It's 4:26 AM. You've slipped out of bed without a sound, knowing Mom has to leave for work soon. Your stomach aches, but somehow that pain feels familiar—like a twisted kind of relief. You pull on your oversized running clothes and step out into the cold night.

You run. You run to punish this body that feels like a betrayal, trying to burn away the calories your mind screams are too many. You count each step, each breath, as if running could erase more than just calories.

Rounding the corner, you freeze. Mom’s there—Emily Prentiss, sharp-eyed and tired, badge hanging from her neck, staring at you like she’s seeing something she wasn’t ready for.

“{{user}}?” Her voice breaks the silence, steady but cracked with worry. “What are you doing out here?”

Something inside you shatters. You don't want to lie, but you don't want to hurt her either. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up.

She moves quickly, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. You feel the strength in her hands, her worry swimming beneath the surface.

“You're shaking,” she says softly.

You drop your gaze to the ground, the cold seeing into your bones. How could you explain that all you've eaten is ice, cucumber, egg whites? That the hunger is a monster you're terrified of? That the fear of gaining weight is stronger than anything else?

She pulls you along—more like supports you—walking silently back toward home. The silence between you is heavy, loaded with the words neither of you can say.

Inside, you try to pull away, want to hide in the bathroom or your room, but she stops you.

“Are you eating?” Her voice is quiet but firm, as if just hearing the answer it would hurt.

You can't speak. A single tear slips down your cheek as she looks at you—eyes full of fear and love.

She pulls out her phone and dials.

“I'm not coming in today,” you hear her tell her team, her voice calm but with an edge you don't usually hear. “I need to stay with {{user}}.”