MY ANOREXIC FRIEND// N.S.

Letter III

My dearest Niall,

I know it's been a while since I wrote you. It's not because I blame you for not answering my letters, because if I were in your place, I probably wouldn't write back either.

Who would want to write letters to his anorexic ex- best friend (or more?)

But that isn't the reason. The truth is: nothing really happened. Lately days have been quite similar: I wake up in the morning, don't want to get out of bed and face the world, do it anyway. Then I skip breakfast and go to college. Then I wander around, more lost in my thoughts than I could ever be in the city. Afterwards I go home, and skip lunch too. Then I've literally got nothing but time to kill. I mostly spend it staring at walls, wondering 'what if?'

What if you would've fallen for me the way I fell for you?

What if you hadn't walked away that day?

What if I hadn't blamed everything on myself?

What if I hadn't fallen in love with the sick pain of hunger eating away your stomach after I realized you would never love me?

What if I wouldn't be here anymore? Would you care? A month ago, I would've been sure of the answer to that question. Yes, of course. But now? I really don't know anymore. I don't know you anymore.

I doubt you'd even miss me.

I've been having these thoughts a lot lately. Asking myself what I'm still doing here. It scares me, but not as much as I'm supposed too. I'm just genuinely curious.

Let's be honest for a moment: a lot of people would be better off. My parents think I don't notice their marriage going to waste because of me, but it is. I am destroying it, but I don't want to, I swear. I never intended to.

They fight all the time now. About me, I know it. I just wish I cared enough to end it all. If I hadn't been born, they probably wouldn't be unhappy right now.

My sister hasn't been happy either. She's never home anymore, really. Who would want to be, when I'm home all the time? It's mostly just mom yelling at me to eat. And nobody even acknowledges her. I can't really blame her for hating me.

She was the first child. I basically ruined it all for her. I am sorry, but I can't tell her anymore. We don't talk. What are we supposed to talk about anyway? Love? My parents? My goddamn feelings?

No thank you very much, I'd rather not.

There's nothing to say anyway. Love doesn't exist, my parents are unhappy and I lost all my feelings when I started finding comfort in knowing I hadn't eaten. I don't eat anything, but I feel like I'm eating away my mind, my feelings, my soul.

I've started to lose more weight. Doctor Payne, the therapist I told you about last time, got mad at me. He told me to stop starving myself.

I really wonder where that guy got his degree. You can't just tell an anorexic to stop starving themselves! It's like telling someone with asthma to just breathe, or telling someone in a wheel chair to just walk.

It doesn't work that way.

My dad got really annoyed with me too. He screamed at me, asking me why I am doing this to myself. I'm surprised he couldn't guess. After all, he might be my father, and we might live in the same house and talk every day, he still doesn't know two things about me.

I don't think he'd want to know. I don't think anyone does.

You did. But look where we are now. I'm writing you letters and you're probably never going to answer me.

Yeah. Telling someone everything. We can all see how well that worked out.

My mom just cried. She is always crying. She literally spends her days crying, asking herself where she went wrong. I know it should break my heart to see her cry. I know I should at least care.

But I can't. I really can't.

I know I should've told her that none of this is her fault, that it's mine, just like every other thing that goes wrong in this is my fault.

But I couldn't. I really couldn't.

My therapist asked me: why can't you just be happy, Harry? (I don't know where he got the idea to call me by my surname either but oh well)

The answer is: I can't. I just can't. I really want to, but I can't.

I can't smile, I can't be happy, I can't be normal. I can't love and I can't live.

I don't think I'll ever be able to.

Then again, why am I telling you all of this? You don't care, you never did.

I thought you did, but who could ever love someone like me?

No one, that's right.

I guess I'll just keep losing weight, trying to become what I never was and probably never will be. Perfect.

It's not like you give a fuck.

So, this might be goodbye, because I'm not sure I'll write to you again.

I'd like to say, that when you don't receive any letters, you should know that wherever I am, I'm happy.

But that'd be a lie. I'll never be happy.

Love,

Your anorexic 'whatever' (please define what we are, because out of all these things I'm sure, I really don't know about this)