A/N: Haven't written in a while.
Lots of warnings on this one. Suicide and eating disorders- oh my!
Loose plot and lots of rambling prose, basically all I ever write.
Word Count: 552
"I don't want to die though, Scor, I just want to be beautiful."
She says it and silence hangs heavy and oppressive onto his breaths and all the words he should be vocalizing but can't really say.
She's just the girl with the too-wide brown eyes and the smattering of freckles that trail down her cheeks like stars in an ever-broadening galaxy and he, he's just the boy who is too tall to fit in his own skin. And she kills herself from the inside out, nice and slowly, while he considers ending it all from the outside in, just one quick strike.
And sometimes there aren't any words.
"I was thinking about it, how easy it would be. Knives, rope, pills. So many ways to do it," it's too late at night and he's rambling on her voicemail because he really needed to hear her voice. She didn't answer, but he's talking and it's feeling a little better. He imagines her horror at listening to the message in the morning. "I'm sorry, Rosie, I know it's illogical. I'm sorry," and he keeps telling her how sorry he truly is until a beep sounds and the recording stops. He calls back a moment later and promises to the silence to wait until a dreamless sleep and a cruel future. To not die today.
They're just two screwed up kids who seem to fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, a curiosity considering all of their jagged edges. She leans against him and they seem smooth and uniform and something remarkably close to whole. Her stomach growls.
"Three meals?" He asks. She shakes her head and he gives her a granola bar which she nibbles on silently. "You really gotta, you know." And she smiles a bit because she does know and it's nice to know that someone thinks she should stop shrinking before she disappears completely. She would like to disappear completely, though, sometimes. Like when she's at home and there's yelling and screaming and hexes streaking across the high-ceilinged rooms like fireworks. She'd like to disappear when she hears a teary-eyed Ron tell her how some people just aren't meant to be together, and again when an angry Hermione screams that love isn't supposed to be like this.
Then what is love supposed to be like? Rose thinks, maybe, it should be like breathing and smooth lines with rounded edges and texts at noon reminding her to have a little lunch. Maybe love is phone calls at four in the morning just to say that she had a dream the two of them sat on a swing for hours and it was lovely.
Maybe this is love.
But they wouldn't know. She can't put that ineffable cloud of a word, love, into terms that make sense and he can't fit it into numbers and figures that make mathematical proofs to evoke a sudden understanding.
All she knows is that she's never felt like this before. And he only knows that he'll keep breathing as long as she fiercely whispers that he can't give up.
"But you already are beautiful."