Page 69 of Bound By Flames

He NEVER ignores phone calls. Why isn’t he picking up?

“I don’t know how to explain—”

“Just say what’s on your mind, and we’ll go from there.”

I notice Ares looking at me from the corner of my eye and sliding his palm on my hand, squeezing it lightly.

You’re okay.

Breathe.

“Apart from one or two places where they make the food in front of you, like the coffee shop, I like to go take my matcha latte in the morning. Apart from that, um—”

Tears blur my vision, the words stuck in my throat.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You can’t even talk about that. You’re a mess. Look at yourself.

Clearing my throat, I gather enough courage to say the words that make me cringe internally before even pronouncing them.

“It’s like, it’s like being stuck in an aquarium, and…you hit on the glass because you can’t breathe. The water is coming in from…everywhere, but no one sees you drowning. You’re just there, in front of people, knowing you’re about to die and no one hears you. You’re all alone.” A thick tear falls down my cheek, and Ares squeezes my hand once more.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, just for me to hear.

“Why do you think you’re about to die?” the doctor asks in a neutral tone.

“Because, because the food I ate isn’t’...” I shake my head, searching for the right word.

“Clean?” he suggests.

“Yes…exactly, I can’t check if it’s organic or if it has oil or carbs in it. I can’t make sure that the vegetables are steamed properly. I can’t count the calories if there’s sauce. It’s just overwhelming. And when I have to eat something like that, I feel like I’m poisoning myself with something my body can’t handle because it’s not really food. It’s processed, full of fat, chemicals, and things I don't know of,” I explain. “Every meal is a battle,” I admit, my voice trembling. “I’m constantly judging whether I’m making the right choice.”

“Understood,” he says. “And when you say ‘right choice,’ what criteria are you using?”

I hesitate. “I have to make sure it’s perfect—nutritionally balanced, clean. If it’s not, I feel like I’m failing.”

“I see, this is very normal for any patient suffering from orthorexia to see food as good or bad, clean or not. Could you tell me what happens when you have to eat something you don’t want to eat?”

Ares' phone vibrates again, this time twice in a row. Must be the club, and something important for someone to call him three times. He takes his phone out and mutes it without even looking at who called him.

Why isn’t he taking the call? He must have so many more important things to deal with.

“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” I bring my eyes back to the doctor.

“How do your triggers manifest themselves when you eat something you didn’t want to eat?”

“Oh, um…” I pull my hair behind my ear with my free hand and feel so stupid for having to explain to a stranger I have several panic attacks each time I eat outside of my approved list of food.

“Mia has panic attacks, intense ones,” Ares' firm voice says blankly, and I internally thank him for taking the lead on this.

“Have you ever been with Mia during one?”

“Yes,” he says, his tone low and heavy.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most intense state, in how much distress would you describe Mia’s state during an episode?” the doctor asks him.

“Ten,” Ares says without a second of hesitation. Writing something in his notebook, Dr Ofenhaus nods, his brown eyes landing on me.