Mac P.O.V.
I turn into the driveway and park the rover in the garage. Taking my hands off the wheel, I rest them in my lap as we both sit in silence. I listen to her quiet breaths, in harmony with the piercing whistles of the wind. I turn to her, hoping she won't look into my eyes but she's gazing out the window. Into the grey painted walls. I wonder what she's thinking, so I open my mouth, but close it in doubt.
My back goes cold as I take her in. Her head barely reaches the bottom of the headrest, her legs dangle off the edge of the seat and her body barely takes up half of the seat.
She's just small, I reassure myself. I think I'm overthinking things after the incident.
I snatch a look at her before shes suspects anything; a child-like figure. I admit it, the phony articles were all up on Ariana about her baby-face, but, this. This is something else. Bony knees. Tiny thighs. Stomach flat as a pancake.
And to top it off, she never wants to eat. I physically have to drag her to the fridge. She spends a lot of time in the kitchen, chatting that is, never eating. I bug her a lot but she always tells me to lay off, she's busy or she's already had a big breakfast. I'm fucking concerned that's all.
Her habits are what almost cost her life, and I can't stress to her how much she means to mean that she eats well. Exercising, well, thats another situation. Her diet is non-existent apart from being extremely vegan, which I support her fully on, but she works out any time she's free. Ari is a free spirit, loving and caring, but what worries me is that she is fixated on getting to a specific weight. I constantly tell her how much I love her, that she shouldn't feel she has to change for anyone, especially for me because I would love her no matter what she looked like.
When we were both on our separate tours I was constantly worried about Ari. She's selfless, cares about everyone; their health, how their doing. But she forgets about herself. I'm always the one who forces her to eat. A few bites of salad; a good day. A punnet of fruit; praise the lord. She'll go a whole day not even thinking about eating, a few bottles of water here and there sure, but eating for her is like a chore. Her schedule is so overloaded, she barely has any time to.
Now that our tours are over, I can help her get rid of her horrible eating habits. Even if she tries to deny she has any.
Ari P.O.V
I hate how he keeps worrying about me. I know it sounds bratty and ungrateful, he cares for me that's all, but I get frustrated. He shouldn't feel the need to analyse everything I do. Yeah, maybe sometimes I skip a few meals or two but it's not my fault. Scooter wouldn't want me to miss studio sessions, tour meetings, discussions with writers, the list goes on. I'm always on my toes and I can't be worrying about breakfast when rushing to rehearsals.
It just agitates me. A lot. How he feels like he can 'help' me with my apparent 'dietary decisions', as the doctors call it, when he can't even help himself. To be fair, I'm at an average weight and I'm only going to lose a few pounds to get where I want to be. I don't get why he can't understand that.
I'm the one who should be worried, and I am, immensely. I should be glad Malcolm's off all the hard drugs and vaping he used to do on a daily basis when he got into the industry, but I still don't seem to be enough for him to stop. Whenever I leave to do something I come back and he's smoking. The distinct smell of cigarettes is on his clothes, it used to make me want to gag when I first met him but now I merely scrunch my nose. I tell him all the time, I beg him to stop smoking. He assures me he'll be fine and quit, but the next day the cycle remains. I hate to see him like this, wasting away on endless boxes of cigarette boxes. I thought I could be the one to pry him away from his addictions, but I guess not. I might not be good enough for him anymore, or so I think.
