You and Ghost were roommates — the kind that didn’t need to talk much to get by. He kept to himself — and so did you. There was a quiet understanding between you — a peace in how your lives barely intersected. The days passed with brief exchanges and occasional nods — sharing space but never crossing boundaries.

Over time, your eating habits began to slip. At first, it was easy — skipping breakfast, not feeling like lunch, pushing off food without even realizing it. The hunger crept in by dinner, sharp and insistent, but you ignored it. A bag of crisps, a half-eaten sandwich, just enough to ease the emptiness. But it was never enough, and the guilt always followed.

The bathroom became your refuge — cold tiles, a locked door, and the sound of the tap to drown out the retching. You thought you were quiet, but the walls were thin. Ghost could hear, even if he never said anything.

For a while, he said nothing. He’d leave food on the counter with a casual “If you want it.” You always refused, the excuse simple: “I’m not hungry.” It was easier that way.

“You eat yet?” he’d ask, voice rough but casual.

"Yeah," you'd reply, the lie slipping out without a second thought.

But he knew, didn’t he? But the nights gave you away. The hunger pulsed through you, your body aching. You knew Ghost could hear you — the sound of your retching, the sound of your body rejecting what it needed. The next day, you could see it in his eyes — something he wasn’t saying, something he couldn’t.

It all came to a head one evening. You hadn’t eaten in days — just water, green tea, and the occasional brief sleep. Your body was already shutting down, but you didn’t care. Ghost sat at the table when you walked in, a plate of pasta in front of him. The smell made your stomach churn, but you couldn’t look away. It felt like a cruel reminder of everything you were avoiding.

“Sit.” His voice was sharp.

“I’m not—” You started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance.

“Sit.” His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument.