Sometimes, she'd wonder.
And then she starts to realize how she's slowly succumbing to her demons, to her monsters, to the people who try to push her to be someone she's not because there's nothing else left for her to give. Nothing else left for her to be. Nothing else left of who she is, of who she used to be. When she crawls to her bed at night, her head thrumming with pain, she tries to envision a future wheres she's perfectperfectperfect. A future where being who she was wouldn't hurt and hurt and hur t so bad. A future wherein she was skinny and beautiful and intelligent and witty and someone who she was not.
That is the thing with dreams, they keep you hoping and wishing. But, often, they also keep you breathing and yearning. When the world beneath you would crumble, the unreachable stars are all that's left for her to hold on to.
The monsters in her closet would come back to haunt her, but today and tomorrow and the day after that she is not going to eat. At 115 pounds she has more than 20 pounds to lose and she just has to. Losing weight means a lot, even if it means falling apart over and over again. She has to be 105 pounds in two weeks, lose ten pounds after that, and another.
She has to lose weight. She has to be thin.
She has to ace all her examinations. She has to get a hundred and one. She just has to.
They won't understand because they are monsters hunting her down to her dreams. She has to be perfect and pretty and thin.
Tomorrow and for the days to come, she will not eat. She does not need food. It doesn't matter. She will not binge, and she will not hurt.
One day.
