Note from the author:
Before you read this fanfiction, I want to warn you that it deals with the pain and suffering of having an eating disorder and the thoughts about food that can sometimes overwhelm those who suffer from it. If there is even the slightest risk that any of that might be a trigger for you, please do not read this. I know that this warning will most likely not change anything if that is the case, but I promise that recovery is always worth it, even if it the eating disorder says otherwise.
It was, as it always seemed to be the case, something tiny that started it all, a minor hiccup that left her standing in front of the kitchen counter, clutching the knife so tightly that her knuckles turned white from applying so much pressure to the metal that Zelda would not have been surprised if it had had to give way under her grip.
Butter. The smooth, yellow surface of it shone under the light from the lamps above her, tempting her like gold, but even as one half of her was begging her to just push through, do what she had to do, and place the knife on the slice of bread in front of her so that she could bring the afternoon snack with her to the table and resume reading her book and continue with her life, Zelda found herself frozen in place, both unable to continue with the motion and also unable to completely fail and let the knife fall into the sink with the butter still on it.
Rationally, she knew that this was nothing. It was a dollop of butter, this was not something that was going to magically transport her from that awful stage of not quite being recovered but also not sick enough for people to listen to her when she asked them if they could not mention the nutritional value of the food in front of her—much less enough to make them abstain from mention the dreaded number that could make her skin crawl as her brain struggled to forget about it again—but she still stood there, staring at the knife so intensely that it felt like the butter should have melted under her gaze a long time ago. In a way, that would have been a good thing. With how she was angling the knife, if the butter was to melt, it would drip from the tip of the knife and down onto the piece of bread, conveniently freeing Zelda from having to accept responsibility for the decision she would have to make.
It was so simple. Just bringing the knife down a couple of centimetres, a few strokes, and then she would have completed the task. But no matter how many times Zelda silently counted to three, fully intent on going through with it, she kept standing there, her gaze fixed on the butter.
The surface was like gold, and she knew that it was because she needed it, her body needed it. After all, her brain required fat, and although the word was still connected to a great deal of fear and hesitation, during the numerous hours she had spent sitting in the soft couch facing the therapist, Zelda had slowly reached a point where she was able to agree with the fact. And it usually helped. Just last week, Zelda had been able to pause, take a deep breath, and then remind herself that she was doing this for her future, her education, for Mipha, and for herself before forcing herself not to cheat, not to let the part of her that was still controlled by the sickness trick her into using just a little less butter than what her nutritionist had told her to use with the argument that it was just a little, what harm could the fact that she was perhaps not being as generous with the butter as she should have been bring to her, instead having decided that, just to spite the voice that was so quick to remind her of how she had gotten the last question on her test wrong and that she needed to study rather than eat, she would double the amount of butter she used that day.
But now, there was no energy left in her to fight, and she stood there, staring at the smooth surface of the butter. Already, her mind was racing, trying her best to gauge the mass of the yellowy, sticky food before resuming the usual calculations of just how much there was in it. The number was bright and loud as it jumped up into her face, soon growing to become the only thing she could see.
Zelda gritted her teeth. No, she was not doing this. Giving the number a death stare, she tried her best to will it into nothingness by recalling how brightly Mipha had smiled at her last month when they had been able to celebrate her one year anniversary of recovery by going out to eat for the first time in years, Zelda for once being able to order from the menu without specifying to the waiter that she did not like anything that had even touched butter, and that she would actually prefer if they could also not drizzle dressing on top of her salad, thank you very much, having instead shared a slice of cake with Mipha after finishing the main course. Mipha had practically been beaming as Zelda cut of a tiny piece of the dessert, lifting at to her mouth with the same kind of carefully rehearsed movements and look of apprehension and nervousness on her face as someone who was about to taste poison, before finally being able to overcome the voice that screamed at her to place the fork back down and declare that she was full and that Mipha could have the rest now.
But no matter how many times Zelda replayed the way Mipha had reached out to take her hand, looking at her with such a fond look in her eyes that the voice for once grew quiet, it was not enough to let her tell the instinct to throw the knife through the room and make up a lie about how she had enjoyed her meal for when Mipha got home to leave her alone.
The worst part of it was that Zelda was perfectly aware of how irrational it all was. Even as her heart raced and her entire body shook with fear at the thought of just sitting down to eat, she knew that in just a few hours, as long as she pushed through and finished the snack, she would be able to sit down at the dining table to go over the day together with Mipha, writing down every instance of things that had made her feel bad about herself before being able to pinpoint the exact thing that had made it all become too much and given the voice another chance to try to force its way back into her life. She knew all of that, was perfectly aware of how, even though the thought of giving in just this once sounded so tempting and so easy, it was really a slippery slope that would bring her nothing but grief and pain, and yet, she was still standing there, in her kitchen on a Sunday that she and Mipha had planned to spend by going to the library, a plan that the sickness had then promptly seen its chance to destroy by rearing its ugly head again and threatening to undo months of hard work.
If nothing else, Zelda supposed that she should see the fact that she knew deep down that she wanted to eat the slice of bread as a sign that she was improving. Once, not that long ago, she would have preferred to fail every single one of her exams to admitting that, yes, she did enjoy food, and that what had once been a healthy way of thinking about what she ate had turned into an obsession that saw her getting up in the middle of the night to pace around in the kitchen, walking around in circles as she imagined all of the things she wanted to eat but wasn't able to, before punishing herself by withholding the thing her body needed more than anything in the moment: food.
Casting a glance at the surface of the bread that was supposed to act as the foundation for the snack, Zelda's perfectionistic streak was quick to point out every flaw. How she had failed to cut straight down, one half of the bread being slightly thicker than the other. How there were tiny specs on top of it, showing how she had left it in the toaster for just a second too long, letting it become burnt. How it was becoming colder and colder each second she stood there, unsure of what to do, and how there were only a few minutes left before it would no longer be warm enough to melt the butter. She had to act now.
Doing her best not to think of what she was doing, not congratulating herself for her victory, but also not giving the voice any room to yell at her for not listening to it, Zelda brought the knife down. With a few quick strokes, far too quick for her to change her mind and let the voice try to manipulate her into using the tip to dig into the bread, scraping just a few crumbs too many off the top of the slice in the process, Zelda spread the butter over the surface. The end result was not exactly pretty, with how almost all of the butter had been left on the left side of the bread, the surface was uneven and nowhere near as smooth as Zelda would have liked it. It was not exactly appetising, but as Zelda put away both the butter and the knife, finding herself licking the last bit of butter off the knife before leaving it in the sink for her to come back to later, she knew that it did not matter. Right now, eating was not about what she wanted to do, because even as she got better, Zelda still had days where the only thing she wanted to do was to stay in her bed and refuse to eat rather than going out to face the world. No, right now, eating was something she did for her body and her future to ensure that both of them would be able to survive for a long time. Later, when Zelda knew she could trust herself more while in the presence of food, she might be able to grant herself the luxury of deciding when to eat, but for now, it was a matter of doing what she had to do and then trying her best not let the voice get to her afterwards.
The sound of the chair moving over the floorboards seemed incredibly loud as Zelda brought the plate with her over to the dinner table, but even then, the voice somehow managed to drown out the sound, making itself heard even as she tried to hum to herself. Zelda had to admit that although she hated being sick and would love to be able to snap her fingers and make the voice disappear in an instant, there were times where she found herself worrying about what her future would look like once she no longer had the constant presence of the disorder to keep her company. Just what had her life been like before everything became first a competition of how little she could eat and then an endless number of conversations with her therapists and lists of what she had to eat before she was able to go to bed at night? Zelda did not know, but as she sat down, almost bringing the slice of bread to her mouth before changing her mind and going to fetch her book to let the adventures of a group of misfit friends drown out the voice that screamed in frustration at her victory, she knew that life after recovery would be much better than the alternative.
After all, no matter how anxiety-provoking the thought of losing the thing that had acted as a shield between herself and the world around her for so many years, the friend that had comforted her the first time she had found herself struggling with the workload that came with studying at one of the most prestigious universities in Hyrule, assuring her that it was a friend that only wanted to help her, waiting for Zelda to lower her defences before turning ugly and slowly but surely chipping away at her confidence and ability to focus in class, as Zelda looked around in the tiny apartment and saw all of the memories she had made in just the last year where she had been able to leave the house without having the voice control her every move, the pictures of her with her friends, standing in front of Hyrule Castle during their weekend trip to the capital, the card Mipha had given her on their anniversary, complete with a poem inside about how she was always stronger than she believed, Zelda knew that she was doing the right thing by continuing to eat despite the voice in her head telling her not to.
And already as she returned to the kitchen to wash dishes, Zelda could feel how it had grown quieter. As small as the difference was, it was still a sign of improvement, and Zelda was going let herself enjoy the small victories that accompanied making an active effort at recovery.