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"We really need to do something with all these stupid baggy clothes — they're hiding all of our hard work."

I sat up in bed, watching the small silhouette rummage through my closet, back facing me.

All I could make out was her thin, light brown hair, but it resembled straw more than anything. A few strands reached the middle of her back, but the majority of it splayed out unevenly on the edge of her protruding shoulder blades — as if someone took kitchen scissors and chopped at random chucks.

I looked to my left, frowning at the crumpled up sheets where Jackson had been.

"Did you really expect him to stay?" That eerie voice asked, forcing me to look up to see the girl closing the closet door, watching me.

"Everyone is going to leave eventually. They just don't understand. I do though — I'll never abandon you like the rest of them."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Your best friend," she gave me a big, yellow toothed smile that caused chills to run down my spine. Her brown eyes were sunken in, and even with the smile on her face, they remained dull.

Not being able to look into those lifeless pits any longer, I took a better look at the rest of her.

Her skin was so pale, it was almost translucent. Her limbs were nothing more than skin and bone.

The tank top she was wearing was meant to be fitted, but it was hanging awkwardly. Her yoga shorts were barely gripping her hips.

"No. I don't know you," I whispered, shaking my head.

"Yes, you do," she said sweetly, sauntering over to the edge of my bed. I wondered how she could walk so gracefully, when it looked like her legs could snap at any moment.

"You and I are like this," she twisted two of her boney fingers together, holding them in front of me.

"No, I don't know you!" I repeated as I shoved her cold hand away from me.

"Oh, Brylee. You're hurting my feelings," she pouted, making her sunken cheeks more prominent, and put a hand to her chest. "After all I've done for you, this is not the 'thank you' I was expecting."

"I have nothing to thank you for," I furrowed my eyebrows as she sat down next to me, barely making a dent in the mattress. "Just get away from me!"

"I'm not going anywhere," she snapped, making me flinch as pure rage painted her features. But she quickly collected herself, putting the chilling smile back on.

"I'm always going to be here for you, Brylee — right here."

I shied away from her when she tapped my forehead lightly.

"Besides, we still have a lot of work to do," she continued excitedly, ripping the covers off of me, and I looked down. I was wearing the same outfit as her, but mine was a lot more snug.

"See? We need to get rid of a few more inches on those arms, even more on those thighs, jeez," she curled her lip up.

"And for the love of God, work on your damn posture," she snapped again, pointing at my midsection with a grimace. "That's disgusting."

I looked down at my stomach, noticing how my slouched position made it crease and pooch out. With a small frown, I straightened my back.

"Thank you," she rolled her dull eyes. "You gotta be more mindful — no one wants to see that. But don't worry, we'll get rid of it soon enough."

"How?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

"What we've been doing, silly!" She slapped my arm playfully. "Soon you'll be just as beautiful as me!"

"You're not beautiful — you look like death," I frowned, looking her up and down.

"That's where you're wrong, Brylee," she said in an overly nice tone, but her smile looked more like a sneer.

"Death is high cholesterol and clogged arteries. This," she gestured down at herself, "is beauty. Being dainty and weightless is beauty. Not ever having to worry if an outfit will make you look fat is beauty. Having the guy of your dreams being able to carry you effortlessly is beauty."

"But I'm sick," I forced over the lump in my throat. "I feel sick all the time. I hate feeling like this."

"You're not sick," she laughed, shaking her head. "How you're feeling means this is working. It means you're getting better. You want to get better, right?"

"Yeah, but that's not what this feels like," I said, wiping away a tear that escaped. "Sometimes it just feels like I'm dying."

"We're all going to die, Brylee. It's inevitable," she waved her sickly thin hand dismissively. "But don't you want to be remembered as the beautiful, graceful, skinny girl? I mean, honestly, no one wants to look at a fat lard squeezed into a casket."

"Just stop," I cried, squeezing my eyes closed and pulling at my hair. "This is a dream — a nightmare. I need to wake up. I need to wake up!"

"This isn't a dream," she said softly, and I felt her icy hands on either side of my face.

I opened my eyes and looked into hers. They held an emotion that could only be seen as caring, but they did nothing to calm me down.

I couldn't breathe. I was hyperventilating.

"This is your reality, Brylee," she gave me a sinister grin, tightening her grip on me. "Listen to me. Trust me. We're in control — we've got this."

My eyes snapped open, but the pressure on my cheek was still there.

I was on my side with Jackson's arm laying on top of my cheek, squishing my face into the pillow.

Grabbing his hand in front of me, I carefully lifted it and placed it on the pillow above my head.

Jackson mumbled incoherently, his arm roughly bumping the top of my head as he rolled the other way.

I huffed out a shaky laugh and turned on my other side to face him. He was laying on his stomach now, so I lightly placed my hand on his back.

He's still here. He didn't leave.

I watched my hand rise and fall, and tried to match my uneven breathes to his slow and steady ones.

Even while he was asleep, being beside him gave me the same feeling as sitting next to a bonfire, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket.

The warmth was comforting.

Once I steadied my breathing, I reluctantly pulled my hand away, rolling onto my back. Then I sighed and reached over to pick up my phone.

2:26pm

Has no one come to check on me?

Obviously not. I would've woken up to yelling if someone walked in to see Jackson in my bed.

Honestly though, I would've rather dealt with the yelling than stay in that nightmare.

I didn't even remember dozing off. The last thing I remembered was scrolling on my phone, while Jackson tossed and turned next to me.

He was not a peaceful sleeper, by any means.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, tip-toeing to the bathroom and closing the door.

Leaning close to the mirror, I inspected my teeth. They weren't pearly white like the ones you see in toothpaste commercials, but they weren't yellow and decaying like the girl's in my dream. They seemed relatively normal.

But with the dream still fresh on my mind, I squeezed a fair amount of paste on my toothbrush, and scrubbed my teeth roughly until my gums started to hurt.

Once I was done, I took a step back and lifted my sweatshirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor. I slumped my back, glaring at the small pooch above my waistband.

For the love of God, work on your damn posture. That's disgusting.

I straightened up, pushing my shoulders back. I nodded approvingly as I watched the roll flatten out, but I could still see the jagged line where the skin creased.

Then I lifted my arm, cringing as I pulled at the extra skin.

We need to get rid of a few more inches on those arms.

I slipped out of my sweatpants, stepping back so I could see my legs in the mirror.

Even more on those thighs, jeez.

I tapped the scale with my foot, glaring at my thigh as it jiggled slightly, and waited for the little red zero to give me the go ahead.

"Dammit," I hissed when the numbers flashed at me, kicking the scale once I stepped off.

"Shit," I squeaked, shaking my leg when pain shot through my foot.

Then I remembered Jackson was sleeping in my bed on the other side of the wall, and I smacked my hand over my mouth with wide eyes.

When I first started, the scale was actually my friend — it congratulated me multiple times a week. But for the last couple months, those digital numbers taunted me.

Oh look, we're still the same as a couple days ago. You're such a failure.

Uh oh, we're going up instead of down now. Shouldn't have eaten that burger.

ERROR: too heavy to read. Try the scale at the zoo.

As I slipped my clothes back on, I pushed down the panic that was trying to come back up, then slowly opened the bathroom door.

Jackson was sitting up in my bed now, running a hand through his hair.

Dammit. I wanted to talk to Mom before he woke up.

"What just happened?" He asked, voice still rough from sleep, and squinted his eyes at me.

"I stubbed my toe," I grimaced, and he hummed, rubbing one of his eyes.

"Something else is bothering you," he stated, cocking his head to the side.

That cute, simple movement almost made me forget about the offensive red numbers flashing in the back of my mind. Almost.

"Aside from you always barging into my room, uninvited?" I asked sarcastically as I walked over to my side of the bed.

"Yeah, I just have this crazy feelin' that's not it," he said with a teasing smile, leaning against the headboard.

I sighed and climbed back under the covers, pulling them over me completely.

I wasn't in the mood for him to tease me. I was in the mood to forget that freaking nightmare.

And if I hadn't pulled the covers over my head, I would've done something stupid — like tell him he was right and kiss him.

If he could distract me simply by being next to me, his lips could definitely make me forget.

I felt the mattress dip, and suddenly the covers were torn off my head, Jackson's face hovering above me.

"What's wrong?" He asked with an overdramatic pout.

It would be so easy to lean up and kiss that teasing lip.

"Nothing," I whispered, eyes glued to his lips. They looked so soft and plump.

I peeled my eyes away to meet his. He pressed his lips together briefly before his hooded eyes traveled down.

My heartbeat was deafening in my ears; I could feel my pulse in every limp.

I unthinkingly darted my tongue out to wet my lips. And I forgot how to breathe when his mouth parted slightly as he watched the movement.

He slowly inched closer, but then stopped and squeezed his eyes shut.

I can't take this anymore.

I leaned my head up, but he was oblivious as he pulled away simultaneously and rolled onto his back.

I dropped my head back on the pillow with a huff. I wanted to scream every damn curse known to fucking man.

Why the hell did he get that close and then just stop?

Was he still dreaming and thought I was a Victoria's Secret model or something?

"I'm startin' to believe you're a pathological liar," he said in a thoughtful tone.

"What?" I asked breathlessly, hoping he didn't hear the aggravation in my voice.

I was so close.

I just wanted to forget everything. Everything but him.

I wanted the flames to engulf me and overwhelm my senses, until all I could think about was him. Until all I could feel was him.

It felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn't.

"You always say 'I'm fine' or 'nothing's wrong', but you know I know you're full of shit. You're not fine, and something's wrong."

I felt him roll onto his side, so I turned toward him with a frown.

"You're full of shit too," I shot back without thinking.

"How? Please, enlighten me," he encouraged sarcastically.

"You expect me to tell you everything like I owe it to you or something — but you won't tell me shit about yourself. How is —"

"Because it's not important," he snapped, dropping his hand on the mattress between us.

"Oh, so it's only important when you're trying to guilt trip me?" I asked as I sat up, narrowing my eyes at him.

He mirrored my movement and crossed his legs underneath him, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned closer.

"You think I'm tryin' to guilt trip you?" He asked softly.

"Why else would you wait until I'm wallowing in my own misery to tell me your 'sob story'?" I scoffed, using air quotes on either side of my head, immediately regretting the action when pain etched across his features.

Shit. No, that's not what I meant. He called it his sob story.

"I didn't mean —"

"I wanted to," he cut me off harshly, glaring down at the comforter.

I reached for his hand, but he quickly pulled it away and scratched the back of his neck.

"I never talk about myself — I've never wanted to talk about myself before. So yeah, this is all a little new to me, but excuse me for pickin' an inappropriate time to open up. My bad."

There was a scowl on Jackson's face as he stood, and I probably resembled a fish with my mouth opening and closing as I tried to think of what to say.

"Wait!" I finally called out as he walked to the bathroom door, and he paused.

Please don't leave me too.

"I had a bad dream — that's what was wrong."

Yeah, great excuse for being a bitch.

"I'll cry for you in the shower," he scoffed before shutting the door behind him.

Everyone is going to leave eventually.

My vision blurred as I stared at the closed door, wishing I could turn back time and slap myself before I opened my damn mouth.

I'd leave me too if I could.

Every time we start to get closer, intentionally or not, one of us pulls away. We were never on the same page at the same time.

But he admitted he wants to talk about himself to me. I might've just changed his mind about that, but that didn't mean I couldn't try to change it again.

I wanted him to know I didn't look down on him for what he's told me. That I didn't want to know him out of pity.

He saw the story of what he went through with his mother as a sob story, but it wasn't. It was a story of survival.

He survived something awful, and no one even knows. He hides it like it's something to be ashamed of.

But how could anyone hear what he's been through, and look at him in anything other than amazement?

I didn't want to be close to him out of pity; I wanted to be close to him because he amazed me. 

The shower starting snapped me out of it, and I cleared my throat, rubbing my eyes as I stood.

Even though Jackson's showers normally took forever, I still rushed downstairs to talk to Mom, not knowing how much persuading this was going to take.

"Slow down before you hurt yourself," Mom called out from the couch when I stumbled off the last step. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, great, I'm fine," I rushed out, waving a hand dismissively. "I just have a quick question."

"Okay," she dragged out as I sat on the other couch, taking a moment to catch my breath.

Those damn stairs are gonna be the death of me.

"You remember Piper?"

"Of course, you two were inseparable," she smiled, muting the tv. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was thinking..." I trailed off, biting my lip as I looked at her.

"You want a dog?" She guessed, raising her eyebrows. "When we had to put Piper down, you made everyone swear that we would never bring another dog home."

"Yeah. Well, the thing is...I was thinking maybe, possibly, I could...get a cat?" I pressed my lips together with raised brows, waiting for her reaction.

Never in my life did I think I'd be sitting here, prepared to beg my mother to let me bring a cat home.

I have a strong feeling I'm gonna regret this.

But cat scratch fever is just a small price to pay if it makes Jackson smile at me again.

"A cat?" Mom pulled her head back in disbelief. "You hate cats."

"They've grown on me," I shrugged.

This cat better get me major brownie points.

"I'm not touching a litter box," she gave me a pointed look. "I don't even want to smell it."

"I'll take care of it — it can go in my bathroom," I almost gagged as the words came out.

What the fuck am I doing?

What if he still hates me after this?

She sighed before pursing her lips. "I'm off Wednesday, I guess we can go to the shelter after I take Jackson to his appointment."

"Appointment?" I echoed curiously.

"Yes, just a checkup — like we should be doing for you too," she narrowed her eyes at me.

"I told you, I'm not even cramping bad — hardly at all, actually," I shrugged. "I guess Mother Nature decided to cut me some slack, like a gift for not getting pregnant."

"Oh Lord," Mom groaned, putting a hand to her forehead. "Don't even put that thought in my head. I'm too young to be thinking about becoming a grandmother."

"Come on, Mom, you don't want to be one of those cool, young grandmas that refuse to be called grandma?" I gave her a teasing smile.

"Oh no, no one is ever calling me grandma, I don't care how old I am. I was thinking Gigi, maybe even G-ma. That sounds cool, right?" She asked with a laugh.

I snorted loudly. "G-ma it is then, G-ma."

"Stop it," she pointed at me with a playful glare.

"So is that a yes?" I asked, clasping my hands together.

"To G-ma? In ten years, maybe," she laughed before giving me a look that said, I'm serious, I'll kill you.

"To the cat," I rolled my eyes.

"Fine, but I mean it about that litter box! You better stay on top of it," she shook her finger at me. "I just saw the

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