Jet Black Heart - A.I. (UNDER EDITING)

Chapter Eleven

*Diana's POV*

*Tuesday, 20th of July, 2021*

"Hey Diana," Wyatt greets me as he walks onto the balcony. He stands next to me and leans onto the edge of the balcony.

"Hey," I say softly, sucking in a breath of air through the cigarette in my hand and releasing it.

"You really need to quit smoking, Ana," he mutters, waving the air as if to clear it.

"You know I can't," I sigh, looking at him. He folds his arms and stares at me, waiting.

"When did you even start smoking?" he asks, is eyebrows drawing together. I shrug in response and suck in another breath of air from the cigarette. I release it and throw the cigarette into the ashtray next to me. 

Sighing, Wyatt follows me into the apartment. 

"Do you want to eat anything?" he asks as he makes his way to the kitchen. 

"No," I say, looking down at my stomach. I'm still not skinny enough.

"Are you sure?" he asks, worry evident on his prominent features. I nod and take a seat at the dining table.

"You haven't been eating much, Ana. You look sickly because you're so skinny. You're still beautiful, but you need to eat," he states, his chocolate brown eyes staring into my blue ones.  

I nod, but know that he's wrong. I'm not skinny enough. I need to be skinnier. Like Adriana.

He pushes a bowl of warm stew with a few slices of bread on the side in front of me. It smells delicious but I don't touch it. I want to, but I force myself not to. Wyatt sits down next to me.

"Diana, you're scaring me. What's wrong?" he asks. His questions start to get on my nerves. 

"Nothing," I say softly. I stare at the food in front of me but don't dare to touch it. 

"Diana, what's wrong?" he asks again. His persistence reminds me of the beautiful boy who left me for someone better. Someone more beautiful, someone more successful, someone skinnier, taller, more sociable. 

"Nothing," I repeat. He moves so that he's facing me. He lifts my chin up so that I'm looking him in the eyes. 

"What's wrong?" he asks again. Just like him. Strong, warm, persistent. But different. No hazel eyes, or light brown, curly hair. No bandanas, or drum kits, or random outbursts of giggles.

"Nothing," I repeat, much firmer than the last time. I jerk my head away from his gentle touch.

He doesn't say anything. Instead, moves back into his seat and eats silently. When he's finished, he gets up, washes his dishes and leaves.