For Phil {Completed}

Eleven/Epilogue

Two Years Later...

"Dan, wake up, bear."

"Phiiiiiiil, I don't want to go," I mumbled, pulling the pillow tight over my head.

"I know, bear, but you have to. It will be quick, and I'll be right by you the whole time." He was using my pet name because he knew it would ease me more. Cheeky bastard.

"Ugh, fine," I said as I removed the pillow from over my head. A breath of fresh air hit me, as I'd been breathing through fabric. Phil sat next to me on the bed, where I laid on my stomach. I knew I was being childish, but I was scared. It'd been two years since I woke up from my coma, two years since I committed to getting better, and I was nine months clean.

Today I was due for a physical and mental check up on my progress. I had done this same thing exactly one year before, except I was absolutely shitting myself and had about five anxiety attacks before and during the process. I was still scared, but Phil made it all better. As a flatmate of a year and a boyfriend of two, it's no wonder he does.

"Thank you, babe," he said as I sat up, kissing me on the cheek.

"I've made Delia Smith pancakes for breakfast," he told me as he put his arm around my waist and walked me down the hall.

"Thank you," I said meekly, though I wasn't feeling up to eating them. It wasn't that I was relapsing, or maybe I was, but I was nervous, and I can never eat under nervous conditions. I'd been better at eating, though it took a year to get here. I still occasional problems, but I'd had at least two meals everyday for a month. We've been keeping track of what I eat and how often I eat everyday for about a year and a half.

"Dan, you're going to be fine. It's just like last time. Just a quick physical, a few questions for both of us, and we'll be gone. We can get starbucks or bubble tea after if you want, anything, okay?" He said, trying to ease me. I just nodded and let him kiss me again before we sat down. There was a pancake with butter and syrup on it, and I couldn't help but feel sick. Why was I feeling like this all of a sudden? Was it just the nerves? Was it relapsing? Before I could ponder further, I was up and sprinting to the bathroom to throw up whatever I had eaten the day before.

"Oh my god, Dan," I heard Phil remark as he ran down the hall to find me bent over the toilet. "What's the matter? Have you been feeling ill?" he asked when I seemed to be done, putting the back of his hand to my forehead. I shook my head.

"No, I just, I don't know. I sat down, and I looked at my food, and I just felt sick..." I drifted off, trying to think of an explanation. The only one I could come up with was what Phil said next.

"Dan, be honest, do you think you're relapsing?" I had to think about it. Was I? I've been doing so good for so long, I couldn't be, right? "Dan, bear, can you answer me, please?" Phil pressed when I didn't answer after a minute.

"I-I don't know," I said, rising to my feet. I looked in the mirror, turning to my side and lifting my shirt. My stomach was flat, no longer caving in, the scars almost gone entirely. My ribs were barely visible, and my hipbones relevant. I couldn't tell what I thought about my appearance. Disgust? But about what? Did I think I was too fat, or too skinny? I'd had days where I was so disappointed with how skinny I made myself that I binged until it made me throw up. But I didn't think it was one of those days.

"Dan, baby," Phil said, standing up. "I don't think this is a good idea..." he proceeded to lower my shirt and turn me to face him, where he looked me right in the eyes. He seemed to be searching for something, for what I wasn't sure. Hate? Disgust? I wasn't sure. But what he asked next made my mind spin more and my stomach churn.