A/N: This story is basically one big trigger for EDs/disordered eating. Please, please, please do not trigger yourself. Please please please. You're beautiful and you deserve better than that.
She is seven years old, tugging, tugging, tugging the pair of pink patterned shorts up her rounded thighs, willing them to fit.
They fit last summer!
They need-need-need to fit.
Mom is going to be so disappointed.
She is eleven years old, turning down cake at another birthday party because it's not on her new diet.
And besides, she doesn't want to be the fat girl eating cake.
If she were thin, it wouldn't matter.
Thin girls can eat whatever they want
do whatever they want
be whoever they want.
Someday
Someday
Someday...
She is fourteen years old, wearing a brand-new pair of jeans that she would love if it weren't for the horrendous size tag, leaning over the toilet, wondering what's wrong with her.
Why is she so fat?
Why can't she get herself vomit?
She falls asleep wondering how many calories one can burn by crying.
She is seventeen years old, spinning around and around in the kitchen, opening the pantry and the fridge and the pantry and the fridge and the pantry and the fridge and finally just going back to her room.
Maybe this time it will work.
Maybe this time she can lose the weight.
She goes back to a steady diet of internet thinspo, self-hatred, and Diet Coke.
She is twenty years old, missing her parents, lacing her corset as tightly as she can, and burying her pain in eye makeup for another day of hacking with the world's creepiest boyfriend.
He thinks you're pretty.
He thinks you're pretty.
He thinks you're pretty.
She is twenty-five years old, flirting outrageously with the unfairly hot FBI agent who takes off her handcuffs and wanting to kill herself when he scoffs.
Of course he did.
She's just a chubby, scantily clad criminal.
She needs her parents.
She needs her brothers.
She needs Shane.
What-the-actual-hell-has-she-done?
She is twenty-eight years old, crying because she got shot; and because of course the hot guy didn't want her, why would he; and because the hottest federal agent alive has now seen her with zero makeup on in a hospital gown that probably showed all her rolls and a posture that definitely displayed more chins than any person should have; and she is cringing because crying freaking hurts.
He really needs to leave.
He didn't notice that she skipped dinner, but soon he'll start insisting that she eat.
She can't have that.
She is thirty-three years old, keeping track of every single god forsaken thing she puts in her mouth because she's finally-finally-finally lost some weight and she will be absolutely damned if she's going to be weak enough to put it back on.
She is stronger than that, dammit!
She opens her private folder of thinspo and dumps the rest of her salad in the trash.
It is worth it.
She is thirty-six years old, the fattest bridesmaid in a wedding party full of toned FBI agents and perfect little doctors.
She loves Savannah, but she absolutely hates herself, and of-freaking-course Derek's beautiful wife is like half her size.
Of course.
Today, she eats cake.
Tomorrow, she starves.