Work Text:
The bathroom light was awful. Too cold, too bright, like it was deliberately pulling out everything I didn’t want to notice.
Every shadow under my eyes. Every flaw. Every part of me I couldn’t stand.
I had been standing there for what felt like ten minutes.
Maybe longer.
My phone vibrated in my pocket for the second time.
I didn’t check it.
Probably Kunikida. Or someone from the Agency asking where I was.
I didn’t have the energy to answer.
I rested my hands on the sink and lowered my head. The cold porcelain pressed against my fingers.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
But it wasn’t working.
I looked up.
Mistake.
The shirt looked wrong. Or maybe I looked wrong. I wasn’t even sure anymore.
I pulled the fabric up slightly.
My stomach looked too big.
My shoulders too broad.
My face felt… unfamiliar. Too thin. Too tired.
Too everything.
I frowned.
My gaze lingered on my reflection for too long.
Like always.
It was sick — I was sick — I knew that. At least, part of me did.
And yet I couldn’t stop.
Like my brain was trapped in a loop.
Look.
Judge.
Find something wrong.
Hate it.
Repeat.
I clenched my jaw.
Today had been worse at the Agency.
Stupid comments no one even meant as comments.
“You look different.”
“Did you lose weight?”
“Are you feeling okay?”
Normal questions.
But my brain knew how to turn them into a sentence.
You look awful.
Everyone can tell.
You’re hard to look at.
I swallowed hard.
My throat felt strangely tight.
I hadn’t eaten in a long time, but it wasn’t even about hunger anymore. After a while, hunger stopped mattering. It turned into something else — heaviness in my head, exhaustion, irritability.
And that awful satisfaction mixed with guilt.
It was never good enough.
If I ate — guilt.
If I didn’t eat — guilt.
I sat heavily on the closed toilet lid.
The tiles were cold.
The bathroom quiet.
Too quiet.
Like the whole world had been left outside the door.
I buried my face in my hands.
I was tired.
Not in the normal way.
Tired of thinking about food.
About appearance.
About numbers.
About how to sit so I wouldn’t look wrong.
How to stand.
How to breathe.
How to avoid mirrors while always coming back to them.
It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.
I hated looking.
And yet I always looked.
Like some part of me kept hoping that one day I’d see someone else.
Someone… enough.
My phone vibrated for the third time.
I reluctantly pulled it out.
Chuuya: Where are you? You’re not at the Agency or home.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen.
My finger hovered over the keyboard.
I don’t feel well.
Deleted.
I can’t talk right now.
Deleted.
In the end, I typed:
I’m at the store. I’ll be back soon, did something happen?
A lie.
I had no intention of going anywhere.
I set my phone down beside me.
My gaze drifted back to the mirror.
Automatically.
I hated it.
I really did.
Could I really be the only person who saw how disgusting, how inhuman I looked?
No.
Everyone probably saw it.
All it took was one glance.
One angle of light.
One thought.
And everything came rushing back.
I stood up slowly.
A black hoodie lay on top of the washing machine.
Too big.
My favorite.
Safe.
From Chuuya.
I put it on instinctively.
The fabric hid my shape.
It became a little easier to breathe.
A little.
I walked back to the mirror one more time.
And for a brief second, I wanted to cover it.
Break it.
Turn off the light.
Anything.
Anything but look.
As I left the bathroom, I just wanted to disappear.
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While her husband slept, Dazai snuck into the medicine cabinet and she swallowed all the pills she found