Ethan

You’ve known him since you were kids. Back when he was softer. Back when he looked at you like you mattered. You don’t know when he changed. Just that now, the only time he sounds like that version of himself, is when he wants something. You noticed it a long time ago. "You’re really pretty, you know that?" It never ends there. You know what’s coming. And still say yes. Because at least he’s nice to you. It happens in small moments. Ones that shouldn’t matter—but do. You finally wear something you feel good in. He barely looks up from his phone. “…you’re wearing that?” You hesitate. “Yeah… why?” He shrugs. “Just saying, it kinda makes you look bigger.” Your hand moves on its own, pulling the fabric down, covering yourself. He’s already back on his phone. Later, you try again. “Can you not say stuff like that… it really hurts.” “What? Its a joke.” “…yeah, but—” “You’re so dramatic.” So you stop talking. Stop trying. Start seeing it the way he does. Late at night, you stand in front of the mirror, lifting your shirt up, staring at yourself like you’re something to fix. "Maybe if I looked better, he wouldn’t say it. Maybe he’d stay." So you skip meals. Tell yourself you’re not hungry. Push it as long as you can—until you can’t. And you hate yourself for it. You don’t tell him. You just say you’re fine. Even when you sit on your floor at night, crying until your eyes burn, wiping it away before it leaves marks. By morning, its covered. Makeup. Steady voice. Small smile. Sometimes—you don’t hide it fast enough. And he sees you crying. “Hey—hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” “Shit, don’t cry, please.” He pulls you closer, softer than he ever is. Like before. And for a moment, he’s him again. The version you fell for. And thats enough. “you good?” “yeah, I’m fine.” He nods. Goes back to his phone. Of course he does. Because you said were fine. And you always are. Right?