it wasn't my fault, unless it was

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𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊


𐐪𐑂 ♡


dream is supposed to be catching up on the first week of computer science work that he had missed out on and, genuinely, he has no idea how he ended up in the kitchen. he had been getting stressed over a document that wouldn't load, and he probably just came down for some water or something, but now he's sat, staring blankly at the kitchen island whilst he makes his way through a large bag of chips.

there's an unmissable pain deep in his chest, pulling at his heart, even as he blinks mindlessly, not a single thought passing through his empty mind, and he isn't even sure if the pain is new, or if it's just always been there.

or, at least, been there since that day.

dream moves his hand blindly for a moment before his eyebrows furrow and he looks into the snack bag to find the chips. he notices then that the packet is now empty, and discards it onto the kitchen counter to go and get something else to eat- which ends up being some 'giant chocolate buttons' by cadbury, which he'd never even heard of before today.

from where he stands, leaning up against the kitchen counter, dream can see his reflection in the full-length mirror that hangs centrally in their hallway.

he looks at himself, watching as he shoves chocolate into his mouth like it's oxygen and he's a dying man. his hoodie engulfs him, at least three sizes too big, and his sweatpants are no better.

dream never used to be cagey about his body, but now he's so terrified to look at it that he avoids his own skin like the plague. the last time he'd worn tight clothes was his shirt and pants at homecoming.

he shivers at the thought, the pain in his chest growing.

you'd think having to buy a whole new wardrobe to replace his old, tight clothes would probably be expensive, but he'd bought most of it in thrift stores or second-hand online sites. plus, his parents relocated halfway across the world to help him, a few hundred dollars of clothes wasn't the worst of their worries.

dream always used to take such pride in his body, working so hard to get it to a point where he felt comfortable to show it off- but look where that got him.

he hates his physique for what happened to him, unnecessarily blaming his toned body for the living hell he went through that day... and every day since.

dream hates how every single fucking thought that he has somehow leads back to that goddamn day, and he feels sick to his stomach over the memories that flush through him.

the blond looks down at the chocolate packet in his hand, seeing that it's half empty, before glancing over at the two empty chip packets on the counter, one of which he didn't even remember eating.

he thinks one of the hardest struggles he's found himself in recently is the war between his thoughts and his body. on one hand, he fucking hates himself and the definition he has because of his trauma, but on the other hand, it hurts to let that wash away. he spent so long taking pride in his efforts, and now they were all slipping away because he gave up.

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