Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Routine is a necessary thing in nearly everyone's life.

Many people make routines without noticing. Wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, head out for work or school, come home, eat dinner, and sleep. Most routines will change over time. But sometimes, schedules appear and warp so suddenly that there's no thought of how it came or how to fix it.

Sometimes to Cosmo, it's like a grip on his life. He was always more routine-oriented, and he'd always have a schedule with his mornings or how school went and what was expected after school. And if that ever changed, the day felt skewed - wrong.

But that just happens to him, he guesses. He stays upset until he can reestablish his ideal. And that ideal was the same forever.

Until it wasn't.

Just a month or two ago, it was just waking up, getting dressed, getting something for breakfast, and waiting for the bus. The school schedule was fine. It always was. Even if he couldn't do the classwork, he still got there every day. Then going home was easy, and having free time was sometimes all he needed.

But it just slowly changed.

It was a realization in mid-December that he wasn't always hungry in the morning. Recognizing those internal cues was difficult even before, but soon, randomly skipping meals became more normal. He couldn't even give a second glance to the gnawing feeling of hunger because he'd just mistake it as a stomachache.

Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it was intentional from the start, but there began a focus on himself - his body- once he changed into this schedule. Nothing felt as harsh as the mirror after a while. Nothing felt worse than that sudden thought of having just an average body. If the people who knew him at school hated him, part of it was because of his appearance, right?

Dozens of poor decisions and skipped meals later, he knew what he wanted. To look better, lose some weight.

Change the routine.

A set of keys jingle slightly in Cosmo's grip while he jams one into the door's lock. A hand holds the loose knob and the old door budges easily once unlocked, opening to a quiet and empty house.

It was known the second he got off the bus just moments before that his mom wasn't home this evening. She'd probably told him the day prior where she was going. Maybe out with her friends to play cards and have a couple of drinks - maybe to do evening errands. He wouldn't know, he’d already forgotten.

He locks the door behind him, and without a second thought, heads up to his bedroom. Each stair creaks as he goes up them. Benefits of an older house.

Entering his bedroom, he tosses his bookbag onto the ground with a loud thud. His pockets are emptied of everything, with his phone, earbuds, and keys tossed haphazardly on the bed. His shoes are kicked off near his bag and out of the way, and he's happy to lose the constraint that shoes always make him feel.

Once he's rid of his belongings, he turns on his TV. It was a smaller screen that was propped on top of a tall bookshelf full of trinkets and unread stories. He was told by his brother that he could have it once he moved out, and as hesitant as he was, he took the TV as his own within a couple of months of his brother's departure.

The device lights up to a screen full of options for watching things. There was access to free live TV, streaming services, and everything else, but he almost exclusively gravitated towards YouTube.

The app opens and loads slowly into his recommended feed, showing right at the top another storytime from a YouTuber he'd been consuming a lot of content from recently.

He'd found himself pulled towards a form of content that was newer to him. The particular person he grabbed onto would make storytime-style videos on their struggles as a teen and young adult. Cosmo found it interesting because he saw just the slightest bit of himself in their experiences. He knew things were wrong with his behavior - with him as a whole - so now he listens to other people's stories about the same things. Because what comes with modern-day eating issues besides the modern-day glamorization of it all?

So what if he knew he had a bad relationship with food - or even an early developing eating disorder? And so what if he knew the dangers of it? He's just sixteen, it won't hurt him.

He taps the remote to select the recommended video, tossing it to his bed once the voice begins from the speakers. With his mom out of the house for presumably the rest of the day, he took his chance to waste his time pacing circles around his room.

Pacing in this manner was something he felt like he couldn't do when the downstairs was occupied. A scared voice in his head argued that he'd be heard in his obsessive act and caught like a deer in the headlights by his mother. He didn't want to chance that most days, but now the chilly comfort of his bedroom and this empty house welcomed this cry for help.

He starts without another thought to it all. He has his path and he has his background noise. That's all he needs to step off the activity. One foot in front of the other, he begins his familiar circle where he'll walk, and keep walking and keep walking.

The floor might as well have a worn-down circle around it from just how many times he's paced the same path over this last month. Circling over and over the same floorboard for minutes - even hours on end.

He kicks his bookbag out of his way after he finds it in his path one go-around. The folder for his math class falls out through the bag's open zipper, but Cosmo doesn't notice or care. He just continues his monotony, striding past his bed, by the dresser, and curving by the mirror. Every time he passes, he tries to sneak a glance at his body in the reflection...

He fidgets with his hands in another attempt to keep busy. He wrings them, tumbling his fingers together and clenching his fists.

The sound of occasionally creaking wood and the excited yet monotone voice drags through the air. He tries to pay attention, really he does, but it's so hard to process what they're saying while he's also trying not to bump into his own feet. About 15 minutes in, however, a specific part of the video script catches his attention.

"- spend entire nights walking up and down her bedroom. Just striding - pacing, pacing, pacing up and down her bedroom."

Well if that doesn't sound familiar.

He tries not to think about it too hard. Doesn't want to think of the hundreds - thousands of other people who have or are doing the same as him.

The world is too big and his mind can't expand out of his bedroom, outside of the mantras that rule his head. There's no way there could be anyone suffering this same fate. Right?

It doesn't matter right now.

He doesn't - won't - keep track of how many laps he makes around the room. The only reference for how long he paced was from the timestamp of the video playing, and the digital alarm clock balanced awkwardly on his dresser. It read 4:38 when he started, only minutes after his bus finally dropped him off after its hour-long route. He only glances up at the clock occasionally, brain too scattered with frenzied thoughts about food and weight and exercise to care about the passage of time.

Time still passes though.

4:53. 5:07. 5:12. 5:21. 5:44.

His legs and feet ache by the time it hits an hour. He tries to ignore it. It's always like this. To him, it will be worth it when he sees a lower number than that morning.

5:55. 6:02. 6:27. 6:36. 6:49.

There are seemingly never-ending thoughts about food and the hopes he would be burning those unnecessary calories from a regretful meal during lunchtime that day. There's a single thought about maybe working on that History project he was assigned, but he ignores it. He can't even focus on the project's instructions during class, so why try to start at home?

6:51. 7:00. 7:09. 7:14.

The sun has long since set by the time it's past two hours - nearing three. Time slows, the video has changed to a different yet similar story, and he's just so damn tired . He was slowing down, fidgety hands no longer enriching his impatient mind. The steps he takes become so dull and repetitive that it's painful.

He finally slows to a stop to gaze at the mirror he'd been on and off glancing at for the past couple hours.

Cosmo feels like he's seeing a stranger in the reflection. His angular features are highlighted by the inconsistent lighting of the television screen and the street light that so adamantly pushes through closed blinds. His hair is growing longer into a messy shag. The ends climb like vines to cover his face, and everything else is shrouded with a shadow that makes it difficult to find where any bit of him starts or ends.

Out of seemingly nowhere, his stomach growls loud , and he's suddenly hyper-aware of just how hungry and exhausted he is. His self-talk peeps up with something rational - hungry. I should eat. I want a cheese stick. And-

Nope. Absolutely not.

You already messed up earlier. You've started on a 24-hour fast. Shouldn't break it seven hours in. Not for a cheese stick, not for anything.

His head is dizzy from the hundreds of circles he's walked (and maybe the lack of food).

Can't eat. It's too late. You'll get sick.

That last part might not be true, but he's not going to test it out. He's hesitant to tear his eyes away from the glass, away from the hunched-over boy he's not sure is him still. He turns away after a long minute, falling into his need to rest.

His rickety twin mattress isn't as much of a comfort as he feels it should be after a long day. The items from his pockets earlier get shoved over and onto his nightstand while the box spring groans under his weight.

He clicks the remote to pause and turn off the video. There's shown to be about half an hour left in the story, but Cosmo probably couldn't finish it tonight even if he wanted.

His limbs sink into his covers, and he struggles to keep his eyes open despite how awake certain parts of his brain are. He wants desperately to just get away from the night. The thoughts and voices are always harsher in the dark.

Something about sleeping through his newfound hunger and sadness felt comforting in a sick, twisted way. Spending every free moment burrowed away in his head was something he was already used to. Why change something that isn't broken?

Maybe it is broken.

If not broken, it's misplaced, wrong .

It's not like he could tell anyone. No one would understand anyway. He didn't have one true decisive reason for why he does what he does. He's always been that way - odd. Weird. People stopped expecting things from him after a while.

He pulls his weighed-down limbs up for a moment, reaching to rub at bleary eyes that threaten to fall into the depths of nighttime slumber. Not even 8 PM yet and he's ready to clock out.

He wants to get up before he does sleep, just for a moment so he can check the bathroom scale one more time. But he still feels the ache in his legs, and what's one night without a weigh-in? He's been losing consistently the whole week, and he'll check in the morning before his shower.

So he rolls to his side, accepting the warm comfort of his tiredness. He'll wake up in the morning and let it all repeat tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day.

Just following his routine.

Chapter Text

Late January winter infiltrates Cosmo's room the worst during the mornings. Even after the weekend sun rises, the dropped nighttime temperatures make crawling out of the comfort of heavy blankets nearly excruciating. The blankets still hold his body heat in, but it doesn't feel like enough. He still shivers and turns around uncomfortably under it all, with his knees tucked below his chin and as close to his chest as they can get.

With what feels like no other choice, he forces himself to get out of bed to layer up with anything extra. He regrets it before he even stands up, a harsh chill rushing over his whole body while he stumbles to his dresser.

Cosmo is quick to jump into not one, but two pairs of socks. A pair of patterned pajama pants are pulled over the worn sweatpants he already had on.

He wants to double up on sweatshirts, but he'll have to get a second one first. The first one is easy to find, a deep forest green sweater that he wears almost every day now. His hands rummage through one of the dresser drawers, trying to reach for a particular garment that he knows is somewhere in this room.

It's found quickly, a navy blue hoodie that he honestly hadn't worn since early freshman year. It was one - maybe two - sizes too big now, though it never fit him correctly to begin with. He slips it over the other one, but he's not feeling too much better yet.

It doesn't matter though, because soon he'll be under the covers and back to sleep again. However, a quick glance at the mirror on the way back into bed makes him stop in his tracks.

All he can see staring back is the same person from middle school.

It's so jarring that he has to do a double-take. In the reflection, he sees a boy - himself - that he feels like he hasn't known for years.

His brain catches on to the way it makes him look. Not only younger in his eyes, but worse. Maybe it's a trick of the low lighting or just his natural urge to overthink, but he looks bigger . The hoodie, as oversized as it is, folds around the arms and chest, bunching around his hips and making him look huge . The thick, straight-leg pants feel the same way.

The messy reflection that stares back makes him hate himself all the worse. The mirror is a curse to Cosmo. That's what he thinks now, and what he's thought for the past month. No matter what he wore, where he looked, or how long he looked, he'd always find something wrong with his appearance.

It was worse right now.

As frequently as he'd find himself avoiding mirrors like the plague, there were times when he couldn't avoid it. Some days it was so horribly obsessive to stare into that wood-framed glass and just judge and judge and judge. From his stomach to his thighs to his upper arms to his face. Nothing was good about them anymore.

Staring back through the smudged glass is someone who can't talk to people to save his life, can't pass any of his simplest classes, can't sit still, and can't seem to be anything but the kid who's different .

There's no change from then to now. He's still awkward and stupid and fidgety - out of place next to the others in his grade.

Nothing has changed.

How has nothing changed?

How has it gotten worse ?

He doesn't know.

He should have changed, at least a little bit. He knows that. He should have gotten rid of this hoodie, gotten rid of the memories attached, and moved on from middle school.

But it was something from his dad. His dad, gone for nearly fifteen years now, first handed off the item to his older brother. Schnozmo rarely wore it over the decade it was in his possession, also deciding to hand it to his younger brother eventually.

Cosmo liked it, and for the entirety of middle school, would allow himself to drown in the fabric each day. He's not sure why he stopped wearing it - why it got folded one last time and taken out of rotation. Maybe it was to bring him here now. To bring him exactly to this moment in his chilly room, destined to hate the boy in the mirror.

Half the days, he'd take his time while looking at himself, staring for what felt like hours, scrutinizing every detail. He needed to see every inch of skin at every angle, trying to prove through his eyes that his lowering weight was actually visible.

Nothing seemed like enough anymore.

He has to physically tear himself away from staring, bringing his hands to cover his eyes from himself. He lets out a low groan from behind his palms, scrunching his eyebrows together and turning around to face his messy sheets.

By the time he's shuffled back in bed, he's forgotten how cold he was. The warm blankets still welcome him anyway.

The original need for that warmth seems dull now. Instead, his head rushes with self-hatred. He can't be happy with the little things if everything he experiences - himself, his life - is so shitty. So miserable, so hated, so insecure, so stupid.

There's a seed growing roots through his brain, one that pushes these thoughts and ideals through his skull. It's made a home inside him. Not a warm home full of cozy blankets and soft praises, but a dark, cold room that amplifies the harsh whispers of those who hate him.

He feels like a kid. A sad, lonely, and scared kid who craves the feeling of tight hugs and warm food. He'd refuse most of it now. No comfortable embrace for him, not many people would have the need or desire to hug him anyway. And he'd rather die than gain weight. He wants to yell and scream, push off anyone who says they love him because something inside him tells him they don't.

So all he can accept now is the flurry of shivers that rush through his spine. Cold arms wrap tight around himself to regain that warmth that left him the second he woke up. He'll lay in silence, begging his rowdy thoughts to shut up for just a moment, please .

Any other day he'd still be desperately gazing into the mirror. Any other time, the dim light would accent the tiredness in his eyes and the bones that slowly peek from his skin.

However, this morning, he's going back to bed.

Chapter Text

Mondays are the worst.

To Cosmo, any day where he had to go to school was the worst, but Mondays especially feel like a slap in the face. Having to wake up ungodly early to catch the bus in time after an unfulfilling and short weekend makes him wonder if it's worth it. 

Morning showers always wake him up, but he's not woken up to anything special or happy. No delicious breakfast or pre packaged lunch that his mom made for him before she left for work, nothing. He guesses it's okay, he wouldn't have eaten the food anyway, but it leaves him feeling uncared for.

There's nothing fun when he steps back into the cold air of the rest of the bathroom after a mostly hot shower. There's nothing good about spending every last second to get ready, trying desperately to evade the inevitably of going to school, the place where there's a target stuck to his back and everyone can see it.

The bus is okay. That's a different change in mood, but it's true. He truly doesn't hate the bus. He gets to wait on his porch, feeling the wind go through his drying hair and hearing the distant noises of cars on the interstate, all going to places Cosmo has never been.

It's alright to sit on the bus. He puts on his music, tapping away on his shitty second hand iPhone to find something good while he sits in the unnecessarily uncomfortable seats for almost an hour.

He never liked that the ride was so long. Sure, he knew that other people needed to be picked up after him, he was one of the first ones on, but it just felt so much worse when he knew that a lone drive wouldn't even be fifteen minutes.

He'd enter the school well before the bell rang. He'd keep his head down and sit in the cafeteria until it did. Students were required to stay in there until there were teachers in the hallway able to monitor those who wanted to wander. Even if Cosmo wanted to wander, there'd be no one he'd hang out with

Most mornings he was never bothered by others. That was lucky for him, everyone was too busy greeting their friends or complaining about an upcoming test to give a second glance at the boy in the corner. He wouldn't notice if any of them insulted him anyways. He still had his earbuds in.

His first class was math, and he'd have to drag himself upstairs to the designated classroom once the unreasonably loud tone rang through past his music. He hated having math this early. Not only was he incredibly tired still, but he just couldn't understand algebra to save his life

Most juniors had a math course they had to take. Everyone had to take at least one other math class after algebra 2. Even after near-failing grades from his last two algebra classes, he found himself in another one. Luckily, it was the easiest one offered - discrete math.

He'd like to say that doing math was an alright 90 minutes, but it really wasn't. Sure, no one would pick on him (since the teacher - Mrs. Dixon - rarely gave them free time to talk or do the homework), but that didn't matter when even the simplest worksheets would put his head through the wringer with all their complex numbers and variables.

The things on the worksheets seem to blend together and change before he could even try to process them. It made no sense. It was easy to most of his peers, as they wrote down the notes from the whiteboard easily.

Cosmo couldn't understand any of it to save his life. It had been like this forever, with a late development in his math and reading skills that still lingered into highschool. He doesn't think he's ever actually passed a math class before, never with anything above a C.

His leg bounces under the table unconsciously. His mind wanders, but his eyes are kept on the sheet in front of him. Nothing is interesting or comprehensive to his mind. Not this worksheet, not this class, not this school. He fiddles with his pencil, pushing it around between his fingers so that the eraser tip bumps against the desk rhythmically.

He sits, quiet yet fidgety while the teacher's words and explanation of class fly right over his head. He glances at the clock constantly, his restless mind wanting to get the day over with already.

Another worksheet gets passed out by his Mrs. Dixon, and without taking more than a minute to give it an annoyed glance, he tucks it in his bag and just tries to rest, slouching over the desk with his head down. For now he'll sit and wait until he has to go to his next class. A nap won't hurt anything besides his already low grade.

When the bell finally does ring, Cosmo is slow to get out of his seat. He lifts his head and looks around for a moment, letting the people around him get up and out so he doesn't bother them. When he does finally stand up and grab his bag, his movements are slow and clumsy. He's still tired. He barely knows how he makes it through the week sometimes.

His next class is history. Despite his hatred for school, he doesn't really hate this class. Oddly enough, some things about history just seem to click for him. There's barely any numbers, no equations, and rarely any extremely complicated vocabulary words. That's all he could really ask for in a class. 

Mr Davidson was nice as well - being the kind of guy that'd tell the class about random stories of stupid things he did as a teen while still being invested in the subject he taught.

Yet, of course, Cosmo still just barely maintained a below average grade. Though with every passing assignment, the scores progressively got lower.

The tone at the end of second block rings out loud, signaling the transition to a study block. Most didn't truly use these 25 minutes as study time, but with each year, the principal pushed for everyone to go there every day. No matter what. So he dragged himself back upstairs to today's study block held back in his first class. Tiredness engulfed his body and mind until he sat at his desk and promptly put his head down.

He couldn't sleep there if he tried. Those around him chatted with friends about everything and nothing, and even with earbuds plugging his ears again, he couldn't focus on getting rest. The time went by exponentially slower than it should because of how boring and pointless this time was.

Another bell tells everyone to go to either first lunch or third block. He had second lunch, so first he had to bring himself down to, luckily, his favorite and only non-core class this semester.

The brightly painted walls of the art room was the first welcoming thing of the day. He wouldn't be the only person to agree that he wasn't the greatest artist ever. He never really was. But he needed something to fill a block, and even without that true passion or skill, he still got the sketchbook pages filled. Each week had a new prompt for a page, and this week, to his dismay, was to draw your favorite food. 

The tip of his pencil does nothing but rest a dot on the page. He racks his brain for any normal thought about food. Favorite food. Don't have one. Don't like anything anymore, everything has too many calories. What do I like? What did I like?

He's hungry. Thinking up pictures of food, of yogurt (too weird to draw), of candy (high cal), and of pasta (scary), accents the emptiness in his stomach. It was now coming on eighteen hours since he ate something. Wish it was 24. Wish it was 240 .

His mind stays empty and restless through it all. There's a quiet gnawing of painful hunger inside him. He pretends to stay busy, glancing between the blank paper and his phone. The only person at the table with him wasn't anyone he knew. They were a sophomore with long lilac hair who always kept to themselves with headphones covering both ears.

Maybe they were an outcast like him, or maybe they just didn't know anyone in the class. It didn't matter to Cosmo - he didn't need (or always want) to talk to those around him.

Before he knew it, 45 minutes had passed and his class was dismissed to their lunch block. He wanted to skip, always did skip. This teacher, Mr. Young, wouldn't let him stay in the room during lunch, so when he was ushered out of the class, he reluctantly found refuge in the boys bathroom.

The quick blood rush to his head is felt when he stands up too fast. He should know by now to take things slower, what with how familiar that hot, thumping surge is becoming, but he doesn't think it matters in the long run. His body steadys, leaning lightly against the table before heading off on his way to that horrendously uncomfy boy's bathroom. 

He finds his usual stall towards the end of the bathroom, and it locks shut behind him. Without anything better to do, he curls up and plays on his phone. Music runs through his earbuds, and he's forced into his head for another twenty minutes.

Unwelcome self-hatred creeps into his mind, insulting him for every little thing. You sit weird. You're too big. Super big. Fatass. And stupid. Stupid, stupid .

He knows these thoughts are bad. He knows that the things he does to himself are bad. The thoughts blare so loud like a devil on his shoulder, drilling these ideas in his head over and over - fat, stupid, terrible, idiot, disgusting, weird outcast who's a burden to everyone .

He believes it all. How could he not? Everyone agreed he was stupid, that he was the outcast of his school - his whole town even. So what did it all matter? His failing grades, his lack of social skills, his body. He can't really change half of that, so again, why does it matter?

Music blasted in his headphones, though it does very little to muffle his thoughts. Why is it all so bad? Why do I hate this body so much? Why does it hurt so much?

The tone sounds out through the school and Cosmo jumps at the noise. He didn't realize it was already time to go back to class. He stands up slowly this time, unlocking the stall door and leaving the room. No one cares to give  a second glance at the boy.

His seat in art is no more comfortable than anything else nowadays. His sketchbook lays open and empty in front of him while Mr. Young reminds them to continue finishing up their current project before they start their next one in a couple days. He doesn't want to continue on his project. Actually, he'd argue that he's already finished and doesn't need to work on it more. So he won't.

Despite him knowing that he needs to get working, he can barely bring himself to draw anything significant in his sketchbook. But he has to try. From memory, he draws something. Two slices of something that's implied to be bread, with thin slices of meat and cheese wedged between them.

And on the page now is a sandwich. A bland, unimportant sandwich.

The lines from his dull pencil tip make the edges of the doodle blur together. It looks misshapen, wrong, not like food is supposed to look. He can't do anything but stare at it. It's incorrect. He doesn't even know how it could be fixed if he wanted to try.

So the sketch is left, uncolored minus the light shading done still in pencil. He doesn't draw anymore for the rest of the class, and he packs up early to wait for the release to his last block.

Bell rings, again, time to go upstairs, again, and time for...

Science - chemistry - which was never easy. It’s full of chemical equations made of dozens of different elements and all varying in difficulty depending on the units. There's balancing equations, calculating equilibrium, significant figures, and binomial nomenclature. What does all of that even mean? To Cosmo, nothing. It means nothing.

What even is binomial nomenclature? And why did he have to make flashcards and memorize them? Mr. Morris, the biology and chemistry teacher who had worked there long enough to teach most of the students' parents, has been drilling in the content the past week more than he ever had this whole semester because there's going to be a test on it. Soon. Sometime... This week? Next week? He's heard the answer to that at least half a dozen times recently but he... Still doesn't know.

The class goes slow, long. Fourth block feels so much worse knowing that the day is almost over, but it isn't yet. It's just another lecture with some commentary from students who desperately try to postpone any assignments of the day. But about a third of the way through class, they get one.

A small stack of papers are handed to those in the front row, and that includes Cosmo. He has to pay attention just to grab it and pass it back to the table behind him. Confusion is the only word to describe his feelings at the paper in front of him. 

The teacher explains the basic idea for some of the questions pointing out individual problems off the copy of a nearly two decade old worksheet. Mr. Morris loved reusing worksheets and then claiming they "could have been worse" when bringing up previous versions.

There's an attempt to follow what the teacher says while writing down the question work and answer. But once the third one is explained and everyone is told to go on their own, Cosmo realizes he still doesn't understand. He's not sure why he thought he would after any amount of explanation, but he's still upset that he doesn't understand it, that he can't understand anything .

He pretends to know, though, recreating the formula on the remaining problems and getting answers of some kind. He can guarantee that they're wrong. However, doing them took him through class time he would have otherwise used staring at nothing or secretly messing around on his phone.

Once that final bell rings, Cosmo couldn't feel more relieved. Once he's back on the bus on his way home, he's glad.

Trees and rural scenery pass by on windy back roads. Other students get off at their respective stops, going home to their families after a long day. The ride is long as always, loud for the first twenty or so minutes until the most rowdy kids get off and it mellows into the bumpy streets he's too familiar with now.

Once home, he greets his mom in the living room, peeking in to announce his arrival before quickly heading upstairs. There's moments where he hates how swift he is to go back to being alone after just getting home. He hates that he just can't bring himself to have a normal conversation with her anymore. Why does he always ignore her in place of fueling that growing self-hatred? Why has he fallen out of that love he used to hold for his mom just so he could avoid the meals she'd make?

He doesn't know - might not ever know. It's so complex in his head, his desire to know everyone and get the help he needs, and his need to isolate and prove he can survive on his own. He won't be able to at this rate. He's so strained in each direction, needing one moment to get better and the next to isolate forever just to align with those disordered ideals.

He doesn't know why those rules got so difficult to break after a while. Some days, it was harder. Some days even the thought of a meal would leave him ridden with anxiety, pooling a vortex of swirling guilt at the idea of any calories entering his body. Other days it was simple, and he could just 'eat less'. 'Skip that meal', 'you don't need that', 'can't break your fast yet', 'too many calories', 'you've already had too much', 'you don't need that' . He's stuck in a repetitive cycle each day over and over, it's the same thing, the same idea: starve.

Lying on his bed now, stomach empty and mind fuzzy, he doesn't know why it got this way. When he gets called down for dinner, he isn't ecstatic. He doesn't care what he's handed because once he's hauled it to his room, it all gets scraped off the plate and into a slowly-filling grocery bag in his closet that holds all the abandoned meals of the last few days

When his attention is caught on something for more than a minute, it's always the nightmare of his locked camera roll. Dozens of photos are saved and his eyes catch on the bones of others that are shown off in such an intricate way. It's unrealistic, but staring at these photos of lifted shirts showing ribs or hems pulled to the side to show deep, prominent collarbones? It gives him a hope of something wonderful, gives him images to live up to.

Maybe that's all he lives for now.

A 'perfect' body.

Hopes can only drag so far, and the pictures he can only ever hope to be give him a growing feeling of guilt with each second. Must he spend each day like this? Must he wait through a growling stomach each day of the week to reach something he'll never see reflected in his mirror? Must he waste every hour thinking about food and calories instead of preparing for a future?

Maybe if he just makes it through this week, then it'll get better. 

I just have to make it to the weekend .

–--

Tuesday isn't much better.

He wouldn't say it's terrible in general, just another day. But the week is already tiring, and it's not even halfway done yet.

He has to rush out the door this morning, having less time than normal to get ready after shutting off his first alarm. He rarely snoozed an alarm, but this was a day where he fell back asleep after his first one went off. This led him to have 15 less minutes than usual and skewing his schedule he works so hard to maintain.

No more laying around to avoid getting dressed - he needed to get on the bus on time. 

But maybe he overreacted and went too fast, he realized once he was able to stand for the bus on time - early even.

But it was alright. He could stand the chill. Because soon the bus came and he tucked himself in the seat, reveling in the warmth by his feet that blasted from the rattling heater.

At one of the late stops, someone sat across the aisle from him, always across or in front, never beside. It doesn't take even half a minute for him to scrunch his nose at the scent of her strong perfume. The smell bothers him more than it should  - an overly flowery mix that seemingly invades his space.

It was never his space to begin with, really, it was a public school bus after all, but he can't help but hate it anyway. Too much. Way too much for a Tuesday .

He deals with it regardless, still just trying to turn away from the scent the best he can for the last 15 minutes he'll be on the bus.

When the bus pulled up to the school, Cosmo heads in like normal, because what else would he do? He steps into the bustling cafeteria, grip tight on his backpack straps while he finds his seat.

-

Discrete math couldn't be more boring, but when Cosmo is broken from his spaced-out staring at the sound of the bell, he's glad to just get out of the room. His things are packed and shoved in his bag without care, and he's still the last one out of the class.

His eyes stick to the hallway floor, trailing his vision slowly through his steps led by battered Converse. The hallway was now nearing vacancy, everyone else besides him making quick time of heading to their next class before the late bell. Even with eyes glued to the tile, he hardly noticed a foot kicking out and right in front of his path.

Before he knew it, he was on the floor, landing painfully on his knees and having to support the rest of the fall with his palms. A chorus of laughter rings close behind, the person who tripped him and whatever lackeys they have snickering at him. 

"Watch where you step, fag." The distinct voice of Luthor shouts at the fallen form of his victim, jeering at his slow attempt to stand back up. Following the insult is the late bell, the tone piercing through the nearly empty hall.

"Better get goin'." One of them muttered to Luthor, actually sounding a bit worried. Cosmo is still struggling to process that the bell just rang when a swift kick hits his leg. He grunts involuntarily at the pain, hearing another quick giggle from the group.

"Yeah, better get going, freak." Next thing he knows, he's hearing their steps follow back off into the hall. Their voices linger slightly even as they walk away. 

Once he no longer hears their voices, Cosmo finally makes the effort to stand back up, pushing up with bruising knees and dirt-speckled palms. Against his back, his bookbag feels ten times heavier than normal. Bracing himself on the set of lockers to his right, he shakily pulls himself to his feet. His hands rub against the legs of his pants to wipe away the debris.

When he finally makes his way to his next class, - history, back downstairs - the door is already shut and locked. The lesson has already started.

Why did he continue on to his class again?

The impact points on his knees, while not bruised yet, still feel tender. His dirty palms wipe on his pants once more before he hesitantly knocks on the door to be let in. 

A couple heads turn to him at the noise. He frowns unconsciously while the teacher motions for another student to open it for him. As much as he expects a remark about his tardiness from his teacher, he doesn't get it. He just receives a pity glance that he doesn't see.

He plops in the uncomfortable seat, shoving his bag by his side, and looks up to at least seem like he's paying attention a little bit.

-

He can't sleep in chemistry. As bored as he is, he knows his teacher would try to be funny when waking him back up. Cosmo witnessed the last time he had a class with this teacher, where he slammed a textbook on the desk of a girl who was sleeping during his lesson. So as much as he wants to just pass out, he doesn't think he could emotionally handle being woke up like that. The loud noise would probably end up with him crying.

Yet, like always, he can't focus on what's happening in front of him. He's bored and restless and the clock on the far wall ticks agonizingly slow. So his mind trails into that disgustingly familiar flow of thoughts that he can rarely escape anymore.

It trails like constant television static, keeping a consistent base of thoughts. Until it changes. It's not a far stray from what it has been, but a sudden thought starts to make a fantasy fed only by uncomfortable fascination.

What would happen if I passed out in school?

It's a weird enough thought for him to get caught off guard by it all. But he doesn't hate it.

He knows it's wrong and he knows it's terrible to latch onto it. He may not want the attention or the call home to his mom, but the idea...

Eating so little for so long that he doesn't feel hungry anymore, spending his hours intentionally starving himself, and standing up too fast that he ends up collapsing between classes. There's times already where he finds his head reeling with vertigo after standing up too fast. He has to steady his feet against the throbbing rush in his skull and the gray splotches that obscure his surroundings.

Dizziness is one of those things he's found comfort in. Because he "loves it," he "deserves it," he " needs it." So why wouldn't he think even slightly of those consequences?

He loses his mind more and more by the second, just thinking over and over of a situation that, with his current actions, could be a reality. One moment he's in his class, - math, maybe - he stands up, just a bit too eager to leave, and then he's down.

He'll have to be stood back up, mind still swimming and limbs struggling to move. Whoever was assigned to drag him to the nurse would probably just have to stare in pity. Cosmo would want to go on his own, or not go at all. He can't help but hate that cramped little room. The nurse was the same one from his elementary school, having transferred here last year? The year before? All he knows is that she got to witness his anxiety-fueled stomach aches during early kindergarten that led to many half-days those first couple months. The nurses office still makes him nervous because of the knowledge that she might still only know him that way.

He'd still have to sit there anyways, explain what happened and be given a juice box while a call was made back home. And he'd miserably sip on that juice box because it broke his fast and it's all his fault he's here in the first place. 

But he'd be validated. He'd have that extra layer of confirmation that he /is/ sick. 

His mind trails through the scenario over and over, desperately seeking the proof that he deserves to feel bad because of the scenario where he ate so little that he couldn't stand it one day. The affirmation that, even after having to endure a worried conversation with his mom (/"I don't know, mama. It just happened. But I'm ok."/), he did good. 

He won.

-

Within a couple hours of arriving home, Cosmo finds himself in the kitchen for food. Despite the arguing voice in his head, the need to starve, his mind runs with raving mental hunger and the craving for something. He's not really sure what though. Usually he'd be presented with a meal from his mom not long after he got home, often something cooked like a prepared casserole or even just a warmed frozen pizza.

But something that was becoming more frequent was nothing.

Cosmo knows why, sorta. He slowly notices his mom feeling more tired. She cooks less and walks with a limp. She's getting older. And he can only worry - unsure how to truly help.

So, for once when given the chance, he'll make himself dinner. With the intention to eat it.

Stereotypical "dinner foods" are rarely found on his frequently changing list of safe foods. Dinner is always seen to be the biggest meal of the day, and something he dreaded. But being able to make something on his own was a rare opportunity that he'd take advantage of.

The foods on the fridge shelves are things like bowls of leftover meals, basics like eggs, condiment jars, cheese, and lunch meat. Nothing particularly catches his eye until he focuses in on a container of strawberries on a lower shelf.

Fruit , his mind catches on, fruit is safe . First he spots those strawberries, then the blueberries beside them, and the grapes on the shelf above. He doesn't remember when the strawberries and blueberries were bought, but they look fresh.

The containers are picked out from their respective shelves and brought to the counter. Cosmo grabs a bowl so he can go through with his sudden plan to make a bowl of fruit for his dinner.

Pouring a handful of blueberries into the bowl, he takes a moment to count them before adding three - no, four - strawberries and another good amount of grapes (also counted - there is seven). After a quick mix-up with a fork, the fruit salad is done, and using the minimal and mostly unreliable calorie calculation in his head, he doesn't think it's much more than 300 calories. 

It looks amazing .

He hastily puts away the fruit containers, putting them in the fridge where they belong before turning to the bowl. 

Normally, he'd haul it up to his room and eat it there, but whatever ravenous animal is in his soul right now forces him to snarf it all down right here, right now .

He takes his fork, desperately stabbing at each fruit piece. The bowl is brought closer to his mouth so he can get quicker bites down to satiate his bubbling hunger for the night. Each mouthful seeps sweet natural sugar into his taste buds.

After just the first couple of bites, his brain registers the sound of the front door opening. The hinges are loud enough for it to catch his attention. He stops for just a moment, slowing down his near-feral eating pace to glance at who could be coming. It shouldn't be his mom, because she's already home, right? She has been home from work for a while, yeah. Despite the threat of an intruder, he doesn't think to do anything until he sees the person in question.

The man who walks through the door is someone he wasn't expecting - not a robber, but his brother.

Cosmo stands for a moment catching the gaze of his brother. It takes him a moment to realize how close his face still is to the bowl he was obsessively eating out of. The second it registers in his head, he pulls the dish away and sets it on his counter, going to greet his older sibling.

"Schnozmo!" Cosmo calls, mood immediately brightening at seeing his favorite family member (not that he'd tell anyone that, though - no one except him can know that he loved and preferred the childhood he had while being half-raised by Schnozmo as compared to being raised by his own mom).

"Hey, Coz'" the older responds, accepting the sudden, nearly overbearing embrace he's engulfed in. They share a hug, Cosmo having to refrain from staying in that comfortable moment longer ( that's weird, stop being weird. You don't need a longer hug, you're both too old for that ).

"Didn't know you were coming home," he comments, finally backing away but still craving that feeling of being held by someone.

"Well I didn't tell anyone, duh," Schnozmo laughs, ruffling Cosmo's hair. "Kinda wanted a surprise visit since it's been a bit." Schnozmo was last home for a couple days around Thanksgiving a few months ago, and hadn't been able to make it back since. But he's here now, and that fills Cosmo with a temporary rush of giddy excitement.

"I'm glad you're back," he smiles up at him, having never truly grown into the fact that his brother moved out. That was years ago, yet Cosmo still longs for a time they were together every day. Even despite their age gap, Cosmo attempted to keep a relationship with his brother going through his teenage years and hopefully into adulthood.

"And I'm glad you're still here." The tone that his response was made in wasn't as meaningful as the phrase would suggest, but it tugs at something inside the boy. The physical touch, another quick pat on the shoulder and the brushing away of some hair, is a momentary cure for all the difficulties of the day.

Schnozmo is fast to end the interaction after that. Cosmo gets struck with the sudden feeling of being left behind. His sad emotions had been broken past for just a moment - filling him with a happiness he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever - until it all came back again. He misses Schnozmo already, but he's right there. He's here in the house... Yet he's so far out.

His mind trails off with his brother's footsteps, fighting the urge to follow him like a lost dog. Emotions are slow to change, caught up on the horrible feeling in his heart. He wills himself to turn back to his food he never finished. Forcing himself to move and grab it, he brings it with him to his room, having lost that begging voice to eat it right now, right now, right now .

He ends up sitting cross-legged on his bed, leaning heavily against the wall. His actions feel so much more sluggish than before, having lost those fast movements with the distraction of his brother coming home. The meal gets finished anyways, as he enjoys the sweetness that feels almost alien to him now

He's not tired by his "normal bedtime", though he should be. He was hardly able to get a break in his other classes for long enough to rest. Yet his mind isn't quiet enough to go to sleep without some kind of stimulation. So he endlessly scrolls through his phone. 

Videos scroll by without catching his attention, the photos on his phone just make him upset ( because why isn't he like that? Why do these people look better than him? ), and all the music he has available to play doesn't fit whatever in-between mood he's feeling. He fills his mind with whatever he wants from games to music that doesn't quite fit the vibe to downloading just a couple more pictures to his phone of those people who are just better ( "God, her legs are so skinny. Wish I had those legs," ).

When he decides to clock in for the night, he snuggles under his blanket with a pillow hugged close to his chest. His mind is still hung up on that unreasonably comforting hug from his brother. Maybe he just needs more hugs, maybe he's just delusional.

He hopes this visceral want that's pulling on his soul and glossing over his eyes would just leave. Now . 

But he can only hope for the moment that he can go to sleep easily. The only thought that still tries to ruin his mood is the thought of waking up early in the morning.

I just have to make it to the weekend.

–--

Wednesday is when he really starts to get tired.

The bus ride begins to feel nauseating, making him feel even more sick and tired than when he first woke up. The ride is bumpy - bumpier than it should ever be for a vehicle full of kids - and any attempt to get any more comfortable in his seat was impossible.

The glass to the outside was cold to the touch, and if he ever leaned against it, it would just rattle and bang his head against the surface. It was a one-way ticket to feeling even worse .

The constant bumps and shakes of the bus driving down old back roads makes his stomach hurt. It wouldn't hurt if you ate something . The occasionally rational side of him chimes in, but he brushes it off. The idea of food in the morning makes him feel all the worse. The only way he could feel better would probably be to sleep, but he was never the kind of person to be able to do that on a bus, no matter how exhausted he was.

His morning routine, even when it meant waking up an hour before he had to leave, was in place to wake him up and get him ready. With a shower that goes cold too fast during the winter months, there's barely any moments he can find himself asleep after he's dressed. Until math class, of course. He knows he's not the first person to sleep through nearly every lesson there.

So even with exhaustion evident around green eyes, he just would end up just staring out the window. Minutes would pass slow, with only his surroundings, his phone, and his earbuds as company.

The bus rolls down a back road, then another, then it goes left, then needs to find a place to turn around once it reaches an end point. It makes its way to a main road, actually making it closer to the school before turning off again. It goes down to one of its last stops, then backtracks again,  almost hitting a curb and knocking over a stop sign while going back onto a smaller road.

All the while Cosmo distracts himself. He plays on his phone and desperately tries to keep a good signal for long enough to let his playlists go all the way through. He flips between apps and games frequently. It'll catch his attention for a while and then he'll glance outside for a moment, and go right back to the time-wasting games.

When the bus finally pulls in at the front of the school, he doesn't want to get up. Even with the heater directly at his feet and out to get him by burning up his legs, he wants to stay sitting there forever. If it meant no bullies, no math class, no school , he's all for it. 

But he stands alongside the others that need to head inside, and goes out to sit in that cafeteria that he hates so much. 

It feels a lot later than usual when the first bell rings. It's not late, but it just feels off.

He walks off to math regardless, moving like a zombie down the hall. His steps are slow and drag behind him. Only one strap of his book bag is laying on his shoulder - dragging him down on one side.

He's there when the class is still half full, accounting for late students before the morning announcements rang through the speakers. Most people never paid attention to them, only standing for the pledge of allegiance before going back to talking to their friends.

Once announcements are over, the teacher makes a comment about the basketball game from the night before. A couple sparse voices claim a win from their team before the teacher starts to pull up the lesson plan for the day. 

Within a couple minutes, her droning voice goes on about the answers of last night's homework and Cosmo can't stop his mind from wandering. Her voice was blocked from his head in exchange for living in his thoughts. It was quick to lead back to food like it always did nowadays. He thought about the dinner from last night, romanticizing the shit out of that bowl of fruit he had like it was the second coming of Christ.

It was so good though . A beloved high volume and low calorie meal that actually let him sleep without feeling hungry. Even after getting caught in that nearly-manic activity, he still finished it with little embarrassment.

The blueberries and strawberries were probably not in season, but they were sweet and comforting nonetheless. The orange slices were in season though. The slightly tart fruit-

"Cosmo!" An unfamiliar voice calls his name and his head shoots up, thoughts breaking apart. His eyes meet the annoyed expression of his classmate. They shake a handful of papers in his face, indicating for him to take them. He pauses for a moment to mentally process the request.

"Oh, sorry," he mutters, grabbing the papers from their hand, taking one worksheet from the small pile and passing the rest back to others behind him. 

This day already sucks.

-

The day blurs together, each hour he's awake feels longer than the whole week combined. Cosmo struggles to get through it, feeling the intensity of a headache pulse through his skull. It's a remnant of the morning bus ride that has only gotten worse as the day continues.

Buzzing ceiling lights drill through his head, and he has to endure sickening shivers that rack his body when the cold of the art room reaches his core. He slept through half of his classes, all of lunch, and by the time that chemistry is halfway through, he feels like absolute garbage.

The teacher's voice is too loud, he can still hear the lights and air conditioning run, and he's back to feeling hungry - but not the good kind. He's not perfectly hollow with a void-like hole in the pit of his empty stomach. He's actually hungry. He feels sick, like he'll throw up a bout of whatever might be left inside him if he doesn't eat something, anything , soon.

Yet he has no access to anything. Not a sandwich, not a piece of fruit, nothing. So what is he to do?

He just sets his head down, unable to deal with it. His mouth waters with the idea of food, yet his stomach churns with a harsh wave of nausea.

The only way to distract his mind is to fidget like a madman. The heel of his shoe beats rapidly against the tile floor, and he taps a fingertip against a blank sheet of paper.

Every second is painful. Every moment that he doesn't hear that bell ring to dismiss the class, he's miserable. He doesn't even dare to look at the clock, knowing he'll hate the result, even if it's just a couple minutes left. Even when the class quiets down into their own conversation, it doesn't feel much better.

After what felt like days to his tired mind and sick body, he's relieved to hear the tone sound through the building. He's fast to stand and leave, despite the extra discomfort that rips through strained legs, weak stomach, and migraine-ridden head.

The cold wind outside chews through his hoodie fabric. He waits for the bus alongside dozens of others, white-knuckled hands gripping his backpack straps. Standing out here now, he suddenly dreads going home. If the bumpy ride from this morning tore him up, it's going to be so much worse on the way back.

But there's no other way home.

Except...

The sudden mental reminder that his brother was home has him digging for his phone to call and ask for a ride. The ringing lasts longer than he wants before it catches, and a familiar voice responds.

"Yeah, Coz?"

"Snow'," he sighs the childish nickname out of pure relief. Throughout childhood and now long into his teens, Cosmo has consistently slurred out this shortened version of his brother's name. First it was out of just pure inability to say the name, now it's a leftover module of a childhood he still clings onto each waking day.

"Wassup'?" 

"Can you... Can you pick me up I... Can't ride the bus tonight." It's a lame excuse, he knows it. But hopefully....

"Yeah. Be there in fifteen?" Cosmo can barely hold back another sigh of relief.

"Yes... Please, thank you." The call is cut not too long after that. He pulls the phone from his ear, jamming his freezing fingers into his pants pockets while he waits. He watches the first bus load leave, followed by his load. It goes by with no attempt from the boy to get on. The fifteen minutes is long. February chill engulfs him into another bout of on-and-off shivers until he gets picked up.

Most of the people who originally stood to wait for their buses have gone by the time the rusty old truck belonging to Schnozmo rolls up alongside the sidewalk directly in front of the flagpole where Cosmo stands. The door is opened with a louder-than-usual click of the latch while he clambers into the vehicle.

"Thanks for picking me up." Cosmo places his book bag by his feet and slams the truck door closed. He also mumbles a 'sorry' under his breath, hoping his brother won't hear. Everyone seems to hate when he apologizes so much.

"It's nothing, bro." He lets off the brake to go home without much comment.

The first couple minutes of silence are heaven for Cosmo. It technically does nothing to ease his headache, but at least it's not getting worse. But boredom past the never silenced thoughts of food makes him need conversation.

"How long are you staying?" He never asked him that the night before, and he needed to ask. He needed to know.

"Not sure. Couple weeks? Month maybe? I don't have anywhere really to be until late March."

"Late March?" That piqued his interest. He never knew what his brother did while away. He doesn't know how to be a continuous part in his life when he's miles away in a different state.

"Yeah - going to a concert with some friends. Nothin' special. Though I knew I wanted to stop by before that," Schnozmo lets out a soft chuckle, leaning over to nudge his younger brother with his elbow. Cosmo has to laugh too. Despite the shitty day, having his brother around always makes him feel better.

"That's... Nice. Could you maybe drive me every day? While you're here, I mean. Like drive me to and from school? Like... Like old times?" During most of Cosmo's elementary school days, Schnozmo was tasked with taking himself and his brother to school each day once he got his license. It was so their mother could change her work hours to support the family. Driving them to school in the morning was just inconvenient at the time.

"I'll think about it. Maybe in the afternoon, but I don't know if I could be up early for you each morning. I'm not on the same schedule as you, y'know?"

"That... Yeah that makes sense. Afternoons though? I want you to pick me up. Please?" It quickly sounds like begging - desperate pleading just to get home earlier each day. But Schnozmo wouldn't do anything to let down his brother - not when they only see each other every couple months.

"Sure. Afternoons. Same as always, yeah? Like 3:15?"

"Yeah! They have the car rider line, or you can park somewhere empty and I'll walk." Any excuse to burn a couple extra calories .

"I'll figure something out," Schnozmo replies, making his last turn onto their road. "You still have my old phone, right? Same old number? I can text you when I'm there." Cosmo hums in response, unconsciously falling out of the conversation.

The last minute of the drive falls into silence. They roll over a small hill and turn into their driveway, the vehicle towering over their mom's smaller car. The boy is quick to head inside to cure his nausea with a snack.

His hands ruffle through cabinets to find something easy. There's nothing in the house that is really meant to be low calorie, so he has to settle on a handful of crackers. He blanks on immediately checking calories, but keeps in mind how many are being shoveled into his mouth. He grabbed nine. 

The loud footsteps of his brother don't deter his foraging. He continues like a starved animal, finally able to relieve that hunger just a bit. A hand reaches and grabs the last cracker from his palm, and Cosmo barely notices until he grabs for it and finds nothing.

"Hey!" He turns swiftly to his brother who chews on the snack with a smug look across his face. He only chuckles without a rebuttal, ruffling Cosmo's hair and heading off to the living room on his own. 

Fine, cracker stealer.

He had eight.

He huffs in annoyance at that event, but can't linger on it long. No longer feeling like immediately throwing up bile, he has time to recognize the front and steady throbbing of a headache that remains. He shuts his eyes for a moment, recognizing the pain that continues on before deciding to do something about it.

When it came to headaches, he would usually just try to sleep it off. But it wasn't even 4pm yet and he shouldn't nap right now. The dusty windowsill holds a bottle of generic brand pain meds, and Cosmo finds himself reaching for it. The pills shake and rattle in their container while he struggles to open it.

"Cosmo? You alright, baby?" The accented sound of his mother's voice is heard as she comes up behind him.

"Mama..." His slow mumble of a voice feels strange and unfamiliar in his own ears, the only thing he really hears is the blood pumping through him. "Yeah. I'm ok."

She stands beside him, muttering something he can't catch while pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Sick? Flu? You don't feel warm, but-"

"Just a headache, mama," he confirms, brushing her off with his free hand. "I don't feel too bad. Just need these and sleep." He tries his hand at opening the bottle again, finally getting past the child lock to get out the dose he needs. She watches with weary eyes, worried for the heath of her son. Her son - her wonderful, amazing son. Full of energy and joy. She can't see it in him anymore. He doesn't act the same, doesn't give the same aura he always used to have. Now, his dull eyes stare down, taking the dose he shook out with a harsh swallow.

"Let me take you to your room, Cosmo," she offers, grabbing his arm while he tries to rid the medicine taste from his mouth after taking it mostly dry. He has to refrain from pulling his arm back from her grip.

"...'K,'' he obliges, walking slowly with her up to his room. She has her son hold her hand while going up the stairs, having to use him as support while taking extra slow steps. She's sluggish and tired in her movements, and Cosmo's mind struggles to wrap around how bad she's getting. However, he does as instructed, slowly walking up with her.

Once up the stairs, she opens his door and pulls him to let him rest early. His arm is finally pulled from her grip and he unconsciously rubs at the skin she held. Before she continues to tuck him in, she glances around his room, worried expression turning more into annoyance.

"You really need to clean up in here." The comment strikes a chord of anger and disappointment in Cosmo. She shouldn't see his room like this - she shouldn't need to see him like this. He should be better, be able to get out of his rut.

But the way her gaze looms the room, looms him , makes him question what she knows. Maybe she's seen how bad he's gotten, but maybe she doesn't notice or care.

He should clean his room. After everything, he knows he should. " Cleaner room, cleaner mind ," some will say. He just can't bring himself to start. There's clothes on the floor, most of which he can't tell if they're clean, and there's old worksheets and toys and all the things he simultaneously cannot live without and never needed.

Verbally, he doesn't respond to his mom. Mentally, he's left with a storm brewing in his head - a storm that feels so much worse than a headache. It creates wind and crashing thunder that scrambles his thoughts and screams out his worst fears to the world.

Emotionally, he just lays back in bed, trying to take the one nice moment out of the night and make it last. He's tucked in, a comfortable remedy for his problems, as his mom finally leaves with a goodnight.

He struggles to fall asleep for a while. The constant thump of a headache lasts longer than it ever needs to, but once the medicine begins taking effect, he finds his mind drifting off into tomorrow.

I just have to make it to the weekend .

–--

Thursdays are never better than the day before.

He steps out of the shower this morning feeling like he was freezing to death. The temperature dropped overnight again, though it was expected for mid February. His limbs shook with shivers while water dripped onto the bath mat, trailing from the ends of his hair and down his back.

He dried off slow, wrapping a soft towel around his shoulders and struggling to step into clean boxers. Opening the bathroom door just made it worse by letting in a new wave of chill. 

The dirty clothes of the night before got thrown on his bedroom floor, close enough to his laundry bin that he'd hopefully remember to wash them soon. Once in his room, it took every ounce of his effort to not just crawl back into bed. He could sacrifice tangled hair and having a wet pillowcase if it meant he could get back under those still warm blankets.

A hand trails under the wrinkled covers, gripping at the warmth that still holds in the fabric. He leaves it there for a minute longer than necessary - prolonging the inevitable. He has to force himself to shrug off the towel, the air-chilled cold of wet hair falling against his shoulder blades uncomfortably.

It's difficult to get dressed today. Mentally he couldn't stand another day of school this week, let alone two. Physically, the temperature chills him to the bone like he was left outside overnight without a care from anyone. Emotionally, he wanted to sleep - just shut his eyes right back to dream land for just a little longer. At least until the weather was warm again.

And even with all that, he forces through, tugging on some clothes until he begins feeling at least slightly more cozy in his skin. An extra hoodie is layered over the sweatshirt he normally wears, adding just a little more protection from the elements.

The couple minutes of wait for the bus feels worse than usual. Frozen air clings to exposed skin and crawls up his sleeves. His breath comes out as a cloud in front of him while his cheeks flush harshly in the bitter dark morning.

Even when the bus appears over the hill, he can't find himself greatful for the warmth to come. As much as he shivers and as much as he will complain about it, he can't stop the thought that he deserves it somehow. 

So even when he's wrapped in warmth like he had desperately wanted just a couple minutes earlier, he realizes that he doesn't feel any better than any day beforehand.

-

In history, he's handed a test that he didn't even know was coming up. Despite being able to cling onto a few small facts from the unit, there's nothing significant that could salvage his potential grade on the test.

He knows he bombed it when he's the first person to turn it in, every bubble filled in with answers he pulled out of his ass. 

But at least he can rest. At least he gets a break. 

The lesson starts back up sooner than he wishes. Once every test is turned in, the teacher starts up with something new. 

From fast whiteboard handwriting to the soft hum of the projector, Cosmo can't keep his attention on the lesson. He's drowsy, but he knows he should take notes. In-class notes were taken frequently, especially at the beginning of a new unit. But the notes are never kept up long enough to fully copy, and he wouldn't be able to retain the words anyways.

But he has try.

Individual words are written that vaguely represent what he was told to put down. His wrist hurts within minutes, hand having too tight of a grip on a dull pencil that it's hard to use. He progressively gets more and more frustrated with the words he misses and the cramping in his hand and the sentences that just don't seem to come together when they're written.

Note taking time lasts seemingly forever, and when Mr. Davidson finally shuts off the slideshow, class is barely halfway over.

He doesn't think he can make it another day.

-

The lunch tone ringing is no surprise to Cosmo anymore. He is quick to find familiar refuge in the bathroom, shutting a stall door behind him. He tries to settle down quickly, but he's alone for all of one minute before he hears it.

A chorus of voices echo into the bathroom, a group of boys enter with their gruff laughter and horrendously inappropriate words.

The boy can only listen and pretend he doesn't exist - pretend he's not a waste of space in this bathroom stall. His knees are pulled to his chest, body curling into itself to make him smaller. He'd come to like the idea of being small. It wasn't always based on weight, though that was a big influence most times, but he just liked being more... Invisible. He can't be bothered if he's small.

That idea of invisibility didn't apply to the other people still chatting away in the room. Cosmo can recognize the voice of Luthor among them, shouting things that he couldn't care less about. So he waits. He stares ahead, silently begging them to just leave. He feels like he can't move let alone breathe while they're here.

Minutes of just waiting pays off when he hears those footsteps and voices trail out of the room and into the hall. His tense shoulders relax and he finds himself alone again. It's sad, but he can find comfort in the metal walls and quiet confines. Leftover time is wasted on his phone, nodding to music and trying his best to distract himself.

Lunch goes by slow and boring when he has nothing to do. The bell rings off for the end of second lunch and back to art. Mr. Young had assigned a new painting project to the class the day before, but Cosmo didn't do much more than a light sketch on the canvas that day. 

He starts now, finalizing the sketch and beginning to get down the base lines with his paint brush. His mind is clear enough today to get through it without issue.

By the end of class he's happy with the progress he's made. The lines aren't done yet, but he's already getting to thinking about what colors he'll use on the rest of the canvas.

-

Chemistry afterwards ruined his hopeful mood. The classroom was constantly cold, and it felt so much worse to Cosmo today than any other day that week. He had felt cold all day. Even with as many double layers he could manage, his hands froze against glossed desktops and he shook with shivers in the hallways.

Once everyone was released at the end of the day, he couldn't wait to get home and get warm. But his brother was a couple minutes late. He was warned that Schnozmo might not be there until about ten minutes after that last bell, but Cosmo was still upset about it. He finally gets a text that his brother found convenient parking in the last row instead of waiting through the car rider line. 

He's not happy to walk. Despite those "extra calories he should take any chance to burn", he's swept with freezing shudders through each step he takes towards the truck. Towards home. 

His backpack is tossed in the backseat once inside, slamming the door shut as soon as he could.

"Excited to get home, huh?" The comment from Schnozmo gets little reaction while Cosmo immediately reaches to turn the heat up.

"Hey - hey, woah," Schnozmo laughs at his brother's sudden action. "Can't be too cold out there is it?" There's no response while Cosmo stares intently at his hands that are held just inches from the vent that now blasts hot air.

Schnozmo just raises an eyebrow, letting his brother do whatever the hell he wants while waiting for the parking lot to clear out just a bit. Cosmo relaxes into the seat after a minute, still keeping that warmth directed at him but no longer needing full and direct contact. He pulls his feet up on the seat, curling up into himself to keep in some heat, wrapping his arms around his legs and looking out the windshield onto the road not too far away. Schnozmo soon finds the parking lot significantly less crowded, and pulls out of the parking spot to leave.

In the all of two minutes it takes to get a bit of the way home, Cosmo's mind trails to what today was like. Today wasn't all too bad to him. It was full of slow, agonizing classes, but that wasn't uncommon. There was no target on his back or any in particular moment that sucked. To him, it was just the overall. It was having to go to school, having to do work, having to hide from Luthor and his group (who probably, definitely, didn't know he was in there anyways), and feeling desperately freezing cold through most of it. 

He doesn't know how he does it anymore.

But there's only one day after this, and then he can relax.

I just have to make it to the weekend .

–--

Fridays are okay.

Better than most days, at least he tries to convince himself that. I'm almost there , he'd say while finishing up his morning routine. He'd swing his bag over his shoulder and wait for the bus one more time.

Just about nine hours and I'll be back home , he reminds himself, still accounting for the morning bus ride.

The ride today seems easier than normal. He's not sure why, especially after it roughed him up so badly on Wednesday, but he's glad to not be in pain.

The day just flows by, long and slow, but not as long as it could be. His morning classes ease by, with the teachers trying to give at least a little pity to their students at the end of the week.

But things take a sharp turn during study block.

Study block is upstairs in his chemistry class. Mr. Morris announces that he's going to pass back graded tests from the last week while they're all in there. He can't force work upon people now - though it's not like he would - so he takes time that could have been taken out of class to pass back work.

Cosmo is one of the first people he hands it back to.

"I know you can do better." His voice is soft while he speaks to his student. The boy doesn't respond, staring at the paper in front of him. A hand lays itself on his shoulder and he fights to not tense up at the touch.

The grade presented to him is the current lowest grade he's gotten so far by a significant amount. The teacher was very lenient, only months away from being able to retire, but tests always hit hard.

Mr. Morris slowly heads off to hand graded tests out to other students, but the boy is still left in his mind, a scary amount of guilt coiling in his stomach at the number he sees. He regrets coming to study block now, regrets taking this class, regrets even waking up this morning .

Nothing can stop the anxiety creeping up his chest and the tears that start to well up in his eyes. All he knows while thoughts flood his mind is that he hates himself.

Failure. How could you mess up like that? You must be the dumbest person in this room - this whole school. Failed. Failure. How could you think you deserve anything after you do things like this? Idiot. Kill yourself - right now - kill yourself. Starve, it's all you need. You're a fuck up to the whole world. Can't even pass a simple test .

Cosmo has to hold in those heaving breaths he needs to take. He's thankful for just a moment that the person who originally sat next to him dropped the class within two days. There'd be a whole other thing to deal with if he was still there.

Despite that, he can't help but bet that every eye in the room is focused on him. His hands cover his face, wiping at the tears that flow. He struggles to contain choked breaths in the (for once) quiet classroom.

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to compose himself, rubbing his tears into his palms and having to bring himself to put the paper away. Out of sight, out of mind , he thinks while slotting the paper somewhere that'll make sure he never sees it ever again. It doesn't leave his head though, and he's left wallowing in that self-disappointment.

Does it ever get better?

-

Art class clears his mind slightly. He finishes up the little details on his sketch page before lunch. The paper became filled with the doodles of any food that trailed on his train of thought over the past week. From meats to candy to a bowl of pasta he hates himself for drooling over. Pasta is always - WAS always - one of his favorites.

He continues with his painting, finishing the lines from yesterday and starting with a layer of red over the background to cover the pencil lines that didn't get fully erased. With paint-covered fingertips, he can leave his mind for just a moment and be happy about his work. Sure it's still sloppy, but he just started with it the other day. He doesn't need to be the best artist at his school.

When the class ends, he's still washing the paint from his brushes. Everyone else was smart enough to keep track of time when it came to cleaning up but Cosmo had forgotten this time. He puts his canvas on the drying rack for the weekend, and is once again last to head out of the room for his next class. While exiting at the top of the stairwell, he accidentally meets the gaze of the one person who always has it out for him.

"Hey, it's our favorite retard." A voice calls from in front of him. He's able to fight to urge to look up at him again, but it's futile when a hand grips his shoulder to slam him into a nearby set of lockers with a loud clang .

Facing the bully now, he can see a smirk curling on Luthor's lips. Cosmo's book bag, which was already falling off one shoulder, dips off of his hand and onto the floor beside him.

"Yeah, what's up faggot?" One of Luthor's buddies pipes up with a chuckle. He thinks it's a different couple friends than Tuesday, but he'd never know.

Cosmo blinks, trying unsuccessfully to focus his eyes on the group that's cornered him. They all seem a lot bigger in his view than they actually are while he's slouched against the metal.

The heel of Luthor's palm digs painfully into his shoulder, keeping him pinned to the wall. He grimaces, trying to keep his footing and get away. He rarely fought back when it came to these physical threats pulled by those around him. There was no point in doing anything but waiting it out each time so he would only obtain minimal damage. He knows first hand that he could easily end up with a broken nose if he wasn't careful.

"Nothing to say, huh, asshole?" He doesn't respond - doesn't know if he can. His eyes find focus on the tile floor. Don't acknowledge them. Can't acknowledge them . Even with tears burning his waterline, he doesn't show that feeling.

"You were more fun to fuck around with in middle school," Luthor grunts, taking a fistful of Cosmo's shirt to slam him against the metal again. He winces when the combination lock jabs into his lower back.

" Retard ," Luthor repeats with more intensity than before. With one last thump against the locker, Cosmo is let go of and he drops to the floor. The group heads off, and distant cackles of "pathetic" and "idiot" are heard as they continue to give him shit from down the hall.

He already knows that he's an idiot. Already knows he can't do anything right .

The late bell rings behind them and Cosmo automatically covers his ears, the noise startling him. Usually the bell ringing is fine and not enough to not bother him, but he feels so overwhelmed and vulnerable in the moment.

I can't go to class .

Even with a his chemistry teacher having a huge amount of spontaneity and the ability to make most classes fun with his loud voice and stories of him from decades ago, Cosmo just couldn't go back if he tried. That test grade still hangs over his head more than it usually would, and the bruises forming on his back don't help at all.

He grabs the handle of his bookbag, hauling the heavy bag by his side while he attempts to make his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. This wouldn't have happened if he had gone to the other stairwell. That one was closer to his classroom anyways, why'd he have to take the first one?

There's one other person in the bathroom when he enters, someone in the grade above, he thinks, washing their hands at the only sink that has good water pressure. He doesn't pay attention for long, just beelining for the farthest empty stall to lock himself in.

His first instinct is to cry. The tears in his eyes never went away, so the second he's sat down, he lets them flow. The're slow and quiet at first, but once he hears that other person leave, he can't stop himself from breaking into louder, hitched sobs that echo against the metal stall walls.

There's a pressure where his heart should lie that doesn't at all feel relieved by his tears. A fist latches on and tugs at the fabric of his sweater, pulling away that minimal contact it has with his chest. 

That painful feeling in his soul seems to get worse each day. It's an awful combination of his heart's need for love, and his mind's need for connection. He wants . He wants and wants and wants that connection. Deep down, he's so full of love that he doesn't know how to express it all. He's bursting at the seams, his true feelings having to lay dormant and untended to. 

Is he doomed to feel this way forever? He can't remember the last hug he accepted or the last friend he had... He can't accept that he's loved, that he's worthy of anything. He's so cold and empty and undeserving and idiotic for not being able to go even a moment on his own.

Sitting in the quiet bathroom is misery. Feeling alone in a world full of people is misery. Being exclusively seen as stupid through his academic performance and self-expression is misery.

He'll always be miserable. He'll stay sad and alone and dumb and weird.

Maybe that's all he needs.

-

Cosmo keeps his mouth shut on the drive back. His arm crosses his chest and he leans heavily against the passenger door. Scenery moves past him while his thoughts trail through everything and nothing.

He feels like his face is still messily flushed with the tear streaks he never wiped away. His brother doesn't notice, or at least he doesn't comment on it.

Once home, footsteps lead to a bedroom, Cosmo's bedroom, and open to a messy, dimly lit room. Within seconds, the boy is stripped of his shoes and bookbag before he rolls onto his bed to land on his back. A heavy breath escapes him in his attempt to relax just a bit.

He still has the urge to cry after it all. Despite all the tears shed in that bathroom stall, there's plenty more inside him. But he just can't.

He feels himself sinking into his mattress, mind muddling into the cool sheets. His blanket is shoved to the side, laying all scrunched up against the wall. He grabs for it slowly, enjoying the soft fabric while he pulls it over himself.

He's home so early now, but he's already tired enough to sleep for eighteen hours straight. He can't - shouldn't - do that though. But he wants a nap. Tiredness aches behind his eyes with enough noticable discomfort to make him feed into it.

Turning to his side, he cuddles into his blanket for warmth. He deserves a nap, a break, something . Friday evening marks the start of the weekend for him, the start of being able to restore some of that energy that life seems to take from him each day.

Finally, it's over .

He ignores the thought of doing it all again starting just a couple days ahead. 

For now, he's finished.

He made it to the weekend.

Chapter Text

Cosmo doesn't actually have any money.

That's obvious - he's a sixteen year old with no job and no otherwise method to get his own cash. So what does he do when he wants something? Well, he'll go to his mom of course. She's always nice enough to give him some money and drive him to the store. Even while she's been attempting to save some money recently, she's ' always willing to get her Cosmo-lo-lo whatever he wants '.

But what if he wants to buy something that he doesn't want her to know about? What does he do when he wants to stock up on low-calorie snacks and gum and all the other stupid things?

He can't ask his mom, 'cause she'd just pester him on what he bought. He knows she'd either go into the store with him or bug him about what's hidden in the plastic bag until he caved.

So how does he get to the store? With no car (or license for that matter) and no store within a reasonable walking distance, how'd he get his things?

"Hey, Schnozmo?"

Cosmo's brother looks up from his phone at the call of his name. He stays lying in bed, but still acknowledges the figure in the doorway.

"What's up little bro?" 

"Could you..." The words get caught in his throat for a moment, anticipation and anxiety bubbling inside of him for no good reason. "Could you drive me to the store?"

"Can't you ask mom to do it? I've been pickin' you up from school these last couple weeks."

"I..." He pauses, feeling guilt replace that nervousness in his gut. "I don't want Mama knowing what I'm buying."

"Huh," Schnozmo hums, finally sitting up. "Yeah, okay. Give me a bit to get dressed." Shooing his brother out, Schnozmo stands up to put on proper clothes.

Cosmo heads off per request, retreating to his room to also get ready. He keeps the base of his outfit, not caring that he'll look disheveled in his wrinkled sweatpants and oversized hoodie. He puts on a pair of shoes - his gross, battered old Converse that somehow still fit after almost 3 years - and makes sure to slip his phone and wallet into his pocket.

Exactly when he's ready, a knock sounds from his bedroom door.

"Alright, bro," Schnozmo calls him. "I'm ready when you are."

Cosmo comes out almost immediately, a thankful yet forced smile on his face.

"'m ready," he says, voice no louder than a mutter. They head off to the older's truck, with him spinning his key ring around his pointer finger on the way.

The drive to the store is quiet. Cosmo takes to staring out the window and playing on his phone, tapping away at some game or app that he's not sure he actually cares about. On previous days, he'd maybe try to talk to his brother. Maybe he'd talk off the other's ear with questions for half the ride. But today, he was too content with the idea of just staring at rolling hills.

The drive is quick, barely even ten minutes to a local dollar store that, hopefully , has what he needs. Once parked, the younger is quick to go inside. His hand clutches his phone, pressing it against his stomach which writhes with jittery unease.

Through the windshield, the other brother watches. Automatic doors open up and close behind the boy, while the other stays in the truck, eyebrows scrunched together in worry for his little brother.

These last two weeks that he was back home, he's noticed his brother acting differently. It's difficult to pinpoint, but sometime since they last saw each other, Cosmo seems to have lost something...

That energy in his voice and the twinkle of constant excitement in his eyes seem lost. His fidgety mannerisms are more noticeable than ever, and he's just so quiet now. Whenever he does speak, it comes out with so much wobbly nervousness that it's like he's scared of any reaction he'd receive.

He's worse. Schnozmo doesn't know why or how, but something has happened - something bad. To make Cosmo cover that weird personality he always expressed so freely without pause? That's unnatural. Nearly impossible.

But watching his brother these last couple weeks? He's tired, sluggish, with dark hollowed eyes and tangled hair. He's cautious of everything, of his schedule, of every word he speaks, and of the creaking of hardwood.

It's just wrong.

-

The truck's door slams shut behind Cosmo when he finally gets out of the store. Nerves wrack his body, and he scrambles to hide the contents of the bag, placing it by his feet and covering the plastic with his legs.

"That all you needed?" His brother asks, glancing at him. Schnozmo takes another mental note of that behavior. He's acting different. Definitely .

"Yeah... Thanks for driving me again," he mumbles, kicking the bag under the seat with his heels.

"No problem, bro." He acts nonchalant, as if he's so dense that he doesn't notice anything wrong. He just turns the truck back on, engine stuttering in a way that makes you question if it's safe or not, and heads back home.

-

In the confines of his room that evening, Cosmo goes through the plastic bag containing his haul. The couple things he got are normal - or as arguably normal as they could be knowing his mindset at the moment. There are two packs of gum in his favorite flavor, alongside a package of 'apple cinnamon' flavored rice cakes. He had wanted chocolate flavored. But he'll take what he can get. 

Tucked at the bottom of the bag is a small box, and Cosmo picks it out with a frown on his face. He can't believe he had to buy it, but in his hand lays the green and gray packaging displaying clearly what it is: Overnight relief laxatives.

He's embarrassed for having to buy them, but he's been - for lack of better words - a bit backed up recently. He knows why, but he can't accept it. What do you mean normal bodily functions can't occur when you're starving yourself?

He stares at the package in front of him, taking the time to read all the words and instructions written on the back. His eyes scan it over and over, squinting at the small text. Works within 6-12 hours. This product may cause cramping and discomfort .

After staring at it for way too long, he figures he's read it all, so he finally takes to opening the package, taking out the packet of 25 orange pills. He shakes it in his hand, listening to the pills bumping against the plastic.

He checks the back of the box once again to see the dosage.

Adults and children 12 and over should take a dose of 1-3 tablets .

Cosmo takes out three.

The orange pills pop out through the back of the metallic foil and into the palm of his hand. He pauses for a moment, just staring at them, thinking about what he's gotten himself into.

A voice inside his head insists he take out more pills. It wants him to push out more of them, half the packet if he has to. It wants him to get it all in and out quicker, not this overnight relief . That's too slow. Yet he takes a moment to talk himself out of it, ignoring that voice. He doesn't need to overdo it by taking a higher dose. He'll be ok.

He takes them, popping the small orange pills into his mouth and washing them down with some water.

The deed is done.

Now he waits.

The time was, again, said to be upwards of 12 hours until it would work. He's taking it later in the evening like it said, hoping that he could get it done in the middle of the night or early the next morning so he wouldn't have to deal with hogging the bathroom during the middle of the day.

So he guesses he'll just... Sleep now. He'll sleep and see when it hits.

-

It's almost 7AM when it finally reaches him.

"Ow-" he groans, curling in on himself while his body is finally releasing all the food he'd eaten over the past dozen or so days.

Aches run through him, cramps twisting his stomach painfully. His hands shake even while gripping his legs, nothing seeming to stop or even ease the pain. He pants, trying to keep quiet, knowing his brother is just across the hall.

He tries to let his mind wander, lifting his head from between his knees to just look ahead of him. His eyes can't catch onto anything special in the undecorated bathroom. There were only necessities in here, and nothing was interesting besides strings of dust forming on the high walls closest to the ceiling.

The simple distractions don't occupy him for long enough, and he finds his mind trailing back to his situation when another intense cramp wrenches his abdomen.

He hisses and grunts, digging his fingernails into his knees while the sound of disgustingly wet splashes hit his ears. 

God it hurts. This is so gross, why did you do this?

Cosmo doesn't think he would ever do this again. All the pain and all the other horrific feelings make him just want to die right there.

Anything to stop it - you're so stupid, why did you try this?

He just sits there, unable to respond to the thoughts in his head. There's nothing he can do but let it run its course - the disgusting and painful course.

-

When it's mostly over an hour later, Cosmo almost immediately goes to step on the scale. In theory he didn't take the laxatives in order to lose weight, but after unleashing hell on that toilet, he wants to know how much he's lost.

Over a pound.

1.6 to be exact.

An oddly familiar giddy feeling washes over him at the sight. A whole pound? That easily?

Wow.

Well, maybe...

Maybe he will do it again.

Because maybe the pain was worth it. It was worth it to lose a pound like that.

He won't do it again immediately, but...

He still has almost a whole pack.

So maybe soon.

Chapter Text

"That's... That's 80? I think? Or was it 100?" Cosmo's low murmur cuts through the silence of the kitchen. The shuffling of bare feet is heard as he impulsively goes to double-check the calories in the food he just got out. The plastic packaging crinkles as it's flipped over and read.

"It's... 80 for one slice... Okay," he sighs, placing the package of lunch meat back on the counter. He glances at the oven's clock, seeing the time 11:22 in neon green digits. He shouldn't be awake at this time, he tries to be asleep by 10:30 most days, but he's too hungry to sleep. His empty void of a stomach begs for any nutrition, and while his brain can't fully deny it that, it'll still keep track of the numbers.

His mind soon wanders from the clock back to his halfway-made sandwich.

"What cheese do we have?" He whispers to himself again, remembering why his sandwich looks unfinished. He heads back to the fridge, bringing the leftover meat package with him. The fridge opens loudly and light fills the dark room. He winces, flashing a look behind him to check if the not-so-careful opening of the fridge woke up his mom. Nothing is heard after a slow minute, so he continues to cautiously grab for more food.

"Cheese is another 80 for a slice, so... With that and the bread..." He tumbles with his hands, awkwardly counting up the food's calories on his fingers. Even if he couldn't do the most basic stuff in his math class, he could still do some simple addition.

"About 300? Yeah if I round up, it's 300." The numbers flood his brain quickly. He knows too much of these numbers now, so much so that making any food was such an insanely difficult task. Any day he finds himself making himself any food with an actual intention to eat it, his focus is so intense, so needle-point on that large printed number. Despite that need to stop the hunger, stop the pain of an empty stomach, he knows he can't have too much. Nothing to ruin progress - nothing to make him gain.

"300 sounds like a lot, but that'll be all for today. And it's just today," he reasons to himself, "just something to, uh... To make me feel better. Yeah..." He wasn't lying when he said that. He'd been hungry on and off all day, and normally he can deal with that, but a slow wave of nausea has been slowly creeping up ever since lunchtime.

He's felt off all day, it feels like. The sheen of sickening dizziness stayed in him for hours, and he could only handle it for so long. Getting some food will probably be the only viable solution tonight.

The paper plate holding his sad little sandwich is lifted off the counter and held carefully in Cosmo's grip. A glance is given over the dimly lit kitchen, and with nothing more to clean, he slowly turns to head upstairs to his cluttered, cold room.

The stairs creak as he walks up slowly, placing his feet closer to the wall to lessen the noise. It's something he'd learned: the hardwood creaks, especially on the stairs, but it's quieter on the edges of the steps.

Once he's reached the top, he stares at the hall in front of him. It's hard to see through the darkness, but he knows what it looks like. Four doors, two on each side, spread evenly apart along the walls. On the left wall is a small guest room as well as the bathroom. He's spent too much time in the bathroom in recent months, staring into the fogged reflection after a shower, and stepping on and off the scale two, sometimes three times a day.

On the other side of the hall is Cosmo's room and, right by the end, his brother's room. Behind that final door is, as of just a couple days ago, no one. 

As February transitioned into March, time seemed to slow. The days felt the same except for the impending thought that his brother would be leaving again in just a couple weeks. The days that Schnozmo was home went by too fast, and soon, he was out one morning with little warning.

Cosmo now stares at Schnozmo's door, trying to will his brother back. Even with mostly minimal interactions over the time he was here, he still desperately misses him. The hug from when he first came back to the simple drives home were things he'd kill to have back again. And it hasn't even been a week since he left.

Cosmo's not sure why it affects him so much.

He shakes his head, breaking himself off from that longing. It was hard to look so far down the hall anyway, it's so dark at this time of night.

He carefully starts moving again, placing his right hand on the wall to guide him to his door as if he hasn't lived here his whole life. The plate shakes in his other hand, trying to stay steady with the uneven weight. His hand finally hits the doorframe and he makes his way quickly inside, turning the bronze door knob until he can push it open.

Entering the room, he already knows it's messy. A nearby street light shines in from outside, and light seeps past the closed blinds and into his bedroom. A few small sections of the hardwood are illuminated, making a handful of scattered items stick out in the dark. Dirty clothes, unfinished homework sheets, and just about anything that has managed to end up on his floor in recent months.

He steps inside awkwardly, trying to place his feet so that he won't step on much. The plate is placed on his bed, lying unevenly on the unmade bed sheets.

He's hesitant to turn on a light, knowing how bright it would be to him. He wasn't very fond of the bigger ceiling light even during the day, so instead, he heads to just turn on the small lamp on his dresser. A click resonates through his room and an oddly comforting yellowish light fills the room.

He sighs, squinting at the newfound light. His stomach still churns with queasy hunger, and his mind is forcefully dragged back to the food he prepared. That vacant, almost void-like feeling at the pit of his stomach gets worse, flaring up the nausea in his gut.

He still hesitates to eat though.

You've made so much progress, and you're going to ruin it for a sandwich?

Apparently he has to.

He finally goes and grabs the plate back, deciding to slump down the side of his bed rather than eat while sitting on it. Just another stupid rule he's decided to try out - don't eat on your bed or while distracted .

Cosmo sits, legs crossed, with the plate sitting in front of him. The nausea is still present, almost intensified from the scent of food, so he just decides to take his first bite. The sandwich tastes bland on his tongue. Sure, it's a better flavor than the rancid taste of nothing, but it's still more boring than he'd like.

His mind wanders quickly, the situation leading to thoughts he thinks about too often.

Like...

How did he get to this point? Why is he so scared to eat? What's so bad about it? 

Like most of life's harshest things, it started slow. Again, a breakfast skipped here, a dinnertime hunger cue that went ignored, and an extra minute looking into that mirror after a shower. A pinch of skin, a glance towards the calorie count of his favorite ice cream flavor, and the knowledge that he's growing up.

Something inside him envies the version of him that existed throughout elementary and middle school. He was this boy just trying to grow into himself, with his innocent, round eyes, a crooked grin, and not a care in the world of what shirt size he wore. 

He's getting older. Day by day passes and each day he's getting older. He's not growing physically, per se. He'd slowed down height wise after a huge growth spurt a couple years back, and he can't see a difference from himself now compared to any time before. Yet, in just a few months, he'll have a birthday. He'll have that extra whisper of ' you're getting older. You shouldn't act this way at your age. Going on seventeen in May? Going to start senior year in August? Nearly an adult. Adults don't act like you’.

Emotionally he's stuck so far behind his peers that he might as well be put back in middle school. He'd do better with the easier work, and would at least match the mental age he's outgrown. His brain feels fourteen, feels twelve, feels ten. Feeling so out of place is like being put in a box. Outcasts get pointed and stared at, ridiculed for every little thing and they can never do anything about it.

But in an attempt to do something about it - to control the stares that look him up and down - he just tries to change. Start with clothes, something baggier to hide the fat that clings to his skin. And change that too, the fat, because eating less becomes easy after a while. He could shift the focus from his awkwardness to his appearance. Look over and over, fat. Chubby. Lose it all right now, right now. Be skinny like the rest of them because nobody likes a fatty.

Starving can be the one positive thing for him. If he can't control the continual passage of time or the expectations of others, he can change his body with it's fat stomach and round face and big arms and squishy legs. Time can't pass if the only numbers he sees are the calories in every item, and that frustrating digital number from a scale that's probably lying to him anyway.

He's more and more insecure by the day, with every moment spent internalizing each detail.  He gets continually more irritable with every insult. He's upset and forgetful, hungry and sick. There are moments within his isolation where he'd wish he was someone else, anyone else . 

Numbers plagued his mind, because every high number is bad. Any number above zero is bad. The mentality drilled through and through is to aim for zero. Zero calories, zero pounds, size zero. It was obsessive. Obsessively stupid.

He knows it's stupid, he knows it's bad, but he can't get out of it. The chains tying him to the scale get shorter and tighter each day, placing him in front of a mirror with a number at his feet showing him his own personal nightmare.

He's stuck. Stuck in a periodic schedule that starts and ends in pain and misery. 

He hates it.

But he doesn't know how to break it.

His thoughts slow, finally remembering the sandwich in his hand. He ate about half of it before his thoughts trailed off. A mouthful of the mushy bread is still in his mouth, and he, without thinking, impulsively spits it back out onto the plate.

Disgusting .

Cosmo grimaces, no longer wanting to eat anymore. His nausea has lessened from even just that little amount of food, so he figures he can get rid of the rest without issues. The closet door is opened to the scent of rotting food that's been left for a couple days now. He's lost the remorse of throwing out food like this. At first he hated it, but you start to lose that hatred when all you're concerned about is making the food seem like it was eaten.

The plastic bag crinkles at the new food dumped into it, and Cosmo struggles to ignore the scent until he can close the door again. The paper plate gets frisbeed towards his garbage can, missing it horribly to instead fall to the ground. He ignores it, instead going back over to turn his lamp off and go to bed.

Feet drag against the wood floor until he climbs under his blankets. His body curls in on itself, suddenly aware of how cold he feels. 

The blandness of the sandwich he had still lies on his tongue, and he feels a growing guilt about eating it at all. Arms wrap around his stomach, fingers unconsciously picking at the skin beneath his shirt. He can already feel the fat from that sandwich clinging to his sides, ruining all the progress he made .

After everything, it's all him. It's all his fault the decisions he makes, the meals he eats, and the workouts he skips. All his fault he's still fat, all his fault that he's obsessed with these arbitrary numbers, all his fault for thinking this would be easy at all.

Maybe there's truth in that. Maybe it is his fault.

Chapter Text

Evening time on some odd weekday, Cosmo finds himself wandering downstairs after sitting alone in his room got too boring for him. He stops by his mom in the living room, beginning to say a quiet greeting before being interrupted.

"Have you had anything to eat yet, baby?"

"No," he mutters, having no real reason to lie in the moment.

"Well," she starts, sitting up in her seat, "I haven't thought about anything in particular for dinner tonight. Do you want me to make you something simple?" The way his mom says it makes him nervous. 'Something simple' could mean anything, but most likely something high calorie.

"Uh... Sure," he responds reluctantly, scared of what he'll be served.

"How about macaroni and cheese? I haven't made you that for a while." The sudden thought placed by her of having mac and cheese for dinner sets off a twang in his chest, pulling his fear regarding dinnertime straight to the front. Pasta. Shit .

He impulsively wants to shake his head and refuse, but most of his recent actions are suspicious enough already.

Just accept it. You can throw it out like always .

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, pulling up thoughts from months ago where he'd have a box of Kraft cooked up and he'd be able to take down the whole thing on his own.

Holy fuck, how did you ever eat that? His thoughts creep in with the idea of accidentally doing that all again. All on your own? The whole box? That was half a day's worth of food for a normal person, and that wasn't your only meal of the day. No wonder you got so fat.

"I'll get it started, sweetie." She stands up from the couch, giving him an unreturned kiss on the cheek before heading to make the meal. He has to refrain from letting out a harsh sigh until he's back in his room alone. 

Lying on his bed, his mind rushes with anxiety about the food that is to come. He feels so disgustingly scared about it. On the surface, his fear is unnecessary. As scary as it is, he has that bag of thrown-out food tucked away in his closet that is just a bit too easy to add to. But on the other side... He wants some. He wants to taste that creamy orange cheese on soft macaroni. The warmth of it would move from his mouth to his chest to his stomach, rejuvenating that life in his soul he sorely missed.

So... Just a bite wouldn't hurt anything.

Right?

By the time the food gets served to him in a big, warm bowl, he's decided that he'll have a bit. Not the whole bowl, and definitely not the whole box, but a bit.

A few small bites are taken into his mouth, and he's having a hard time refraining from pouring it all down his throat. That impulse alone is pulling more fear into his shaky hands.

Don't eat it. Don't eat more, can't eat more, too much, do you even know how much you're eating right now? You know exactly where that's going to end up.

Despite this, his hands reach for more spoonfuls. It's one mouthful after another until... It's gone. But he's not done yet. Sweet, something sweet. Want something sweet . The voice that screamed out about the fat, the calories, the food gets drowned out by flavor and savory pasta and the want for something sweeter.

Before he knows it, a new bowl is in front of him, filled with scoops of ice cream that he hadn't found himself in the presence of for weeks. It's like last month, ferally eating that fruit bowl like it was his last meal. Except that time, he could stop. From that first bowl of Kraft to way too many servings of melty, sugary mint chocolate ice cream, there's seemingly no stopping him.

Until he does stop.

The sugar stays on his tongue, making that flavor truly reach his brain. His mind stops, hands suddenly shaking more than before. His mouth drools, but his stomach feels so uncomfortably bloated at all he just ate. That need to eat more and more and more quiets down, only to be replaced with that voice that had only been shut down in the moment he needed it most.

Need it out. You ate too much. Fatty - get it out - disgusting .

The panic rises from his chest, and the full realization hits him. The sickening feeling of a full stomach pulls fear from his gut. He can feel all that food he ate wrapping around his stomach, pulling skin taut.

A mouthful of drool gets swallowed, making him feel all the worse. The empty bowl just in front of him is the worst reminder of what he just did, because right now he can only remember how he didn't need to do that. He didn't want to do that, and he sure as hell didn't deserve it .

He can barely feel his body moving while he drives himself down the hall. His instincts drive him somewhere he's heard so much about but has never been.

He's heard about it before. He's bound to hear about it with where his mind is pulled to at times. He knows the implications of what he does, has done, and what he will do. Terminology is difficult, with so many words that could be used, but the main idea sits in his brain, peeking out occasionally as a solution to some problems.

Purging .

He wants to try it. Despite all the twisting anxiety in his full stomach regarding the idea, there still lays a morbid curiosity of how wonderful it would be to just... Get it all out. Just like that.

It's terrible that his mind can just think of it so easily as if it's not disgustingly terrifying. But solutions are solutions, and he's already crouched in front of the toilet.

His hands continue to shake violently while he stares down the toilet bowl, clean, untainted water filling it. He shuts his eyes, not daring to witness what he's going to do just yet. He leans forward, gripping awkwardly at the toilet seat.

His hair falls forward with him, brushing against his face uncomfortably. Even with the obvious threat of it getting in the way, he doesn't - won't - pull it back out of the way.

Through the mess, he manages to shove his fingers down his throat, scratching uncomfortably against flesh. Even with the probing, nothing comes out at first. There's only the drool that begins to coat and dribble down his hand accompanied by a harsh gagging noise that echoes in the bathroom.

He tries again, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and shoving them deeper, poking at the back of his throat until a flow of substance comes back to the surface and out where it first came in. 

There's a gush of that ice cream he had that splashes into the water. The creamy dessert had melted in his stomach, making it come out just like milky, mint-flavored water. It dribbles down his bottom lip, getting spat into the bowl after a few moments.

He goes again, gagging on fingers until another flow of the ice cream comes back up. A gross green color tints the water, smelling of fresh mint, chocolate chips, and stomach acid.

He felt like he was choking after a while. And technically, he was. Fingertips jab at the back of his throat over and over, and one particularly loud cough follows a slew of stomach acid that comes out the wrong way. Slowly, a drip of acid and snot falls out of his nose, making him cringe and pull his head back from the toilet.

"Gugh-" he gasps, feeling his nostrils burn at the foreign liquid. The scent and feeling of stomach acid corroding his throat and teeth is terrible - horrid .

Yet he composes himself to try again.

He warily pushes his fingers back into his mouth, making sure not to brush the digits against his tongue. His body leans forward, even further this time to make sure the puke still makes it into the toilet bowl. His head is practically inside the damn thing, still-dripping nose almost touching the water.

Disgusting .

But he needs to get out that last bit. He needs to get out what originally started this - that damn bowl of Mac and cheese that has yet to come all the way up.

He chokes and gags, body wanting nothing to do with any object that would poke back there. Tears finally flow from his eyes when the last of it comes out in one last harsh stream of chewed-up orange pasta straight into the toilet.

With a low groan, his hand is pulled from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment before snapping separate. A couple mouthfuls of saliva, acid, and whatever is still stuck in his throat are all that is spat back into the now tainted water.

A weak moan leaves him, and he slowly moves his arm across the seat to lean his forehead against it. His eyes, still blurry with tears, are closed again. His mouth hangs open, breathing heavily and dripping spit occasionally without bothering to swallow any of it. 

His strength feels lost after it all. There's an agonizing ache in his throat and a drip from his nose. A sheen of sweat on his forehead and less food in his stomach than before.

That's good, he guesses. That wretched feeling of fullness has left him just enough to confirm that at least some of the food he ate has been ridden.

Cosmo lays against the toilet, dreading the thought of standing back up. Alas, he has to clean this up. Pushing against his knees to support himself, his legs shake while getting up. The heel of his palm pushes against polished countertop while holding his body weight.

He turns slowly to the mirror above the sink, meeting a gaze on teary eyes and spit-dribbled chin. He trails back to the vomit in the toilet, taking no more than a moment to reflect before flushing it down. He watches as the green and orange food chunks swirl down the void and out of sight. 

Blinking away the tears that still brim his eyes, he turns back to the sink. He tries desperately not to look back into the mirror, noting how shitty he looked and felt. His hands are washed lazily along with a wipe down of his face to get off the saliva and snot and tears.

Finding home underneath the sheets of his bed again, his mind races with thoughts. There are so many contradicting words coming and going. There's validation - thank God you got that out. That was too many calories not too . And there was severe self-hatred - how could you have gotten to the point of a binge? Stupid fatass, thinking for even a second you should have even had a bite of that dinner .

His brain reels with these thoughts, while his body lays rigid against the bed. His throat is raw and his knuckles are scratched to irritation from his teeth. He's regretful, but now free from the disgusting bloating that horrendously calorie-dense meal had given him.

The thought of doing it again is ignored for now. He's too miserable to even think past the stomach acid he still smells with every breath.

Was it worth it?

The pain wasn't worth it. The gagging wasn't worth it. The stomach acid wasn't worth it, the fear in his shaking hands, the weakness in his knees, and the disgust that coiled in his gut during it all wasn't worth it.

All that was worth it was losing those calories that could've gone straight to his already fat body. Deep in his subconscious, he's still scared to death of what might remain inside him. There's still food in him, he knows that, but he can't count the calories without a true knowledge of how much got thrown back up. So he guesstimates. Up to a thousand is what his worried mind conjures up. He prays that it isn't that high, but overestimating is all he can do at this point.

Even with a racing mind, he only has one real desire at the moment: whatever is leftover better not show on the scale tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Nowadays Cosmo can't find the motivation to get up in the morning. His eyes open to the sound of his alarm, same time every morning, and all he wants to do is go back to sleep. His limbs feel like they sink back into his mattress, and the blurry exhaustion in his head makes him want to go back to bed and sleep for a week straight. Or maybe forever.

Nowadays Cosmo hates school. He kind of always did. He always felt ostracized among his peers while he leaned against the wall in the shade to pick at the grass growing through the pavement instead of playing wall ball or running around with the other kids in his grade. There were fake compliments from teachers who pitied this runt of the class. There were jabs and insults from classmates when he asked an "obvious" question. It all just got worse as he got older. He can't even enjoy the idea of school or socialization or learning anymore.

Nowadays Cosmo fidgets without realizing, moves around just to get comfortable in a place and situation he could never be comfortable with. When he has days where he can physically stand to stay awake during class, he'll bump his pencil eraser against wooden desks and nervously bounce his leg under the desk until he remembers what he's doing. He doesn't know why he's doing it. He doesn't know why he does most things.

Nowadays Cosmo can't stand up without feeling dizzy. If he's not careful, he gets up too quickly once the bell rings, and he has to hold onto the table to keep himself from collapsing. Sometimes he realizes how pathetic it looks, but most of the time he pushes that thought away, replacing it instead. You love being sick like this .

Nowadays Cosmo doesn't talk to others. As a kid, he was always excitable and talkative. He's not much anymore. Somewhere inside him, he still wants to talk, still wants to ramble on and on about things that barely matter. He wants to laugh and smile with someone who can genuinely understand and tolerate him. But since he can't find that person, he stays quiet. No one really wants to hear his voice anyway, not even him.

Nowadays Cosmo holds bruises and scars close to him like trophies. Even when most of the bruises he gets come from bullies, he still loves them. In some twisted way, they're comforting. And he gets a story each time - especially when he remembers that the extra awkward hump in his already awkwardly big nose comes from that one time in middle school when Luthor got a bit too rowdy and broke the boy's nose without remorse. Sure, it was painful, but the extra weird look made him oddly happy at times. When he wasn't focused on the hatred of his body as a whole, he could appreciate the odd features and scars. That crooked nose especially reminded him of his brother.

Nowadays Cosmo stopped caring about most things. There used to be guilt and fear and regret at every little thing. The whispering voice noted how he looked weird, moved around too much, ate too much, and wasn't good enough . While that voice is still there, sometimes louder than it started, he just... stopped. He slept through class and tried looking as small as possible. He stopped caring when he threw out food given to him just to make it look like it was eaten, he didn't care that starving hurt because it meant he was losing weight.

Nowadays Cosmo feels like he never has free time. He does, obviously, what with no extracurriculars or emotional energy to do his homework, but he feels like his skewed schedule leaves him nothing. The school day is boring, tiring. The bus rides are hellishly long and any real distraction he tries to pass the time will end with a headache. Even with hours to spend, he just wastes them rotting in bed. He lies, scrolling aimlessly on his phone to see another useless video he doesn't need to watch, or play a game full of mind-numbing ads and an overall lack of interesting content. Boredom chews at his brain every night, but he just can't find the motivation to do better.

Nowadays Cosmo can't shake the profound sensation that he's so terribly lonely . To him, it feels harsh, indescribably horrible. It seeps through skin and marrow, digging in and resting in the very fabric of his being. Being lonely is so inhuman that he just can't deal with it. No one can. He couldn't even begin to describe just how lost he feels, having basically no one to talk to every day for weeks, months . He only sees his brother every few months, and his mom just feels so distant to him in these recent years. Maybe it was his own personal isolation - maybe it was a disconnection with how he's grown up, but it's just so different now. And this empty feeling of longing wraps around him each day he wakes up until he heads to sleep in the evening, clutching a pillow to his chest like he's never felt another humans touch his whole life. Maybe this loneliness was always there.

Nowadays Cosmo can hardly get to sleep. With the constant yet unscheduled nap times he finds himself in throughout the day, he ends up wide awake come bedtime. Exhaustion weighs in his bones, and he finds himself tossing and turning under piles of blankets. First laying on his right side, then on his back, adjust some more, try the left side, right side again. His head runs wild, zooming with dozens of overlapping thoughts and ideas. Despite the tiredness that consumes him, he can't rest. He thinks about school and family and food. It's weird to think about food, especially in the way that he does. Nonstop thoughts about meal ideas and what he'll eat, when he'll eat. There are layers upon layers of hate and confusion and want. He won't eat, he knows that, but he thinks about it all so much that he wants to eat it. He wants it so much, but he can't stand the guilt.

Nowadays Cosmo has absurd or even scary dreams. Sometimes he dreams about getting hurt. He'll get a rush of phantom pain that wakes him with a start and leaves his mind shaken all day. But other times it's more simple. He'll dream about food, being able to focus on the taste without guilt. And dream him will happily binge and purge anything he can get his hands on. It's weird sometimes.

Nowadays Cosmo just exists. Not happily or in an important way, but just in a way that he's there somehow. Not exactly living, but at least somewhat surviving.

Chapter Text

"Don't you have something to give to me?" The uncharacteristically sharp tone of Cosmo's mother questions her son the second that he walks into the living room with her. 

He pauses for a moment, immediately regretting even coming downstairs this morning. It's not like he even came downstairs for anything important anymore - it's just his way of letting his mom know that he was alive, he thinks? It's an odd behavior of never wanting to be downstairs, but still needing to do anything but rot in his room daily.

"Maybe?" He says it as a question, not immediately knowing what she is referring to.

"They sent out report cards a month ago. You never gave it to me." He blinks at her, taking a few moments to recall even being given a report card at all.

"Oh! Uh, yeah..." His voice trails off, trying to remember where in his bookbag it might be. "I can... Go get it." He turns quickly, wanting to leave that upset gaze of hers as soon as he could.

In his room, he digs through his backpack, sorting through dozens of papers that do nothing but make his bag heavier. A couple minutes (way too long to have spent looking for a dumb sheet of paper) of searching finds him the report card he never truly looked at the first time.

The quick scan he does over the letter grades puts another rock of regret in his stomach. None of the class grades reached higher than a D, with most being cemented as an F. Even with no absences the entire semester so far, his grades couldn't survive the writhing turmoil in his head that refused to pay attention, refused to stay awake, and refused to even try on most days.

Despite the fear holding him in place, he knows he has to give it to his mom. He unintentionally procrastinated this long, and she'll get upset if he "lost it". The stairs creak loudly as usual, and he has to hesitantly hand off the report card to his mom sitting on the couch.

Each moment she takes to look it over makes him more and more nervous. He clenches his jaw and holds his breath, a familiar pressure in his chest spreading uncomfortably.

"You know," she says after a moment, turning to look at her son. "I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed."

That statement hit him like a bullet train. He knew his grades were bad - a lot worse than usual this time round - but hearing her say that struck something he didn't know was inside him. A wave of remorse immediately fills his chest with the urge to cry. 

It takes him too long to reply. His gaze lowers to the ground where his bare feet stick to the hardwood that separates the living room and the rest of the house.

Why are you so stupid?

"I don't know..."

"I can't hear you when you're that quiet," she jabs at him again. He clenches his jaw into a distressed scowl, willing himself to say something even if it's not good.

"I'm sorry I'm so stupid," he tries again, bringing his head up to look at her. Their eyes meet for a moment before he gets nervous again and darts his vision away. "I don't know why I do this."

"What do you mean?" Mama Cosma's face is now etched with more concern than before. She knows exactly what you mean.

"I don't... Know why I can't do anything right. Why I can't understand school and keep my grades ok." Or why I can't keep friends, and always get bullied, and isolate so much, and can't lose weight as quickly as others. All the words that go unsaid still race circles in his mind, sealing the miserable idea that he'll never be able to do anything right.

"You still can't keep doing this, Cosmo. You're not much of a kid anymore."

"But I still feel like a kid!" He shouts suddenly, taking his mom by surprise. "It's been like this for years, I've- it's like I've never felt any older than fourteen, and I don't know how to fix it!" His previously only slightly fidgety hands now grip desperately at the hem of his sweater. 

"Wha-"

"You don't know it! I don't know it! And I'm sorry that I don't understand math, or history, for chemistry, it just doesn't- work! In my brain!" His voice hitches while tears finally flow. They get soaked into the fabric of his sleeve with frantic wipes across his cheeks.

"Sweetie, I'm-" she can't finish the statement, but her expression finally leans into hardly-seen regret at his outburst.

"I'm just so stupid - I know I am! And I'm sorry, I'm SORRY!" His voice cracks, steadily increasing in intensity with each word until he can't take it anymore. A distressed groan spills from his lips while he covers his face with his cold hands. His thumbs move to cover his ears, blocking out his sobs when his own volume makes him more overwhelmed.

"Stupid... Stupid. Sorry," his mutters get lost in his hoodie sleeves. He can tell he looks terribly and utterly pathetic in the moment, so emotionally overstimulated and regretful and scared that all he wants to do is go back to his room and cry forever and ever. If his mom was at all trying to talk to him he had long since blocked her out so he could try and regulate himself on his own. Looking up after a few long minutes, he meets his mom's eyes. His eyebrows still scrunch in distress, but he recognizes his mom trying to coerce him closer.

"Come here," she requests, patting the cushion beside her and looking at her son with her own watery eyes.

He hesitantly obliges, walking closer to her position on the couch but refusing to take the seat beside her. Instead, he kneels down on the carpet, leaning against the cushions while his mother takes to physically comforting him for the first time in months.

He cries harder at the hands soothing him. One is placed on his shoulder, rubbing lightly against his hoodie fabric, while the other brushes his bangs from his face to tuck individual strands behind his ear.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm so sorry," she whispers, voice hitching with her own tears. The words get lost in his head, still a swirling tornado of self-hatred and regret at all he's done. Why did he have to do all of this just to get an apology? To get this temporary comfort that's bound to be ripped down the next time he's in her vicinity while she's upset?

"I didn't know. I'm sorry," she whispers.

It takes minutes for him to come down from it all, sniffling snot down the back of his throat in uncomfortable streams. By the time most of it has passed, he still lies with his face pressed against the polyester that supports him. His mother's hands have found their spots, one placed on his back in between his shoulder blades. While the other holds his left hand, rubbing her thumb across the back of it.

"I'm sorry I didn't see it before," she sighs to him. He turns his head and sits up more to look at her again. How could you not have seen this, he thinks. You're lying. It was all laid out in front of you for the past three months, and you didn't take any measures to try and find the root of the problem, or what the problem even was to begin with!?

Instead, he utters an "'s fine."

"It's not fine - I'm such a horrible mom." Cosmo has to stop from sighing. He's heard her say this before, and it bothers him every time.

"You're not-"

"Yes, I am... I should have noticed." He decides to not argue, knowing that no matter how many times he reassured her, she wouldn't accept it.

After a few minutes of silent comforting, Mama Cosma is slow to retract the embrace of her son. She tries to catch his eyes, but he refuses to look back at her. 

"Did any of this have to do with how much weight you're losing?" He nearly flinches at how sudden the statement felt. Why does she have to ask this?

"... Kinda," he sighs.

"How much have you lost? Twenty pounds?" He hates how easily she's asking these. With some of the comments she's made in the past regarding food that would always set him off so badly, he feels awkward to be talking openly about some of it.

"I don't know... Like thirty," he responds in a mumble, knowing he's still lying. It's more like forty. He was reaching desperately for the low 100s now.

"That's not healthy, sweetie." 

I know .

He just shrugs.

"I'm- I should go," he mumbles with no excuse. He can't handle being here much longer. "Imma be in my room. I love you, bye."

Mama Cosma is still slightly upset, but lets her youngest son leave for the comfort of his bedroom. Her ' I love you too ' goes seemingly unheard.

Back in his room and laid on his bed, there's a storm that remains a dark roar of constant thoughts. That conversation fronts his mind, filled with regret and fear and concern.

He's been getting worse.

A few days of eating more than normal - eating too much, too much, why did he do that - shot his weight up like nothing else. He's lost a bit since that scary spike up, but the thoughts fueling that loss had begun to falter in what they wanted. It had always been to starve. To skip meals and exercise and fast and do anything to get lower and sicker. But suddenly, there's been a reasonable voice, something uncommon yet louder than what he was used to.

Maybe you should recover .

He doesn't know how a voice made by his own mind could sound so polite. It was loving and gentle in a way he had never experienced from anyone before. It was full of soft requests, little whispers of recovery will be good. You won't feel tired, you won't be scared of your body . On the surface, he knows it's not that simple, but maybe… he would be able to push past it all?

That voice combatted in a tug of war with his desire to get worse. Some days were better than others. From today, it looks like it should be terrible, and he should act accordingly with double the hatred, double the starvation.

But that new voice is pushing the opposite. It doesn't even sound like his own voice - his own thoughts, - so why does he want to listen to it so much?

Maybe it's because deep down, he's scared of where he'll end up. All he hears online are people who have been disordered for months, years , longer than him, and all those hospitalizations, near-death experiences, and actual deaths from, what, just not eating? 

He could end up like one of them.

That's not healthy .

Food has become an enemy. Every time he cares to look at his face in the mirror, he can tell he looks different. His eyes lost their light, left sunken and tired at lack of sleep and food. His skin is thin and freezing cold all the time, strands of hair get pulled from the roots with each brush-through, and he's dropping weight like it's nothing.

Do you know how you got here - why you got here?

Why?

There's no reason.

There was no reason for him to create all these feelings, no reason for him to create the exhaustion that resides heavy in his bones and behind his eyes. Every day that he wakes up he feels like he's making a mistake. He's imperfect in every way, so he doesn't deserve to let people see him, right? He's been mentally tearing himself to shreds more and more each day just because he... Wanted to? Because he got too scared of becoming an adult? Because he wanted to control his appearance? Because he wanted a "temporary change"?

Each day was slow until it spiraled like water down a drain. Everything was ok until it had pulled him down the road of self-hatred and fear at every little thing. The look of someone else compared to him, the little comments made to him about every individual thing, the room that became a prison cell riddled with reminders that he's terrible and should get worse. All those things, all those internalized feelings - they were all 'just because'?

What has he done to himself?

You should recover.

Should he?

You should recover.

I should recover.

He'll try… If it falls through, he can always go back. So... Right now it's the first day, the first hour, the first moment of something new. 

Something tells him that it won't be too bad.