For Phil {Completed}

Nine

An hour and a half later, I had a sheet of paper and two pill bottles in my hand. The paper stated that I was anorexic, and I would need to be seeing a dietitian. The pills were for pain and something to do with keeping my nutrient levels up, though I wasn't listening when the nurse instructed me on their use. Phil had come in to check on me, but said he'd be waiting outside when I was done. He had still seemed so broken, his cheeks permanently red and his eyes unforgiving.

With black skinny jeans and Phil's green hoodie on, I checked myself out with the friendly nurse and made my way outside. I pushed open the heavy glass doors, having them push back on me as I tried to exit. I was immediately greeted with a frosty gust of wind, cold enough to made my nose twitch and toes curl with it's bitter temperature. I blew my warm breath into my hands before shoving them into the pocket of the hoodie, attempting to keep them warm. I could feel my cheeks blushing and nose resembling rudolph as the cold engulfed me in it's icicle kisses and snowflake hugs.

My head snapped as I heard a honk, my eyes soon meeting a pair of ocean eyes, no longer crying ocean tears but glazing over with cloudy ice. I smiled and found my feet trampling the cold concrete beneath them to bring me to Phil faster. Before I knew it, me rosy cheeks were warmed with Phil's warm arms around my neck, my own snaking around his waist.

"Hey, Dan?" he mumbled into my hair, which was curling from my lack of showering.

"Yes?" I responded, pulling away a bit to look at him. His eyes hid his remaining pain behind the clouded ice, but I could see it poking through his painted excitement, though not entirely fake.

"Let's go," was all he said before pulling me into his car. I hated his car, as it required me to grab the handle hanging from the ceiling and hoist myself up. Once inside, I felt the snowflake hugs melt away and get replaced with fiery whisps that wrapped me up and took me further down.

"I'm going to stop to get something to eat, okay?" Phil said as we pulled out of the parking lot. I was tempted to lie and say that I wasn't hungry, but I was in a coma for so long and... well, yeah, I was hungry. I nodded, unsure if Phil could see me, and let myself get lost in silence for a moment.

"What was it like to be in a coma?" Phil said, hands on the wheel and eyes still focused straight ahead. I couldn't tell if he was trying to make small talk to rid us of awkward silence, or if he was trying to find out if I could hear him while I was out.

"Um, interesting, I guess. It was tiring," I said, deciding to add, "I could hear everything around me. It was like I was awake, I just couldn't see or move." I turned back to see him nodding slowly, possibly processing that I had heard everything he said.

Moments later he was pulling into yet another restaurant I wasn't familiar with. I hesitantly stepped out of the vehicle, being closely watched by Phil, and let him hold the door open for me. As I stared at the menu, my mind and body contradicted each other. Too many calories, you don't need anything. But he's going to make me eat, and I'm so hungry. Get the smallest and healthiest thing you can, and throw it up right after. God, I hate myself.

"Does anything sound good? Or do I have to order for you?" He said it in a way that would have been joking if I wasn't anorexic, or, whatever.

"Um, I don't know. Just whatever, I guess," I said, fiddling with the sleeves of my hoodie. Well, Phil's hoodie. He must have sensed my nerves and uneasiness, because soon he was holding me close, placing small kisses to my forehead.

"It's okay," he said softly. "I've got you. It will be okay, I want you to be okay." I nodded and allowed him to order while I found us a small table to sit at in the back of the establishment. Looking around I noticed only two other parties of people, one being an older couple, probably late fifties, and the other being who I guessed was a mother and daughter, the mother seemingly young and single, and the daughter, though only looking around five, the spitting image of her mother.