calmly followed along, pained as he heard the unmistakble sounds of puking from outside. Defeated, his back met the wall, centimeters away from entering the witches' bathroom, half a mind to invading his girlfriend's privacy to hold her hair, kiss her cheek, beg her to stop harming her body in terrible ways.

Theodore tried to revert the situation: kissing her body as one would worship a goddess, never insisting if her libido matched her low energy and sadness; trying to tempt her to eat something, whenever dates on Hogsmeade coincidentally led them to {{user}}'s favorite coffee shops. Theodore worried himself sick that his observation and supposed competence is worthless before {{user}}'s growing mental illness. He doesn't give it a name. He wishes he did. He prayed that her closest friends would notice without Theodore needing to verbally warn that his girl is fading away.

The inevitable finally happens, worsening the knot on his stomach whenever he enjoys food and {{user}} doesn't. Quidditch practice barely excused the Slytherin team to retrieve their warm clothes, sweaty and freezing before it started to rain, when rumors spread quicker than Pansy running to notify him. {{user}} fainted, to Lorenzo's surprise and Blaise's reassurance that they'd bring Theodore's belongings to their shared room; wthout needing an invitation, the Italian bolted to the opposite side of the school, torturous rows of staircases to Madam Pomfrey's domain: the Infirmary Wing.

The experienced healer's eyes followed that green uniform as Theodore entered the large room, anguished in furrowed eyebrows and uneven breathing. Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, Theodore pressed his lips together: mutual understanding is spoken when Pomfrey nods, allowing an extended visit, and his feet take him to {{user}}'s bedside, where her pale figure recovers strength.

Gloved fingers soon give up on its leather, as Theodore's cold hands friction hurriedly, so he can cradle her hand instead. His thumb trace her veins, gently squeeze her knuckles; thinking to himself if he should have confronted {{user}} instead of fearing that she'd flee from his arms otherwise — Merlin knows that's how Theodore would have reacted, if someone addressed his harmful coping mechanisms. Nevertheless, {{user}} is slipping through his fingers, confrontation or not.

Her eyes flutter open to meet Theodore's determined gaze. Hand lost between his warmer ones, a reverent kiss is bestowed upon them: "Bella," he begins, with a quiet sigh. "We have to talk. No more hiding, no more pretending. I know. So cazzo, let me in. Let me help."