undone

The door clicked shut behind Sasuke. His fingers clenched around the plastic bags in his hands, the crinkling of cheap material too loud in the silence of the dorm.

Naruto was gone. Off at some party, sending texts that Sasuke had barely skimmed before turning off his notifications. He had time.

His stomach twisted—not from hunger. Hunger had stopped meaning anything a long time ago. This was different. Deeper. A pull, a demand, a sharp and aching void clawing at his insides.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping the bags onto his desk and ripping them open with practiced, shaking hands. He had done this so many times, and yet, it always felt desperate. Frenzied. Like he was racing against something he couldn't name.

The first thing his fingers found was a box of powdered donuts. He shoved one into his mouth without thinking, barely chewing before swallowing it down. The sugar coated his tongue, soft and cloying, but it dissolved too quickly, leaving nothing behind. Not enough. He grabbed another, then another, the sweetness turning heavy in his throat.

The taste didn’t matter. The texture didn’t matter.

Only the act. The motion. The consuming.

He tore open a bag of chips next, shoving a handful into his mouth, the sharp crunch cutting through the lingering sugar. The salt burned, sharp against his tongue, but he welcomed it. He needed it. Needed everything, all of it, at once. He chased it down with gulps of soda, barely stopping to breathe as the carbonation fizzed and burned its way down.

His stomach was already starting to ache, stretching too tight, but he ignored it. He had learned how to push past that feeling years ago.

A sleeve of cookies disappeared in minutes. A pint of ice cream, half-melted, followed shortly after. Candy bars, pastries, greasy gas station snacks that left his fingers slick with oil and crumbs—he forced them down, one after another, a mechanical cycle of chewing and swallowing, barely tasting anything anymore.

His breath was coming shorter now, and his hands trembled as he reached for more, as if his body knew what was coming before his mind did. His stomach was a lead weight inside of him, nausea curling at the edges of his awareness.

Too much.

It was too much.

The thought sent a spike of panic through him, and before he had even fully registered it, he was already moving.

He stumbled to his feet, his vision tilting for a moment as the blood rushed from his head. The empty packaging rustled underfoot as he staggered toward the bathroom, fingers already halfway down his throat.

He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach revolted.

The first heave was violent, his body lurching as everything came rushing back up, burning and acidic. His stomach clenched painfully, bile stinging at the edges of his mouth, but he barely paused before shoving his fingers deeper, pressing against the back of his throat until his body obeyed.

Again.

Again.

His hands shook against the porcelain as he heaved, stomach cramping as more and more spilled out of him, splashing into the water below. His head pounded, and his breath came in ragged gasps between each convulsion.

Not enough.

His stomach still felt heavy.

His fingers pressed harder, his whole body shuddering as he gagged again, harder, desperate. His throat burned, raw and aching, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He had been doing this since he was thirteen. Since he had first learned how to make himself feel better.

His body knew the drill. His hands knew the motions. His mind barely had to think about it anymore.

But it was never enough.

He coughed hard, spitting out the last remnants of bile before finally slumping forward, his forehead pressing against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat. His body trembled violently, muscles weak and useless. Sweat slicked his skin, a cold sheen against the back of his neck. His chest heaved, his breathing ragged and uneven.

His heart was pounding.

Too fast.

His pulse thrummed painfully in his throat, his chest tight, his ribs struggling against each inhale. He swallowed thickly, trying to force himself to breathe slower, deeper, but it didn’t help. His heart still slammed against his ribs, frantic and erratic, each beat thudding unevenly in his ears.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It would pass. It always did.

Eventually.

His fingers curled weakly against the toilet seat, and he stayed like that for a long time, forehead pressed against the cool surface, waiting for the shaking to stop.

For everything to stop.

For that brief, fleeting moment of relief.

He swallowed thickly, his mouth tasting of bile and artificial sweetness. His heart was still hammering in his chest, too fast, erratic. It had been happening more lately—the palpitations, the dizziness, the way his limbs felt cold and numb after purging. He knew it wasn’t good.

But that didn’t matter.

What mattered was the food still sitting on his desk.

His limbs felt too heavy as he pushed himself up from the floor, gripping the bathroom counter for balance. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, his lips chapped and cheeks swollen from the force of retching. His throat burned, his body begged him to stop, but the need was stronger.

He turned away, stepping out of the bathroom and back into the dorm, where the mess of crumpled wrappers and half-empty packages waited for him.

The second round was always worse.

He sat back down at his desk, his fingers moving mechanically as he tore open another bag of cookies. He didn’t hesitate this time. He shoved one into his mouth, then another, barely chewing before swallowing. His throat was raw, every swallow scraping against the damage he’d already done, but he kept going. The sugar and fat stuck thickly to the back of his tongue, too sweet, too much, but he chased it down with a mouthful of soda, forcing it down, forcing himself to keep going.

It was messy now. More desperate. His fingers were sticky, his jaw ached, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

A bag of gummy candy disappeared next, handful after handful shoved into his mouth, the artificial fruit flavor nauseatingly strong. The textures mixed, sugar dissolving into grease, into salt, into artificial chemicals coating his tongue. His stomach cramped, a sharp and punishing pain, but he ignored it. He had trained himself to ignore it.

Another pastry. Another bite. Another swallow.

More.

More.

More.

His body protested, his stomach stretching past its limit, the food sitting heavy and wrong inside of him. His breath hitched, panic setting in.

His heart was pounding again, harder than before, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His fingers shook as he pushed himself up from the chair, the room tilting slightly as he stumbled toward the bathroom.

He knelt down and quickly shoved his fingers back against his throat once more. His fingers clutched at the toilet bowl, knuckles white, his whole body convulsing as he gagged again, harder, until more came up.

The relief was instant and fleeting, his stomach clenching and spasming as it fought against the abuse. He gasped between each heave, the taste of vomit thick in his mouth, his lips sticky with remnants of sugar and bile.

Not enough.

His stomach still felt full, his chest still tight with panic, so he forced his fingers down his throat again, pushing harder, deeper. His body lurched in response, more coming up in waves, splattering into the water below. The burn was unbearable, his eyes watering from the sheer force of it, but he didn’t stop. He never stops until all that comes up is stomach acid.

His body sagged against the toilet, his forehead pressing against the cool porcelain. His pulse throbbed painfully in his chest, fast and irregular. His hands were numb, his limbs weak, his vision blurring at the edges.

His throat clenched, his breath shallow. He knew he should get up. Knew he should rinse out his mouth, clean up the mess, erase the evidence.

But for now, he just sat there, slumped over the toilet, his body wracked with exhaustion.

Fuck, he was tired.

—

Sasuke sat slumped against the bathroom wall, his body a trembling mess of exhaustion, nausea, and cold sweat. His throat throbbed with every shallow breath, his mouth still sour with bile despite spitting and rinsing more times than he could count.

A dull, distant voice in the back of his mind told him to stay on the floor, to give in to the exhaustion weighing down his limbs, but another—louder, sharper—snapped at him to move.

He forced himself up, gripping the counter for balance as his vision tilted dangerously. His heart was still beating too fast, erratic and fluttering, but he ignored it as he braced himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

His face was a mess.

His dark hair clung to his sweat-dampened forehead, his skin pale and sallow beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. His eyes—sharp, dark—were ringed with exhaustion, bloodshot from the strain of purging.

Disgusting.

His fingers twitched with the urge to turn away, but he forced himself to keep looking. He was so fucking ugly.

He inhaled, slow and steady, then pushed himself away from the counter. He had work to do.

His movements were automatic, a sequence so practiced it no longer required thought.

First, the food.

He gathered the empty wrappers and cartons littering his desk, his hands moving quickly despite how weak they felt. Every crumpled package was shoved into a plastic bag, tied tightly to mask the smell. He took a quick scan of the room, making sure nothing was left behind—no crumbs, no evidence—before he slipped on his shoes and crept out of the dorm.

The hall was quiet, the weekend party scene drawing most students away. He took the stairs down to the dumpsters, barely pausing before tossing the bag inside and turning back. The cold night air bit at his bare arms, but he barely noticed it.

Back in the dorm, he locked the door behind him, then wiped down the desk, the bathroom sink, the toilet—scrubbing away even the faintest traces of what had happened.

Once the room was spotless, he let himself breathe, just for a second. The tightness in his chest hadn’t gone away.

Stripping off his clothes, he let them pool at his feet, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. His skin prickled with the artificial chill of the air conditioning, but he ignored it as he stepped toward the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door.

This was part of it, too.

He couldn’t not do this.

His fingers ghosted over his ribs first, pressing lightly against the sharp ridges just beneath his skin. Then his stomach—flat, concave in certain angles. His hands skimmed his hip bones next, then wrapped around his thighs, pressing together, assessing the space between them. For proof that he was doing this right.

He wasn’t trying to lose weight. Not really.

But it was a habit. A compulsion.

And he couldn’t stop.

Too much.

Not enough.

Neither. Both. It never made sense.

His stomach still felt distended, stretched, a sensation that his mind refused to let go of, no matter how empty he knew it was now.

His jaw clenched.

He needed proof.

Sasuke exhaled sharply. His scale sat in the corner of the room, tucked away where it wasn’t immediately noticeable but still accessible. He stepped onto it without hesitation, barely glancing at the number as it flickered to life beneath him.

107.2.

His chest tightened.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know. He had kept track, just as he always did. But seeing the number, tangible and unyielding, sent something cold creeping down his spine.

But the number didn’t mean anything. Not really.

His.. issue had never just been about weight. It was about control.

And yet—

He exhaled slowly, stepping off the scale.

It wasn’t good enough.

It would never be enough.

Sasuke exhaled slowly, stepping off the scale. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it for a second longer than necessary before letting it fall back to his side. His reflection stared back at him, silent and unyielding, and for a moment, he felt the overwhelming urge to smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, fingers twitching at his side, breath slow and even, like he could force himself into calmness through sheer willpower alone. His reflection didn’t change, didn’t waver, didn’t morph into something less unbearable no matter how long he stared.

Sasuke swallowed, tearing his gaze away before the frustration bubbling under his skin could take shape into something reckless. Breaking the mirror wouldn’t fix anything. It wouldn’t make his stomach feel any emptier, wouldn’t erase the numbers he had just seen, wouldn’t stop the awful, crawling sensation that came from knowing he had lost control—again.

He turned away and grabbed a shirt from the dresser, pulling it over his head, ignoring the way the fabric hung too loosely over his shoulders. He should get some sleep. He had things to do tomorrow, things that required him to be functional.

But as he climbed into bed, curling onto his side, that feeling still lingered—clawing at his ribs, pressing against his lungs, settling in the spaces between his bones. He just lay there, staring at the shadows on his wall, feeling the weight of his own existence pressing down on him like it was something tangible.

He didn’t want to be here anymore.

He didn’t want to be anywhere.

He had thought about it before—thought about it so many times that the idea had stopped feeling foreign, had stopped feeling like something tragic or awful. It was just… there. A simple fact. An eventuality.

He could do it tonight.

The thought drifted in so casually, so easily, like it belonged there.

He could do it, and it wouldn’t even be difficult. He had enough pills to do the job. Or he could slip out, walk to the nearest bridge, make sure no one was around before he climbed over the railing. He could just disappear. One moment here, the next—gone.

No more weight pressing down on his chest.
No more twisting hunger that he could never satisfy.
No more expectations he could never live up to.

Everything would finally stop.

No one would care.

His father would shake his head in disappointment, call it a disgrace to the Uchiha name. His mother might cry, but Sasuke knew she’d move on. Itachi would probably laugh.

And honestly, wasn’t that proof enough that he should do it?

That it didn’t matter if he lived or died?

That he didn’t matter?

Sasuke squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in slow, measured counts.

Except…

Naruto.

Naruto would care.

And that was the one thing that kept him from slipping out of bed and following through.

Because he could picture it too clearly—the way Naruto would react, the way he’d find out, the way his face would twist with something awful and real.

Naruto wasn’t like his family. He wouldn’t brush it off, wouldn’t chalk it up to weakness or failure or anything that the rest of them would.

Naruto would hurt.

He would be angry.

He would be devastated.

And Sasuke… Sasuke couldn’t do that to him.

(Which was so fucking stupid. Because why the hell should Naruto’s feelings be enough to stop him when nothing else was? Why should Naruto get to be the reason he was still here?)

But he was.

And Sasuke hated it.

Hated himself for being so weak, for letting something so stupid hold him back, for still being here even when everything in him screamed that he shouldn’t be.

His body still felt wrong, still felt like something he needed to crawl out of, but exhaustion was starting to win.

He let his eyes slip shut, breathing slow, waiting for sleep to take him.

Maybe tomorrow would be the day.

Maybe not.

But either way, he knew he’d still wake up.

He always did.