Page 64 of Bound By Flames

“We?”

“Well, it depends on ya, princess.” He shrugs.

“Are we playing charades? What are you saying?” I turn my palms dramatically to the ceiling. Sitting on the bed, the covers hiding his legs and displaying his bruised chest like a painting, I hold back from dropping my jaw and focus on his lips as he talks. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs, looking away.

“Remember when you told me about your parents refusing to send you to a specialist?” The energy in the room shifts like a bomb collapsing on the ground, destroying any sign of familiarity.

“Wha-what about it?” I murmur.

“I looked into it, and I found someone, a therapist, specialized in your condition. Read a lot ‘bout him and from patients who recovered after seeing him.” My heart quickens as my hands start to shake. “I called him and got him on the first plane I could.”

“Ares, wait—”

Glancing at his watch on his bedside table, he says, “He’ll be there in an hour.”

I stare at him like he’s just told me the moon was made of gold.

A specialist?

A wave the size of a building is crashing on me, pulling me apart and reminding me of all the times I thought there would never be a way out of this.

Ares had searched for a specialist.

For me.

My skin is tingling with goosebumps as drops of sweat slide down my back, the news taking me by surprise and making everything around me spin.

“Wh-why did you do that?” The words barely make it out.

His green eyes soften, serious. “Because it’s time, Mia.” His palm reaches out for my shaking hand, lacing his fingers with mine like a real couple would.

“When someone falls, you get them to the hospital and put a cast on it. And that’s it, end of the story. That’s the same for you, princess. You got somethin’ in ya you can’t heal by yourself. Like you’ve been walking all this time with an injured arm. It’s the fucking same. And it’s time you finally get the care you need.”

I want to say thank you. I want to hide in his arms and cry my heart out for his gesture. But the words stay stuck in my throat, unable to come out.

Because orthorexia has always been a part of me.

That’s all I’ve ever known.

Just like some days of your life define you, they become a part of your story of why you became the way you are. They hold the tale of your deepest scars, disappointment, and regrets. They shape you until you can’t dissociate them from you anymore. Until they become so entangled in yourself that any glimpse of hope pulling you away from it ends in denial, rejection. Your brain sticks to the script of the story you kept telling yourself over and over, as if you couldn’t evolve, change, as if you could never have the guts to do so.

Who am I without my eating disorder?

I open my mouth to protest, to say I’m not ready, that I can’t face this. But something about the way he looks at me stops the words from coming out.

Don’t tap out.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

“I don’t know if I can do this…”

“It’s your call, Mia. If you don’t feel ready, I’ll send him back home. But if you want to try, he’ll be waiting in the livingroom,” he says simply, his hand reaching my cheek, stroking it gently.

“Why did you do this?” I whisper, shaking my head.

“I told ya—”

“No, why did you do this for me?” I take away his hand that strokes my cheek. Needing the lack of his touch to focus, to understand. Kissing me, that I understand. It was necessary. It was vital. It had become a need so strong, both of us were on the edge of collapse if we didn’t do it.