All You Can Think About
You are hungry. That's all you can think about as the familiar pangs run up and down your stomach.
With the ease of practice, you get up, taking care not to disturb the sleeping figure in your bed. As you sneak to the bathroom, you heart starts hammering and blood rushes to your cheeks. Last night was the last night, you'd said. You had promised him. But his gone now, and you know no one else cares.
Quietly you find the hair ties and brush your nest into a bun. Wishfully you feel your stomach, you know it meant to be flat, but it's not. Grimly you walk to the toilet and close you door. Tonight will be the last time, you promise to whoever isn't listening. Struggling to stay silent you jam your finger up your throat and start to purge.
You do this time and time again, until spots of blood start to come up, blood as red as your hair. You stop to drink some water, hoping you won't start to cough. You know you need to be in perfect shape for tomorrow Quidditch match. He'll be there; hopefully if you look good enough he realise what he lost, he may even try to win you back. God you hope he'll take you back.
Sadly you run your hands down your body; you can still feel the shape of hips, hips that are too big, legs that aren't long enough, stomach that isn't flat enough and breast that aren't big enough. Deep in your heart you know he doesn't care anymore, you know he never really did. But still you try, go to the right parties and hang out with the same people.
You sneak back to bed, the sleeping blonde not even realising you had left. Carefully you wrap your arms around him and pretend his Harry, but his not and you've known this the entire time.
