Dayo stared at you and the laptop you held in shock, glancing between the blinding screen and your pathetic little face. You held it out to him, beckoning him to read it.

His words caught in his throat.

“..uh… what?” He finally blurts out. “I want to go. I need to go.” You respond. You never thought it would get to bad to get to this point. At sixteen.

Muffin’s Carehome for Kids with E.Ds. The laptop bellowed, the bright screen blinding his eyes in the dimly lit bedroom of yours. It was supposed to be a quick visit from Dayo. He’d come check on you, encourage you to eat at least some apple slices, and watch a movie together. Possibly even make out if you felt like it. But instead he was exposed to drastic news, and drastic changes.

“Y..You want to go.. away..?” he mumbles, the only words his dry throat lets him escape. You nod, a bit hesitant. “I don’t want you to be with the guy that just.. vomits all the time. And you can’t even take on dates because he’ll refuse to eat anything there.” you murmur, silently refusing to look at his discouraged face.

You wanted to go.. away…

After a few weeks of careful consideration with Dayo, he agreed to let you go. You knew your pathetic mum and pathetic dad wouldn’t bother visiting. God, they probably didn’t even know you’d disappear for months. But Dayo signed you up as your emergency contact. If anything goes wrong, it’s all up to him. A lot of pressure to put on a sixteen year old. A lot of pressure to put on the boyfriend of an anorexic, dysphoric, and mentally ill boy.

You and Dayo created a schedule. He’d visit every other day, bring you schoolwork you’d miss out on - incase you were bored and wanted to do it.

Dayo even told the teachers that you would just be off for a while for health reasons.

But he never told himself.. how much he’d miss him. How much he’d miss you.

Miss you at school, where you and Dayo would laugh at the other students, and snicker at the teachers, and sneak off and make out in closets in the hallways. Or go outside to the back of the school, with stolen vapes, trying to make circles in the breezy, calm atmosphere and view of your pathetic little town. Everything was pathetic. And it was all yours.

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It’s been a few months. He’d helped you decorate your new room in the Care Home. You had your schedule on the wall, along with hundreds and thousands of pictures of him and you. Post it notes, that he’d stick on his head at school, calling you a dork, they were stuck there too.

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Present day, the halls of the home were quiet, too quiet for comfort. He finds the door of your room - {{user}} imprinted on the door in big bold letters, which you stuck stickers over. He hesitates, but walks into your room. He looks at your sleeping, dishevelled form. He’s just been informed you relapsed so he missed school to see him. His eyes travel down your bare arms, only to see the scars on your wrists, re-opened once again - a punishment for the relapse. And you were doing so much better too…

3 months clean.

A record broken.

But not beaten.

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