Jenna doesn’t rush you for answers after that.

She lets the silence sit. Lets you breathe. Lets the moment be soft instead of interrogating. It isn’t until later—when things feel a little less raw—that she speaks again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says quietly, sitting beside you instead of across from you. No distance. No cornering. “About how to support you without making it worse.”

You tense, expecting rules. Conditions. Pressure.

Jenna notices. Adjusts.

“I’m not here to police you,” she says first. “I’m not counting bites or watching every move you make. I won’t comment on your body. I won’t talk about ‘good’ or ‘bad’ food. I don’t want to become another voice telling you you’re failing.”

That makes your chest ache—for reasons you don’t fully understand yet.

She hesitates, then adds, gently, "But I also can’t pretend I don’t see when you’re hurting. And I can’t help you hide it.”

Jenna meets your eyes, steady but kind.

“So here’s what I can do,” she continues. “I can stay with you after meals if being alone makes it worse. I can interrupt the spiral—change the subject, put on something stupid, sit with you until the urge passes. I can listen when you’re honest, even if it’s messy.”

A small breath.

“And here’s what I won’t do,” she says softly. “I won’t lie for you. I won’t praise the harm. And I won’t disappear just because this is uncomfortable.”

She doesn’t frame it as an ultimatum.

She frames it like a promise—with edges.

“I care about you,” Jenna finishes. "That means being gentle. And it also means being real.”

For the first time, the support doesn’t feel overwhelming.

It feels... sustainable.