LOST IN EDEN

WAITING ROOM

EDEN

·:*¨༺  ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The waiting room feels more like a stage set than a place for healing. Everything is too perfect, too pristine. The pale walls are sterile, the kind that makes you think twice before touching anything. There's a soft hum of classical music playing in the background, probably some attempt to soothe the nerves of those who can afford to be here. It's not working. The plush chairs, though expensive, are stiff and uncomfortable. A marble coffee table in the center holds outdated magazines no one ever reads, probably just here to look good. The air smells faintly of antiseptic mixed with something floral—too sweet and cloying, like it's trying to mask the scent of sickness and despair.

I glance at the clock. Time feels like it's crawling, every second stretching out into an eternity. My mum sits beside me, flipping through a glossy magazine she has no interest in. Her hand reaches over to give my thigh a gentle squeeze, a small, rehearsed gesture meant to comfort me. But it only makes me feel more uneasy. The door to the exam rooms opens, and a doctor steps out.

She's the picture of professionalism—blonde hair tied back in a tight bun, immaculate white coat, and a bright smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Her name tag reads "Dr. Monroe," but she's not the first Dr. Monroe I've seen, and I doubt she'll be the last. She's been assigned to me for months, another face in a long line of faces who think they know what's best for me.

"Good afternoon, Eden! Lovely to see you again," she chirps as if she's genuinely happy to be here.

Is it, though? I hum in response, a non-committal sound that's neither friendly nor hostile.

She glances at the notes on her tablet, then back at me. "So, your mum mentioned in a call earlier that you've been away from school for a while. How are you feeling?"

I shrug, trying to sound casual. "Hm, yeah. But I'm fine now, really."

Her eyes narrow slightly, and the smile falters just for a moment. "I wish I could say the same. Eden, you don't look fine, darling."

I say nothing, just stare at her blankly. What's there to say? She keeps typing on her screen, occasionally looking up at me, her eyes filled with a concern that feels more like pity. My hands move on their own, fingers picking at the raw skin around my nails. The skin is already red and sore, the pain a welcome distraction from everything else.

"Right, Eden," she says, her tone shifting to something more clinical. "I'm just going to have you stand on the scale, okay, hun?"

I slip off my shoes and step onto the cold, hard surface. The numbers blink to life, and I can see the concern deepen in Dr. Monroe's eyes.

"Eighty pounds," she mutters under her breath, shaking her head slightly. She types it into her tablet with a frown.

Eighty-seven pounds. I know what that means. I can see it in her eyes. It's not good enough. It's never good enough.

She sighs, clearly trying to find the right words to break the news gently. "Eden, as you know, if you don't want to get referred again, you need to gain weight. It's crucial that you do, and soon. So many people are worried about your well-being."

I can count the people who actually care on one hand. But I know what she really means. Cut the bullshit—you're just here to get paid and move on to the next patient, right?