Daisy was fine.
Or at least she’d been fine. No thoughts, no old habits, no signs. She was fine. Until suddenly she wasn’t.
She was fine until the sandwich she forced down two days ago had resembled more a number than actual food and until the thought of eating the cereal before her made her nauseous. She was fine until the dull ache in her stomach had started to provide comfort rather than pain and until evenings curled over a toilet emptying her stomach of what little she’d managed to eat didn’t seem all that bad because at least she had control.
So no, maybe Daisy wasn’t fine, but hell if she would admit it.
Hell if she would admit that after all she’d been through, a stupid bowl of cereal was the reason she couldn’t quite breathe right and that tears were silently trickling down her cheeks.
“Dais? You alright?” May asks from the kitchen’s doorway, her brows creasing in concern as the girl jumps.
“It’s nothing May, really,” she dismisses, frantically wiping at her wet cheeks, “I’m just– I–”
May waits, her soft gaze focused on her.
“I can’t,” Daisy settles on saying. It’s a vague response, interpretable, but somehow as the words leave her mouth, tears also leave her eyes.
Through blurry vision, she watches as May hesitates, her mind trying to piece everything together. An emotion that Daisy can’t quite name falls across her features as her eyes drift from her to the untouched bowl of cereal and back up.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” May whispers, hurrying to her side and pulling a chair closer.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy looks away, her voice small and shaky.
“You don’t get to apologize Daisy, it’s not your fault. You didn’t choose this,” she soothes as she pulls her closer, wrapping her in her arms.
The gesture leaves a knot in Daisy’s throat and all she wants to do is scream. She wants to scream that she did choose this, that she chose to stop eating and that she chose to stop trying. She wants to scream that it’s all her fault because who else’s could it be? She wants to scream that she’s sorry. That she’s sorry May has done everything she could to keep her alive, only to have to watch her slowly kill herself time and time again. She wants to scream that she’s scared. That she’s scared this feeling will never truly go away, that every meal she looks at will make her want to vomit. That she’s scared her hands will never stop shaking and that the chill in her bones will never quite leave and that she’ll always find solace in the ache of an empty stomach. She’s scared she’ll never get better because every time she thinks she might be, it creeps back up on her and tries to drown her. She wants to scream, but she can’t, so instead she cries.
Daisy cries until her eyes feel raw and her already frail body can do no more than tremble in May’s arms. She continues to cry even when the tears stop falling and only when May gently pulls away does she stop.
“Dais, Daisy, look at me,” May cups her face, wiping away tears tracks as she searches Daisy’s bloodshot eyes, “it’ll be okay, you’ll get better.”
It’s a heavy promise, one she knows May can’t keep. “What if I don’t?” What if I don’t want to?
“You will,” she assures, “because you’re strong and you’ll beat this even if you have to spend the rest of your life fighting it.”
Daisy bites her lip as she looks down, leaning back into May and letting her head rest on her chest. “I’m so tired of fighting,” she whispers.
“I know baby, I know,” May consoles, lacing one hand with Daisy’s while the other goes to stroke her hair.
“What if I don’t want to keep fighting?”
“You survive. You survive until you can fight again,” she replies, holding her just a bit closer and just a bit tighter, “you survive and you fight and you let us help you because I’m not gonna lose you. I can’t lose you Dais.”
May’s voice cracks and if she had any tears left, Daisy might have cried.
“I can’t lose you.”