You’ve been floating on the edge of something that feels like control. It’s quiet, intoxicating — the honeymoon phase of your new rules, your little rituals. Every skipped meal feels like a secret victory, and every time you say “I already ate” feels like proof that you’re untouchable. You hide it so well, or at least, you think you do.

Simon notices.

At first it’s just the way he watches you, the weight of his gaze lingering on your untouched plate, the slight tension in his jaw when you push food around with your fork instead of eating it. You laugh it off, you smile, you say, “I’m just not hungry.” He doesn’t laugh.

Tonight it cracks.

“Enough,” he snaps, voice rough, low but sharp enough to cut. You look up, startled, your fork freezing midair. “Don’t give me that excuse again.”

“What?” you ask, your tone brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He slams his palm against the table, silverware rattling. “Don’t play dumb. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t notice you never eat? That you disappear to the bathroom after every bite?” His words are spit out like accusations, heavy with fury — or maybe fear.