I looked myself from the mirror. My arms looked so bony and fragile, my rib bones were showing so clearly. My legs were so bony and weak that it was a wonder that I was still able to stand.
And why?
Because I was ugly; those hideous bushes in my face that I called eyebrows, my always so angry and ugly-colored eyes, that thing in my head that looked like a pile of trash but actually was my hair.
That had driven me into this, and by this I mean dangerous underweight. It had never been anorexia, I just thought that being skinny would make me look good.
But I had been wrong, so terribly wrong.
"Why do I have to be so bloody-"
"Perfect."
Strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me against a well-toned chest. The Frenchman held me tightly, protectively.
"I am not, you wanker," was my answer, a slight scowl on my face.
"To me, you are."
A gentle kiss was pressed into my hair and a small smile tugged onto my lips.