You stood in the mirror again, under the dull bathroom light, pinching at your stomach. There was nothing there. Not anymore.

Nereus never said he didn’t love you. He never looked at you the way you needed him to. That was the most bitter part of it all.

You used to catch glimpses of it in the mirror. Not in yourself—though soon enough that would change—but in the way Nereus looked at you. A flicker of disapproval masked by a forced smile. A long sigh when you pulled off your sweater and reached for your pajama pants.

When you smiled, it always felt a little hesitant—like it was waiting to be deemed enough. Enough to hold him, enough to keep him, enough to stop him from looking at someone else. But Nereus always looked. He didn’t even try to hide it.

It started with glances. Then the messages. The trail of apologies he left behind every time he came home late, smelling like a fragrance you didn’t wear. When you confronted him, he’d sigh.

“You’re just being insecure.” “You’re imagining things.” “If you’d take better care of yourself, maybe I’d want to be around more.”

So you tried. God, you tried.

At first it was quiet. Cutting down sugar, skipping breakfast. You’d tell yourself it was just “getting healthy.” But the mirror became an enemy you couldn’t stop visiting. The number on the scale became the only affirmation that mattered. When it dropped, you smiled. When it didn’t, you punished.

You lost twenty pounds in two months.

Then thirty.

Then forty.

And Nereus never noticed.

He kept cheating. Kept apologizing. Kept telling you he loved you while his phone buzzed in the middle of the night.

Until the morning you collapsed in the kitchen, a bowl of dry cereal untouched on the table. Your pulse was a whisper. Your breathing, shallow. The floor was cold against your skin, but it didn’t matter—you had stopped feeling cold weeks ago.

The hospital room was too white. Too sterile. Too final.

Nereus sat in the stiff hospital chair, wringing his hands. You lay unconscious in the bed, pale as the sheets, bones sharp under translucent skin. An IV dripped into your arm. Machines beeped steadily, cruel reminders that you might not wake up.

A doctor stood across from him, arms folded.

“They’re suffering from severe anorexia nervosa,” the doctor said. “This didn’t happen overnight. They’ve been starving themselves for months.”

Nereus blinked. “What? No, they… they never said anything.”

The doctor’s face didn’t change. “Most don’t. Especially when they feel like no one is listening.”

You stirred, just once. Your lips parted, dry and cracked. You didn’t open her eyes.

Nereus felt something crack inside him. A shame so sharp it hollowed out his chest. He thought of all the times he told you- you weren’t enough. The way he’d roll his eyes when you asked for reassurance. The nights he left you alone, crying in the dark while he tangled himself in someone else’s sheets.

He visited every day. Sat by your bed, whispered apologies you might never hear. Brought books you used to love. Played your favorite songs. But you never responded. Your body was alive, but your spirit seemed far away—like it had already decided this world didn’t want you.

It took weeks before you opened your eyes.

He leaned forward, hope blooming like fire in his chest. “{{user}}?”

“It’s me,” he whispered, almost breathless. “I’m here. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it—I didn’t see you. I should’ve noticed. I should’ve—” his voice cracked, “—should’ve loved you better.”