༺ TWENTY - SEVEN ༻

This is my first time eating breakfast in weeks.
I've lost count on how many weeks it's been, but at least four.

Not that I'm planning to let this breakfast stay in my stomach and brew calories.

It's awful that I know I'll be vomiting and taking laxatives after this, especially because the only reason I am eating breakfast is Thomas, who's sitting right in front of me, and that stupid promise I made.

"How'd y'all sleep?" I ask.

It's Wednesday. Sonya is already at school, Mom and Dad at work. Mom's a dentist and Dad is probably going through more business meeting right now. He often has those, only to discuss the finances, seeing he's the employee with the most acknowledgment about that.

I don't know much about it, though. The company is named WCKD and they're connected to all kinds of sports. The reason I started ballet was because my father spoke about it once. About how they were creating a new kind of pointe shoes.

"Great," but not a single answer coming from the three mouths sounds convincing. I'm pretty sure they stayed up 'till very late, maybe gossiping about boys things. I don't know.

"And you?" It's Thomas asking.

"Quite good," I say. It's the truth. After our interactions, which left deeper emotions than I expected, I fell asleep to his words repeating in my head, and I hope my face isn't betraying too much. I must be beaming, looking at him.

Minho stuffs one of mini cakes we baked last night in his mouth. It's the first time I see him without hair gel, and it seems to make him a whole different person. Less... I don't know... neat? Whatever. I just realize it's way different.

"Minho and I will give you a ride to ballet," Thomas says. "We have hockey anyways. Do you wanna come with us, Newt?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

"Then that's settled." Minho attempts to fix his hair with his hands, obviously annoyed by it. "Man, we should've gone to sleep earlier. I look like shit."

Thomas glances at him. "You're not the only one."

Well, I think the bags around Thomas's eyes look quite good.

Is that weird?

"I think you look fine," I say. The words are completely directed to Thomas, but I say them in a way that makes it sound like I mean the plural version.

"Don't say that," Newt hisses. "Minho was fishing for the compliment."

"Of course. I'd never speak the truth about me looking like shit." He leans back. Gives the two boys a triumphant glare. "Because I never would."

"Oh, yeah? When I woke up this morning, I thought it was Thomas's diarrhea in your sleeping bag. Guess what? It was you without hair gel!"

"That's the worst roast ever, Newt."

"At least it's hotter than you."

I laugh quietly at their bickering, then finish the last bites of my toast. Thomas gives me a smile, which I attempt to return. If only he knew.

It makes me feel so guilty, but I have no choice. The thought of seeing the number go up makes me sick.

I think that if I want breakfast out, I only have to think of gaining weight and get so disgusted by myself that I'll automatically throw up looking in the mirror.

"I'm going to get ready," I say. The longer I wait, the longer those calories have the time to stay permanent.

I tuck the strands of my hoodie away and find myself confirming I can indeed throw up just at the thought of gaining weight. It's kind of like my fear of snakes, but worse. Never thought a fear could be that intense.

It doesn't compare to my fear of losing loved ones, though. But the thought of someone I love dying unless I gain weight makes me want to throw up again.

I take four laxatives, and chug two liters of water down. It will be out of my system before we even get in the car, so no bloating.

I don't brush my hair too much, because more blonde strands start sit on the brush every time I pull away. Pissed off, I tie it up in a thin ponytail. Then there's tons of concealer and blush until I finally don't look like a ghost.

When I'm downstairs, I only find Newt and Minho on the couch. One look from Minho, then he has already explained Thomas is in the kitchen.

I nod. Maybe I can get a kiss or something before I go on my run. Need some more encouragement than just my crazy mind.

"Hi." I lean against the counter. "What're you doing?"

"You're just on time." Thomas turns around, a lunch box in his hands. "Here. Got you this. For between ballet and work."

I open the warm box. An immediate smell of tomato sauce enters my nose, and my knees buckle at it. I wish I could.

"It's your favorite," he says, swallowing. I can see he's nervous. "Well, you can see that, of course, but... in case you can't, it's lasagna," he says. "Luca's lasagna, in fact."

We had work last Monday. Not yesterday. He was in this house the whole morning. Which means he already had this for a while.

"Don't worry, the date isn't expired and I'm sure it'll taste perfect," he adds.

I don't know what to say. I can't throw this away. He tried so hard to get this and he warmed it up and those eyes and his hopeful smile and nervous twitch of his nose and my shaking hands and the warm box in them and the amazing smell and then the memory of the taste of this but then the thought I'll gain weight and then Janson's words but then Thomas's words and the promise and and and and and—

"Oh, no, no, no." His nervousness increases. "Don't cry, Rose... Blondie. Please don't. I didn't mean to make you cry."

It's both tears of happiness and sadness. The salty taste makes my lips wet, and soon Thomas's shoulder.

"Come on," he murmurs. He wipes them away after our hug, but they keep coming and coming. "Don't cry like this or I'll start crying."

I manage to smile through my tears, but it's a small one. "I'm trying."

The next hug lasts longer. He's rubbing my back again, and I take my time to recover and calm my breaths.

"Alright." I sniff, rubbing my eyes. "I'll go on my run now. Will be back in an hour."

"Someone said run?" Minho pops up. Luckily now, and not three seconds earlier. "I'm in."

"Sure," Thomas agrees, to my surprise. "Don't do any dangerous Minho things."

"I'd have no idea what you're on about," Minho says in an excessive sweet tone. "I'll be a real gentleman!"

Thomas lets out some kind of groan as he walks past us. "You better be the one next to the road."

"And Rose on it?" Minho jokes. "Sure, TommyBoy."

"I swear to god—"

But Minho already waved him off and starts putting his shoes on as I do the same.

"So, you good at running?"

I shrug. "I go every morning."

"Every morning?"

"Yeah. Is that bad?"

"Nah. Just surprises me. It takes something to have that motivation and keep it up," he says, grinning. "Guess you got that from me, Frenzy."

I pull a face.

"You got it telepathically!" He smiles. His eyes squint. "Now let's go. I shall really be a gentleman."

I manage a smile before we leave, just jogging through the streets. It's quite the challenge to do this with Minho. I notice he's slowing down for me almost immediately, and I'm out of breath way faster. It must seem way faster than last time because he's not out of breath at all.

"Here. We'll stop." Minho motions for me to sit down on a bench next to the road.

"Sorry," I mumble, taking some deep breaths.

"It's alright. You have a lot of ballet and then also jogging beside it. I don't blame you." He gifts me a smile. "Guess you're stronger than I thought, Frenzy."

I chuckle. "Don't overestimate it."

After more minutes than necessary, we decide to keep going. I get up. Too fast, and stumble right back onto the bench, the dizziness so hurtful that I don't even notice it's gotten completely black until Minho calls my name from a distance.

"Hey, Rose?" His moving hand slowly gets clearer. "You alright? Almost lost you there."

I nod, out of breath again. "Low iron."

Minho's frown deepens. "You nearly fainted. Come on, we'll go back."

"No!" My protest comes out high-pitched. "We— I can't. Have to make six miles."

He smiles through his frown, but shakes his head. "No. Newt's gonna kill me if something happens. Let's just go back."

"Minho, it's just low iron—" I try, but his hold on me is too firm, and I'm almost getting dragged back.

Eventually, I give up with a final sigh and start walking next to him.

"Could you not tell anyone about this?" I request. No context unless he asks.

"I won't," he promises, exhaling. "Unless they ask."

I like him for that. He's ready to not share everything, but refuses to lie.

Not that I prefer it in this situation, though. Just a thing that I like in general.