Everyone loves Varesa’s appetite.

It’s part of her charm.

The way she laughs loudly over plates stacked too high. The way she challenges others to eat more. The way she grins with crumbs at the corner of her mouth, proud and playful and unapologetically alive.

At every gathering, she’s the brightest one at the table.

And you always watch her.

At first, it’s affection. Then it becomes pattern recognition.

Because every single time, after the laughter dies down and the plates are empty, Varesa excuses herself.

“Be right back!” “Too much juice!” “Gotta wash up!”

Always smiling.

Always casual.

Always gone for just a little too long.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Until one night, curiosity overrides comfort.

You follow.

The hallway feels longer than it should. Your pulse already uneasy.

Then you hear it.

The sound.

Raw. Violent. Unmistakable.

Varesa — cheerful, gluttonous, radiant Varesa — retching behind a locked bathroom door.

Your entire body goes cold.

You have emetophobia. The sound alone makes your knees weak. Your vision tunnels. Your chest tightens like it’s collapsing inward.

You want to run.

You want to disappear.

But you can’t.

Because it’s her.

Another harsh, awful sound from behind the door.

And something inside you fractures.

You knock.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

A small, trembling knock that says:

I know.

There’s silence.

Then the faint sound of running water.

More silence.

When she speaks, her voice is hoarse — but still trying to be light.

“Occupied.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

The word barely comes out.

On the other side of the door, she stops moving.

For the first time, there’s no laughter in her voice. No playful tone. No performance.

Just quiet.

You don’t leave.

Even though every instinct in your body is screaming.

Even though your stomach churns. Even though your fear makes your hands shake.

You stay.

And through the door, through tile and wood and running water, the truth settles heavy between you:

The appetite. The competitions. The endless plates.

It was never just hunger.

And Varesa, who can face monsters without flinching, who can laugh through bruises and battle scars—

has been fighting something much smaller. Much uglier. Much quieter.

And now you’ve seen it.