AUTHOR'S NOTE: CONTENT WARNING: This fic includes themes of anorexia, body dysmorphia, mentions of purging, and in general delves deep into Monica's insecurity and eating disorder. I highly recommend being very careful or just not reading if you're sensitive to topics surrounding eating disorders and/or weight loss. Also this is not a guide on how to recover or how to talk to someone with an eating disorder so do not expect perfection from me pleeeaase
This is all based on my own personal experiences, so my apologies if any of this feels inaccurate or anything. This is just a quick thing I felt like writing to explore this head canon I had along with navigate some of my own issues. Hope you all enjoy anyway!
Lastly, this was partly inspired by 'Celebration' by mccoy17thspark on ao3. Amazing fic that i heavily recommend!
Not to be hyperbolic, but Monica swears there has only been one single time that her mother was truly proud of her. Most parents celebrate their child earning their degree— the Gellers included, but Monica's bachelor degree didn't look so shiny next to Ross' masters; even more dull next to his doctorate. The one time Monica remembers seeing that prideful glint in her mother's eyes was on an entirely regular afternoon, when Monica came down the stairs, and suddenly her mother realised. Her daughter was skinny now.
"Honey, when did you lose all that weight?" Judy beckoned, her voice filled with unfamiliar warmth. No concern whatsoever— why would she be?
Monica scratched the back of her neck.
Things don't just happen for Monica. Every part of her life was meticulously calculated, planned to perfection. The effort she put into this new body was frightful. Life-threatening. If anyone were to see her highly-reduced diet or the dream journals filled with magazine cutouts of Victoria's Secret models and ads for Abercrombie & Fitch— they'd call for help. So just this once,
"I don't know. I guess it just happened."
And finally, there's a smile on Judy Geller's face. One she's only ever seen at Ross' birthday, or graduation, or wedding, or on any other day that Ross was even alive. Monica did a good thing, and her mother was proud of her. That almost felt better than the thin body. Almost.
Monica would do anything in the world to keep that validation going.
Rachel hummed in delight while eating the pancakes Monica had prepared, stuffing her face like a cow. Her cheeks glowed with joy, and more importantly, sucrose. "God, Monica! These are better than usual! What did you do?"
Her words were muffled, filled with calories.
"I added a secret ingredient." Monica said.
"What?"
"Love."
Butter. Lots and lots of it.
So that as long as she was being fed by Monica, Rachel would never be skinnier than her. Monica can be the prim and proper lady who only has fruits for breakfast. She was easily the most disciplined out of her whole friend group, soon she'll be the smallest too.
But somehow, her efforts went to nothing. The extra pounds always slid off of Rachel's waist; she was allergic to weight gain. Who was she kidding, Rachel wasn't a cow. She had a sharp jaw and a stomach so flat it whispered liposuction. Monica couldn't say the same.
Monica's stomach growled its usual song, and all she could do was pretend not to notice. Rachel, unfortunately, did.
"Aren't you going to eat too?"
Monica faked a smile. "I'm not hungry. I might grab something at Central Perk."
"But there's a bunch of extra pancakes, I can't eat them all."
Monica could. She absolutely could. She could swallow all of them whole and have room for seconds, thirds, fourths— she could eat this whole apartment if she wanted to. Wood probably tasted better than the sketchy weight loss pills Monica got hooked on in highschool.
"I'm saving them for Joey." Monica excused, trying not to take in the smell of her delicious home-baked meal. It was calling out to her. The folds in the whip-cream spelled out her name.
Skinny Rachel shrugged and continued eating her pancakes. Chewing on them slowly. Tiny specks of chocolate syrup on her lips. No tears in her eyes. No wishes of turning back time. Just enjoying her food. Monica wanted to rip open her mouth and lick the food between her teeth, or rip open herself and get rid of everything that filled her bones.
Rachel was her greatest friend, and even greater motivation. Rachel could get lost standing behind Monica. Sunlight shone between her thighs; every man wanted to swim in the gap. Her fingers were nimble, petite, delicate. Everything a woman should be. Standing next to Rachel made it apparent how far Monica was from the feminine ideal. Everyone could tell. Even now that she was skinnier, she still wasn't the skinniest. That would be an accomplishment to be proud of. That would get her mother to smile.
Rachel called out her friend's name a third time, standing at the door, ready to leave without her. If they were outside, she'd already be gone— her tiny body carried away by the wind. Monica was her paper weight.
"In a second!" Fatso yelled from her bedroom, sure that the walls between them was enough to cover her hurt. She couldn't go out; not like this.
Was the pouch in her stomach always there, always that noticeable? And her arms— they weren't as toned as the day before. Maybe they were, and she didn't know what they actually looked like the day before. Her face was puffier than usual too. Was it the granola bar she had an hour ago, already making home inbetween her layers of skin?
Tiny Rachel grew tired of the wait. "Monica, it's a two minute walk. I'm going downstairs."
Stupid, tiny Rachel. Never needed to examine her looks before leaving. Rachel was consistent, always beautiful. She could wear a cropped shirt and not worry about what position made her skin roll less; it never did. Her flesh always remained tight against her muscles, as if she's never eaten a day of her life.
Monica stood shirtless in front of the mirror. Her ribs were becoming visible— but only in certain positions. Only when she stretched far enough— but they were visible. It was progress. The euphoria of seeing her skin stretch over her bones was like no other. The sharp edges that began to make up her figure were like candy to her eyes. Soon her spinal cord would jut out of her back, proving her hard work and discipline for all to see.
None of that meant she was skinny, though. Only in certain angles, lighting, moods was she skinny. Right now, she looks the same as she always has. You could tell her she hasn't changed one bit from high school, and she'd believe you, because her eyes were traitors. No matter what, the reflection staring back at her was one she wasn't satisfied with; one that showed no change. The only proof of her progress she has lives underneath her bed; the notebook and red pen she's kept since the beginning of the year, tracking her daily weight and bodily measurements. She had turned her misery into a game: how low can the numbers get? Monica wanted to know. She had to see what happened at 100 lbs.
With tears threatening to burst, all she wanted was to stay home. How could anyone go out looking like this? If things were up to Monica, she'd become a hamster. Keep herself locked in a cage with nothing more than a drinking tube and a treadmill— she'd lose weight in no time. However, today wasn't a day she was allowed to cancel on her friends and wallow in her bedroom. She'd have to drag herself out whether she liked it or not.
So she threw on a chunky sweater big enough to hide all the food that got past her defences and trudged down to the coffee house, where unsurprisingly, all of her friends were joined together. Her eyes immediately landed on one in particular.
Walking over to the side table where he stood, Monica threw her big arms around him. "Happy birthday, Chandler!"
He graciously accepted her hug and uttered a thanks, his fifth one of the day. Once he pulled back, he took notice of something on Monica's face. "Hey, you alright?"
It became easy to dodge all the comments of concern.
"Of course I am, why?"
"I don't know, you just look a bit…" he searched for a word, "Tired."
She shook her head, the pains of her stomach making her want to crumble apart into pieces. Were the growls as loud to everyone else as they were to her?
Monica took the seat next to Chandler's, crossing her legs in an attempt to come across as dainty as possible. She didn't want to take up any space on her chair; she didn't want to leave a single imprint on this world.
Everyone already had their cups of warm coffee in their hands, Chandler had two.
"We went ahead and ordered for you." Ross said, sipping his creamy coffee filled with enough fat to make Monica faint probably.
She peered into the cup before her; light in colour, evident of milk.
"What kind of milk is this?"
"Regular." said big fat Ross.
Regular? Regular milk? Regular milk made up of fat and sugar? Regular milk that added unnecessary calories to her diet? No. No no no.
"I can't drink this." She shoved the cup farther away like a stubborn toddler, but too late to avoid the sweet smell of caffeine. The scent was hypnotising her; all she could think about was warm, sugary milk filling her mouth. Perhaps alongside a blueberry muffin? Or chocolate…all sliding down her throat and filling up the spaces between her ribs. But she's stronger than the urges, so she turns away from the delicious mug.
Joey raised an eyebrow from the couch. "Why not?"
"Because…" Her mind spun its roulette of excuses, landing on "I think I may be lactose intolerant. I don't react well to milk."
"What? That's not true!" big fa— no, never, tiny Rachel disputed. "You've had milk for like, ever. You can't just become lactose intolerant."
Phoebe pointed up her skinny little finger. "Um, you can."
"No you can't!"
Nothing gets past Ross without a correction. "Actually, you can."
"Our small intestines make this enzyme called lactase, which breaks down lactose, found in dairy products. Lots of people produce less lactase as they age."
"Yes! That happened to me! I had cereal at Joey's place and vomited all day!" Phoebe exclaimed as if it were a good thing. For Monica, it could be.
"Well, that's only 'cuz we haven't replaced our milk in months." Joey said, and as if on cue, everyone made a face of disgust. Except for Phoebe, who didn't believe in expiry dates.
With the conversation steering away from her, Monica slid the cup of coffee next to Chandler's. "Here, your birthday gift."
Chandler still had that pesky look of worry on his face. "I don't think I've seen you drink coffee in ages."
"Of course I drink coffee. We had some at your place, remember?"
"Oh, yeah." He remembered. "You drank it black, like a crazy person. How do you do that?"
Discipline, self-loathing, many many tears,
"I don't know, I just do."
Chandler was thin for a guy— Monica couldn't help but notice that when she hugged him; how easily her arms met each other around his waist. Did Chandler think the same of her? She wanted to disappear in his grasp, be nothing more than a gust of air passing him by.
Monica has seen him shirtless a handful of times, enough to see how his flesh clung to his bones with no muscle to soften the edges— but he still carried some weight in his calves and stomach, an amount that would immediately go away after a month of exercise. He didn't need to starve himself like Monica did. She always admired how small he was compared to his friends.
Her eyes lingered on his wrist, only slightly bigger than hers. He was beautiful. Tiny. She was jealous. One day she'll be thinner, then they'll know. She wanted them all to be insecure at the sight of her. Chandler would never want to leave the gym. Ross would never want to pour cream in his coffee. Rachel would never want to lift her head from the toilet bowl.
Chandler's soft voice ripped through her shameful train of thought. "Did you get much sleep last night?"
Together at the side table, they were in their own quiet conversation away from the rest of the group. They were all probably talking about how good their muffins taste and how their stomachs jiggle when they jump. Not here, this was their skinny alliance.
"I mean, I've slept longer."
"You just have these rough eye bags." He commented, making her feel like the prettiest princess in the world. "I'm serious, they're like charcoal."
"You sure know how to make a woman feel good."
He chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just making sure everything's alright with you."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
Monica always worked hard to cover her tracks, because if anyone ever found out about her dangerous habits, she'd be forced to start over. Everyone would make sure she ate her three meals a day and she would go back to being big fat Monica. But right now, she wanted to hear him say it. Part of her wants permission to stop.
Chandler stayed silent for a moment, the only thing on his face was a shy smile, no guidance on what to say next. It's possible that he knows, but he doesn't want her to stop. He wants to see Monica at her smallest.
"Well…if you're not awake, then who's gonna take care of Joey and me?"
Of course he doesn't know. No one knows. Monica was too good at keeping her little secret— that, or no one cared enough to look deeper. She was just tired. She was just exercising more. She was just lactose intolerant.
Chandler vehemently protested against any sort of celebration for his birthday, but there was no way everyone would allow this special day to go unnoticed. A compromise was reached to celebrate over dinner at a fancy— "But not too fancy, no restaurant that Monica likes"— restaurant with nothing more festive than the giving of small gifts and a brownie cutting, topped with a single candle.
The hunger is like a parasite in her brain, turning her more and more bitter for every meal she denies herself. It's become hard to care about anything, anyone. Her friends look more like sacks of fat to her than her friends. Sometimes she sees them as big hungry monsters who would never understand the dedication it takes to keep her slim figure— sometimes they're all twigs who laugh about their humongous friend behind her back. No matter what, they were in different worlds.
Monica hated these celebrations. It was just an excuse for everyone to stuff themselves with food and pretend they care for each other. However, the publicity of it was something she learned to take advantage of. Everytime she orders a plain salad, she knows what they're all thinking: Look at skinny Monica, eating her skinny salad. She's so refined and proper. She eats so clean. She's so much better than us. Her mother would be proud of her.
By night, she was fairly empty. All that was in her system was a single granola bar and lots, lots, lots of water. Anytime she's hungry, she drinks water. Anytime she gets the painful craving for all the sugar in the world, she drinks water. Anytime she sees the pudge around her body, she drinks drinks drinks more water. Water was her best friend that flushed out all the fat and shame from her body. Water was the only safe thing she could consume, the only thing that kept her from crying.
Little Rachel sat Monica down on her bed, putting on a fashion show with all her tight-fitting dresses. The dresses listened to Rachel; agreeing with her without protest. The fabric warped in accordance with the skinny little woman. The same dresses would fit on Monica like poorly cut duct tape.
"Alright, be honest, did the light blue dress make me look fat?" Rachel asked, holding her two dresses of varying shades of blue up on hangers. A question so innocent for Rachel, so excruciating for Monica.
Yes. "No."
Dark clothes always have a slimming effect. The lack of shadows and contour made for perfect camouflage. That's a secret Monica will have to keep for herself, because she can't let Rachel get any smaller.
"Perfect! Light blue it is then!" She hummed. Twirling around in her tiny pyjamas— Rachel's size was small, yet her clothes still had enough space for a second person to nestle in. She was so, so skinny. Monica's jealousy could take over at any moment and drive her to murder— of course, she would never, because Rachel was her best motivator and her best friend. Monica wanted Rachel to hold her and tell her she was the skinniest person in the world; or even just beautiful, that would have worked the same.
Monica stood up from Rachel's bed, her vision immediately filled with static as her feet lost balance. Luckily. Rachel took hold of her shoulders.
"Woah, Mon', you alright? You look kind of pale."
"Of course I am." Monica muttered. They all asked but she knew they didn't care. "I just stood up too quickly."
Rachel's smile was unsatisfied, but she let her friend off to get ready for dinner.
Yet again, Monica had to face her treacherous mirror again. The shiny object whispered many criticisms, in front of her she could see all her failures and weaknesses. The starving and exercise could get rid of the calories, but the guilt remained; deep in her concave stomach.
She searched through her closet to find something blue— Chandler's favourite colour and the agreed upon colour scheme for dinner. There was one dark navy dress she hadn't worn in a long time, collecting dust behind all her crimson garments. Monica never really thought blue looked nice on her— it looked magnificent on the birthday boy. His eyes always entranced her, deep seas of blue that always seemed to call her name when she entered the room. They turned a lighter colour when he laughed. She might just find more beauty in Chandler's eyes than his slim build.
Once she put on the dress, she was shocked at how loose it'd become. It looked more like a robe than anything. A smile made its way to her face; progress. Progress she couldn't see before, now undeniably in front of her eyes. At least a year's difference stood between the fabric and her skin. All that air formed the part of herself she lost— less Monica meant a good Monica, and a good Monica meant a proud mother. She reached for some safety pins on her desk to tighten the dress behind her, showing off the tiny waist she worked so hard for. It finally looked tiny. Maybe she was crazy, but Monica could swear she could see her rib cage poking out from the sides. Maybe everyone else would notice too.
She threw on a dark, lightweight coat to cover the pins, grabbed the small bag containing Chandler's gift, and joined Rachel in the hallway, where they were met by their two neighbours. Joey and Chandler both dressed in suits— they weren't tight by any means, but it was clear as day that they were in shape. Monica felt confident that she finally fit in, but when she saw teeny tiny Rachel to her left, her red grin immediately went away. The bile threatened its way to her mouth, but she suppressed the urge.
"Woaah, Rach'! Lookin' good!" Joey praised, looking Rachel up and down as she twirled around, showing off her dress. Who was Monica kidding? Rachel didn't need any sort of colour theory. She was skinny in the whitest of clothes.
Joey turned to Monica. "You too, Mon'! We sure are lucky guys, huh?" He said, nudging Chandler with his elbow, receiving an eye-roll from the taller guy. Chandler seemed more focused on the navy dressed girl.
Rachel gawked at the sight of her friend, which admittedly made Monica's heart race. "Is that a new dress?"
Monica chuckled. "No, it's old. Really old, actually."
Chandler didn't look as pleased as either of his friends. His gaze was stuck on her dress— or perhaps what was underneath. Was Chandler the next to have his spell broken? After knowing her for so long, today might have been the day he finally noticed. Ross' fat sister was now far from that.
The four hurried outside to grab a taxi and meet their other two friends at their chosen restaurant, a barely-known but nice place called La Meilleur Endroit. Phoebe figured a French name automatically meant it was a nice restaurant, and while it was a dangerous gamble they took, the place did not disappoint. Based solely on the exterior, Monica could tell the food served here was good. Not that it mattered to her.
Restaurants were awful. It was unfortunate enough that the place Monica lived right above that became everyone's number one meet-up spot was a café, but restaurants were even worse. It was even more unfortunate that she had to work in one. It was almost impossible to avoid eating when at a restaurant, and she was constantly surrounded by gourmet meals, dancing around her in a circle, waiting to see which she'll eat first. Ideally, she'd eat them all— all at once, shoving her hands into whatever she could grab, sloshing it around with her tongue until she couldn't tell each meal apart. Taste didn't matter to her anymore. She just wanted food.
Outside, Phoebe turned around, her eyes immediately lighting up upon seeing the rest of her friends. She waved her arms in a grand manner as if the group couldn't see her and Ross right by the door. She wore a bright blue dress with a floral pattern and delicate lace. Phoebe held weight in all the right places, carrying a fuller chest than the other two girls; but she still had a small waist. How was it that all these girls could eat what they wanted and have such small waists? At least Rachel exercised— it's not like Phoebe followed any sort of strict regimen. It was so unfair how Phoebe had what Monica wanted without even trying.
"You guys! Ugh, you all look so pretty!" She enthused, grazing her hand against the sleeve of Joey's jacket.
"Is that so? Good, I thought I overdid my makeup today." Chandler said dryly to the amusement of no one.
Rachel patted him on the shoulder. "You look handsome, Chandler."
He smiled at the compliment. A compliment from a pretty girl was always great. Even if Monica was thinner and he had noticed, Chandler would always prefer her skinnier friend. It was just another sign she needed to lose more weight. Monica was supposed to stop once she got thin— but that's so vague. Thin means something different to everyone. Rachel Green was the poster child for thin, but she could always weigh less. To Monica, thin changed every day. Thin was every number smaller than hers.
The group entered the building, all standing behind Ross and waiting for him to find their reservation and have them seated to their table. In the entryway was a grand fancy mirror that extended to the end of the hall. Ross talked to the deskman, seemingly having trouble finding his name on the list, which gave Monica more time to try and pry her eyes away from the reflective surface; but she couldn't. She just had to make sure she looked okay— from the side, front, back, from far away and from up close, when her arms are above her hands and when her knees are joined together, it was crucial that she was skinny in every angle.
Was something wrong with the lighting? This wasn't the same woman she saw before. This was a fat girl. One with rolls on her stomach and back; one with blubber coating her legs and arms. This isn't right. How did she allow herself to go out like this? And her face, her cheeks! Look at how bloated they are! Was it from all the water? Why did she look like this? Why did she always look different? Why couldn't she just look right?
"Mon'! Let's gooo!" Joey called out once more.
She whipped her head to see all her friends and a waiter standing by the door, waiting for the girl to budge from her spot. She let out an apology and skipped to join her friends in their line, standing behind Chandler.
Their seat was far from the front of the restaurant. As the waiter ushered them around the tables, he listed tonight's specials, along with detailing to Ross all that they can do for their guests celebrating birthdays.
"Does your reflection talk back to you too?" Chandler whispered innocently.
"It does, but never anything good." Monica smiled, her first truth of the night. "I was just checking my makeup."
"I think it looks great."
"Thank you, Chandler."
There was something waiting to come out from him, but he let it go unspoken. Something much more superficial came out from his oddly earnest eyes.
"I'm excited to see what you got from me." He looked down to the light blue bag she held.
"It's nothing super special," Monica said, "But I'm sure you'll like it."
"Can I get a hint?"
"It's for you."
"You're the world's worst hint-giver."
"Boo-hoo."
They all sat at their table, everyone relaxed in their seats and already deep in conversation. Monica sat up straight; tall; chin up high so no fat would collect underneath. She sucked her stomach in, intending to keep like this for the whole night.
Monica didn't dare touch the menu until someone else did.
"We should open gifts now!" Joey said, his knee visibly bouncing under the table. His smile was wide like a child.
"It's too early, shouldn't we eat first?" Rachel said. Monica's ghost nodded along rapidly.
"What does it matter when we eat? The gifts are the most important part of a birthday!"
Ross folded his arms. "Joey, you didn't even bring a gift."
"His presence is a present itself." Chandler chimed in, a layer of humour masking genuineness.
"I already gave him my gift, actually." Joey said matter-of-factly.
"Which was?" pestered Rachel.
"A nice, fancy tie!"
Phoebe rolled her eyes. "That's the most boring gift ever!"
"Excuse you! Chandler loved it! Tell them, man!" Joey shook his best friend sitting next to him until the words fell out.
"It had little bunnies all over it!" Chandler yelled out. "It's a kid's tie!"
"How could it be a kid's tie when kids don't wear ties?"
"Enough with the ties." Ross begged. "Let's just order, please?"
With his permission, everyone picked up their menu and looked through the selection of meals. The names of meals alone sounded appetising– the descriptions made it even worse. Monica could feel the walls of her stomach aching in pain, grumbling little pleas. But she looks at Rachel's arm, and then to Chandler's wrist, and back to her own, and she remembers why she'd doing this. The famine raging within her body was nothing more than a price to pay for beauty; that's all she had to remind herself.
"How 'bout we get some fries for the whole table?" Joey suggested, looking through the menu as if he were solving a puzzle. His dark brown eyes were never this focused.
"Classy." Chandler snarked.
"Very." Joey agreed, before calling over the waiter to place their first order.
The waiter from earlier scribbled on his small notepad before asking everyone what they would be drinking tonight. Everyone would be drinking wine, except for Monica. She asked for water.
"Just water?" Asked Phoebe. "You can have water at home!"
"You can have wine at home, too." Monica argued.
"You can't have birthday wine at home."
"You can't have birthday water at home, either."
Without much else to dispute that claim, the waiter wrote down Monica's drink and went to retrieve the group's order.
Rachel was still looking through the menu, deciding on her appetiser. Hopefully she'd choose something monstrous. Something so calorie-dense and filled with oils that Rachel would actively become bigger in front of them. That would make Monica feel better; look better.
Quickly, the fries were brought to the table, and Monica's nostrils were ambushed by the delectable smell. The fries were thick and crispy and topped with parmesan and they looked so, so beautiful. Monica's mouth was slightly agape, if any more, she would drool all over the table. She shut her eyes and drank the water while taking in a big sniff of the aroma; this was how she tricked her brain into eating whatever it wanted.
"Monica, have some." Ross pushed the little basket of fries in Monica's direction after everyone had already taken their share.
"It's fine, you have them."
"Come on, they're for the table!" Said fat Joey with his mouth full of fries that somehow did not make him fat and it wasn't fair how he could eat anything he wanted and still look great and amazing and muscular and fit and not like fat Monica.
With all eyes burning on her, she heard the whispers. One fry is fine. One fry won't hurt. Two fries won't hurt either. None of the fries would hurt. You'll feel so good and happy after. Don't they look so tasty? When was the last time you had fries? When will be the next time you have fries? Don't waste this opportunity. Eat the fries. Eat the fries.
Rachel's plate had approximately fourteen fries according to Monica's quick count. Monica placed six whole fries on her plate. She made it a point to never have more on her plate than Rachel. If Rachel was having two slices of pizza, she'd only have one. If Rachel was having a single apple, Monica would eat half and "save the rest for later". Part of her wanted Rachel to feel bad, to notice how little Monica ate compared to her. Ultimately, Monica would never wish this misery on anybody else. But the whispers are strong, they're her voice of reason.
"I'll have more later." was Monica's golden excuse, because later, everyone had forgotten.
"Is everyone getting an appetiser? I'm honestly not that hungry." Asked lucky little Rachel.
The group looked around, then to their flat stomachs that never grew hungry like Monica's, and they all decided that one meal would be enough tonight. There was going to be dessert after, anyway.
Ross looked at his menu again, and one meal in particular caught his eye. "Fettuccine Alfredo! Mon', you love that stuff. You should get it."
She could slap him across the face right now. "I'm good."
He kept reading the dangerous description outloud. "Made in creamy garlic cheese sauce, it sounds really good."
"I said I'm alright, Ross."
"But you love Fettuccine Alfredo! It was your favourite when we were kids, wasn't it?"
Keyword: kids, back when Monica's mind was pure. Back when food and numbers were two separate things.
"I remember this one time, we were having a family dinner, and Monica had so much pasta that half of our cousins didn't even get a first plate!"
Monica wanted to disappear into her chair. She hated when Ross brought up these kinds of stories. Her reputation needed to be skinny alongside her body; no one could know about her fat tendencies. Then they'd never see past her overeating, no matter how little she weighed.
"Please, Ross, I don't want the pasta."
Joey must have noticed her discomfort, coming in for her rescue. "Hey, man, let her get whatever she wants."
"I'm just saying, the pasta sounds good here. You might as well get it. Why won't you get it? You love pasta." Ross nagged. He got this from their mother.
"I used to love it. I'm indifferent to it now."
"You can't just become indifferent to your favourite meal—"
"She doesn't need to get the pasta, Ross." Rachel defended, putting her stupid small hand on Monica's shoulder. All that was on her mind was pasta. Monica wanted the pasta like it was air.
"Just get the pasta, Mon–"
"I don't want to get the fucking pasta!" Monica yelled, and suddenly, the restaurant grew quiet. All the surrounding tables were looking at her. Hell, all the surrounding buildings were probably looking at her.
She no longer was the only person experiencing discomfort anymore. Everyone looked down at their laps. Great, Monica just ruined Chandler's birthday.
After an eternity, Ross finally made a sound. "Jeez, it's not that serious."
"I know, I'm sorry." She apologised meekly.
Ross' voice went soft. "I'm sorry, too. Just get whatever you want."
The waiter, standing far from the table like it was explosive, finally inched closer to the group. He wrote down their pastaless order and turned to Monica for hers.
"I'd like the salad." She lied.
Later that night, Monica and Rachel were leaning on each other while trudging up the stairs, the energy and thrill from before draining away.. They were at the age when the most regular of outings became tiring. Right as they reached the door, Rachel's face went pale.
"Mon', do you have my bracelet?" Rachel asked, her voice trembling as she rummaged through her purse.
"Which one?"
"The blue one? With the little diamonds? The one that was on my wrist just a couple hours ago?"
Monica shook her head.
"Oh my god, I left it at the restaurant!" The realisation hit her like a brick. Rachel smacked her palm against her forehead repeatedly out of frustration. "Stupid, stupid me!"
"Please, Monica! Come with me! I have to go get it!"
Rachel was desperate and panicked, and any good friend would help their desperate and panicked friend in times of stress— but Monica was exhausted, and she had other plans tonight.
"I'm sorry, Rach'. I'm way too tired." She stabbed Rachel in her boney back with her excuse. "Hey, the boys are still downstairs, why don't you go with them?"
Rachel nodded and frantically ran down the stairs in her tiny heels.
Now, Monica was left all alone.
Against Chandler's wishes, the group did end up getting him a birthday cake, and against Monica's wishes, she had a slice. You can't refuse a birthday cake. It was one of the many unspoken rules Monica grew up with. It's just too rude, and in her case, too suspicious. So she had a slice. It was chocolate flavoured with blue icing and chocolate toppings and filled with so much sugar her mind couldn't even comprehend. She was dirty with sugar, filled with her enemy. Just knowing it's all swirling around in her stomach, breaking down into fat that she'll see tomorrow morning, it made her sick. She's worked so hard; it can't all go to waste now.
Monica found herself kneeling in front of the toilet, head over the bowl. This was the only way she wouldn't fall behind on her progress. Everything must be purged, and only then would she be clean; empty; tiny. She gripped the side of the toilet seat, knuckles almost as white as the floor tile. With shaking hands, she shoved two of her fingers down her throat, and yet nothing came out. Monica kept gagging, choking on nothing but her own failures. Her body resisted the violence. The whispers were telling her this was all she wanted— she needed— but her hand was stuck. She just couldn't bring herself to purge.
Warm tears slid down her face, mixing with the toilet water and bouncing in her reflection. The water turned more grey with each drop of her mascara. In the water, she saw herself; the fat girl she had always been. She looked the exact same as she did in highschool. No one noticed any of the weight she lost. Right now, they were all giggling about what a pig Monica was for eating so much today. They all wanted to pinch her fat, poke her thigh and see how deep their fingers could go before they hit bone.
Among her cries, the most unexpected voice called out to her.
"Monica?— Monica!"
She lifted her heavy head from the toilet bowl to see Chandler standing at the door, still in his suit from earlier, and fear on his face like no other. He immediately rushed to her side and fell to his knees, trying to understand the situation.
"What's wrong? Are you sick?" He rubbed her back slowly, ready to assist her if the vomit ever came. It never would.
She fell limp onto his chest, crying harder than she ever has in her whole life. She felt his body shake, startled by her sudden movement.
"I can't do it, Chandler! I can't!"
She was barely discernible.
"Can't do what?"
"I can't throw up!"
Chandler hesitated for a moment, stroking the top of her head. "Is that a good thing? A bad thing?" He wasn't sure what to say at all.
She held onto his shoulders for dear life, as if at any moment, the cool tile beneath them would disappear. Her sobs only grew louder, his shirt now stained with shades of Monica's face. He held her in a desperate embrace, his grasp so tight that at any moment, her frail bones might just crack. She waited for that to happen.
"Can you tell me what's happening, Monica? What's been going on with you?" He begged into her hair, his worry eating at her core. All she ever did was burden others. A day meant to be celebrated was now being spent consoling his disgusting friend.
"I can't tell you…" She managed to say in between tears. "You wouldn't understand."
"I can try?" His voice was so earnest it only made her feel worse.
What was she to do now? If she tells him the truth, then her spell is broken. She won't be the effortlessly skinny girl anymore. Everyone will know it's all a ruse, and she'll go back to being fat Monica. She'll lose to Rachel once again.
But it feels so good to be noticed. To have his eyes look down on her with such concern, such care. Monica felt so small in his arms; small but significant. She wanted to hear him say it'll be okay; that she doesn't need to do this; that she's skinny enough; but none of it would matter, because she'd never believe him.
"I just wanted to lose weight. That's all I wanted." She choked out.
The look of surprise on his face was so satisfying. "What? Why? Monica, you're–"
"It's not enough. I need to lose more."
"Monica, what are you talking about?"
"What do you think?" She snapped, "You of all people would know. I'm Ross' fat sister. That's all I am. But I don't want to be. I'm trying, Chandler. I really am."
More and more tears came with each word that involuntarily slipped out of her mouth. There was a pain in her chest so strong, and with each second that passed, Monica prayed her heart would just stop beating. She's surprised she's even survived this long with so little calories in her system.
Chandler held her up away from his chest so she'd be clearly visible to him. "Monica, come on. You know that's not true."
"Then why would you say it? Why did everyone say it?"
"I…don't know, okay?" She had him trapped. "All I know is that I was an asshole, and that you— you aren't fat. Not even close."
He could say it a million times, but she's seen her reflection. That voice will always be stronger than his.
At this point, Chandler had an idea of what's been tormenting Monica since— well, forever.
"Come on, Mon'. You don't have to do this. You're skinny, I mean, maybe even too skinny. Seriously, how much do you weigh?" He asked, unknowing of the effect those words have on her. Comments of concern were nothing more than encouragement to her. She never wanted that train of praise to end. He must have seen something shift in her eyes— that dangerous twinkle of validation— because he winced, and quickly backtracked. "Nevermind, don't answer that."
"Just leave me alone, Chandler." She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her dress, getting up from the floor and looking in the mirror. That was always her first instinct in times of distress. "This doesn't concern you."
He immediately followed after her, turning her away from the mirror. "It does, actually. It's very concerning to find my friend vomiting out of nowhere."
"Please, go away, Chandler—"
"How do you expect me to leave you alone like this? Please, Monica, just listen to me—"
"I can't—"
"Yes, yes you can." Chandler's grip on her shoulders tightened. His gaze could have burned a hole through her. He looked past the surface, right into her soul. Monica felt naked in front of him. "Listen, Monica. You're fine— no, you're perfect just the way you are, okay? You don't have to do any of…what you're doing."
He was clearly uncomfortable, evident by the dimple formed between his eyebrows when he furrowed them— but here he was, talking to her. Doing the uncomfortable. She really didn't deserve him.
"I have to, Chandler. You don't get it."
"No, no you don't! I mean— you're just hurting yourself, this isn't helping you at all. And I can't keep watching you do this, putting yourself through all this…"
The words were near impossible to find. What do you even say to someone in this situation? Maybe Monica had it easier than him.
"I'm sorry, Monica, I really don't know what to say…but please believe me when I say it doesn't matter what you look like. I love you because you're an amazing person— your appearance doesn't change that. Not for me, not for anyone else. You seriously have nothing to worry about."
Monica couldn't look at him anymore, she was humiliated. Her secret was plastered all over the room— all over him now. She couldn't find the relief she imagined she'd have of being honest.
"It's not that easy for me, Chandler. I can't just stop because you tell me to."
"Then what can I do?" He asked in pure sincerity. "Anything, Monica. You name it."
She swallowed. The tears had stopped pouring by now, but she was by no means feeling better. "There's nothing you can do, Chandler. It's too late for me."
"That's not true. You can get better, I know you can." Chandler said, his signature meek smile returning to his face. "You're the most hard-working person I know. There's literally nothing you can't do. You could be president if you wanted."
Monica let out a nose exhale. You could never expect grade-A therapy-speak from Chandler, but she slightly prefers his humorous approach to situations.
"And I'll support you— we'll all support you. Whatever it is you need, we'll be there." He slowly ran his fingers down her arms and into her hands, clutching them into his own. Chandler was the only thing keeping her standing on her two feet at the moment,
Monica appreciated the gesture, but it was all still clawing at her. This need for perfection was more than just a voice in her head— the whispers were her friend. It kept her motivated, sharp; it gave her purpose. She had a role in the group, who would she be if not the skinny one?
"What if…I don't want to get better?"
He looked taken aback. As if Monica was speaking an entirely foreign language to him; she might as well be. "You don't— you don't really think that, do you?"
Monica has never been sure what she wants, she just wants lots of things. She wants her reflection to stop changing; her red pen to run out of ink; her mother to smile at her for no other reason than being her mother; for everything to end. Being skinny was just the duvet she put on top.
"I don't know what I think." She admitted in defeat, head sunk low so that she could only see their feet. The view was unfamiliar without a scale underneath her, reminding her of breakfast and dinner and everything else that came in between.
Monica hated celebrations, restaurants, herself, and silence. Silence made her feel more cold than she already was. Ice grew around her bones, waiting to be thawed by the next morning's jog.
"You know what I think?" Chandler nearly whispered, his delicate voice wrapping around her, keeping her warm, "I think you are the most beautiful girl I've known in real life, and I think it's awful that the most beautiful girl in real life doesn't even know it. I think she's trying too hard to get everyone to love her when they already do."
Monica lets his words settle, giving them a chance to nestle in her brain, possibly fend off the illness that's brought her to the bathroom in the first place. She nearly melted in his hands— his attention was burning hot. She loved to finally be noticed, smothered in his recognition; she was suffocating under his stare.
Chandler pulled her into another hug, holding her as if he had lost her. The smell of La Meilleur Endroit followed him back home, reminding her of her selfishness.
"I'm sorry, today's your birthday, you should be celebrating right now."
"It's almost midnight. I shouldn't be anywhere."
"You definitely shouldn't be here. Why are you here?"
"I wanted to thank you for your gift— I love it, by the way." He planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
"I'm glad." She smiled, nesting her head onto his shoulder. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."
"Are you kidding me? A Chet Baker CD? Do you even know me?" He asked, "Well, obviously you do, if you got me a Chet Baker CD."
Monica chuckled— that was one good thing that happened to someone today.
She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his smile morph back into a worrisome frown. "I'm sorry, Monica. I wish there was more I could say to you that I haven't already. You just have to believe me when I say this isn't the only option."
There wasn't much left for Monica to say either, at least not in the state she was in right now. Maybe tomorrow she would have the strength to go in depth about the demons that followed her since the day she first stood next to Rachel during P.E, but right now, her brain was too much of a mess to make any sense. Chandler deserved coherency— and a normal end to his birthday.
"You don't have to say anything." She whispered. "Can you just stay here for a couple minutes?"
He hummed in agreement, holding her so close she could almost phase through his chest, and wander through the bones she always compared herself to. Were hers inherently bigger than his? Would her rib-cage sing the same beautiful song as Chandler's when played with a mallet? The black tar in her brain wouldn't cease immediately, but maybe his presence would help slow it down.
"I'm not going anywhere." He reassured her. "But can you promise me we'll talk about this tomorrow?"
She nodded against his collar-bone. Catharsis was the only thing that could save her now. Who knew what tomorrow would bring. Maybe Chandler would have entirely forgotten, and move on with his tiny wrists and his big meals, leaving Monica in the dust. But this time, she could fend off the black tar. Standing alone with him in the bathroom, she could reach into the ocean in his eyes and pull out a bottled letter. Even if he didn't have the words, his eyes said it all. His eyes said it'll be okay.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I tried making it so that Chandler isn't perfect here, because I doubt he would know the exact thing to do, but I tried making it clear that he cares for Monica and he just wants her to be healthy and happy
Hope you enjoyed!