𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 (EDITING)

𝟏𝟐

emerson

I woke up to the soft sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Sundays were meant for tranquility, but today, an unsettling knot formed in my stomach, dampening the serenity of the morning.

Florence didn't have any filming obligations today, allowing us a rare break from the hectic schedule. Last week had been a turning point—I had opened up to her about my struggles, particularly with eating. Her support hadn't been forceful, but rather a gentle encouragement, nudging me toward recovery.

In the kitchen, the inviting smell of pancakes drifted through the air. It was a kind gesture from Florence, a small effort to help me ease into a day without the usual weight of worries about food. Yet, as I sat down, my appetite seemed to vanish.

I gazed at the plate of pancakes before me, feeling a surge of unease. Each bite felt like a monumental task, the anxiety around eating growing heavier with each passing moment. Florence noticed my hesitation, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine worry.

I attempted a smile, trying to hide the turmoil within. "Just not that hungry," I replied weakly, shifting the food around the plate without making any real progress.

As time passed, the anxiety made it increasingly difficult to even lift the fork. The once appealing meal now seemed daunting and unmanageable. Despite Florence's understanding presence, I found it harder to eat with each passing moment.

"I'm sorry, I can't," I murmured softly, frustration and self-blame creeping into my voice as I pushed the plate away, my appetite completely gone.

Florence nodded understandingly, her expression reflecting empathy rather than disappointment. "It's okay," she reassured, reaching out to gently grasp my hand. "I'm here whenever you're ready. No pressure."

A whirlwind of emotions churned within me—guilt for my inability to eat, frustration at my own struggles, and gratitude for Florence's unwavering understanding. The complexities of my battle with food felt overwhelming, but knowing I had her support gave me a glimmer of hope. The journey toward recovery was daunting, but Florence's patience and reassurance were the guiding lights illuminating the path ahead.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions raging within me. Florence's comforting presence beside me offered a small sense of relief, a lifeline amidst the turbulent sea of anxiety and frustration.

The weight of my struggles loomed heavily, casting a shadow over the otherwise tranquil Sunday morning. Despite my attempts to quell the rising tide of emotions, the familiar feelings of guilt and self-reproach lingered, taunting me for my perceived failure.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to ruin breakfast," I apologized softly, my voice tinged with a mix of disappointment and shame.

Florence turned toward me, her gaze filled with warmth and understanding. "You're not ruining anything," she reassured, her tone gentle and reassuring. "Your well-being matters more than any meal, Emerson. There's no rush, no pressure. Whenever you're comfortable."

Her words carried a soothing quality, the heaviness in my chest eased slightly, replaced by a sense of gratitude for her unwavering support and understanding. "Thank you," I whispered, offering her a weak smile, appreciative of her kindness and patience.