Have you ever watched someone slowly kill themselves and had absolutely no idea how to stop them? It never gets easier, and the right words never come. You stare at them wishing you could just fix it. “You have so much to live for. Just eat something. Eat.” It's easy to think of a million things to say, words catching in your throat.

But nothing ever changes.

“Calista, come on, breakfast.”

Looking away from the bathroom mirror, I sigh. Once upon a time I was a real live beauty queen. Now, I fear another day breathing. Sometimes I wish it would happen already: girl, young and beautiful, starves herself to death. She just never wakes up.

Mom calls for me again, a little louder. Breakfast. Food. Pulling myself out of the chilly bathroom, I wrap an over-sized sweater around my shoulders. Each day it gets harder just to will myself out of bed, let alone care about what to wear.

“I made pancakes.” Mom announces as she places a plate down on our kitchen table. I remember days when she encouraged apples, maybe a non-fat yogurt. Anything that would have kept me slim and beautiful. Now gaining a pound is seen as an accomplishment, not a failure.

My eyes study the sponge-like texture, the way it soaks in the syrup. So sweet, like being a kid again. I remember being a kid, when none of it mattered. The calories. The fat. Jumping backwards, I feel my body expanding.

“Or would you rather have cereal maybe. Some toast and peanut butter, with some sliced banana. You used to love peanut butter toast with banana.”

I squeeze my stomach, worthless and fat. It roars with hunger. Feed me, it begs. Give me something. You're going to die. Just eat. Why won't you just eat? “I'm not hungry.”

I feel eyes on me. My Dad. Sadie, my baby sister. My brother Kassidy. Three pairs of eyes all waiting and wishing for the same thing. It's so easy to read minds now: Just something. Something. Anything. Just eat.

“Calista. You have to eat.” Falling into the kitchen chair, I watch as my family stand up and scurry in different directions. Turning to the pancakes, I just stare at them. All I see are the numbers. At least three hundred. And is that real butter? That's going to be an extra eighty, minimum. Plus all that syrup. The numbers pile up in my head. Don't do it. Not today. You had pizza for supper last night. Can't you feel yourself widening by a second. You're supposed to be perfect. Mom takes a seat beside me. “Here, I'll sit with you. Take a couple bites.” You'll never be perfect.

Gingerly, I pick up the fork. We've been here before—our dance of will I or won't I. Sometimes I let Mom win. Sometimes I just feel too tired to fight that voice in my head. Small bites. Tiny. Must chew everything eight times. No, sixteen times. The smaller the bites the longer it takes to eat. Water in between, don't forget the water. Nineteen and my mother watches me as I feed myself. Once upon a time that voice was her own. “Always take tiny bites,” she would remind me. Now she stares at me, critical. “You need to take more than that.” Never, ever enough.

The paper is sitting beside me. Another distraction. And on the front page, familiar faces.

The Miss. Dalkery pageant. Is it really June? Has it really been a year. My eyes linger on them, studying perfection. Not a hair out of place. You have to be perfect if you want to win a beauty pageant. I could still remember the day of my picture, begging for a piece of sausage. Sausage. I couldn't even remember what it tasted like now.

“Do you want to look bloated in your pictures?” Mom's arms were crossed over her chest. Her face strained. “You cant afford any mistakes.” If only she had known. Maybe she would have went easier on me. Maybe she wouldn't have pushed so hard. “This is important.” It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. The wheels in my head were already spinning. And the voice was a hundred times louder.

Mom pushes the newspaper away, and I stare up into her face—her arms are still crossed over her chest, and her eyes wrinkle with strain.

“The Miss Dalkery pageant.” When did my voice start to sound so hollow? “Remember when I was Miss Dalkery. Remember Mom?”

Her face pains. “I remember.”

“You can't afford any mistakes,” I repeated the same words over and over. “You can't afford any mistakes.” With a shove, the plate slides across the smooth table, knocking against the water jug. Turning to Mom, I want to say I'm sorry. That it wasn't her fault. It spiraled out of control, me. For every critical thing she said, I heard fifty more inside my head.

I want to tell her that I don't want this anymore. More than anything I want to be happy, to smile. To sit down for breakfast on Saturday morning with my family without war. There are a million things I wish I could tell her, but all that comes out is: “I'm not hungry.”

Tears. I remembered her tears. Lying in that hospital bed, looking up into tearful eyes. No one imagined a year later, and everything so much worse. The hospital was supposed to make me better. Poof. The world could continue to spin. But I wasn't Miss. Dalkery and I wasn't okay.

“Eat, please.”

I was only Miss. Dalkery for three days. Three days. I was in the hospital for a month and a half before they kicked me out. Unresponsive and uncooperative. Here I was, one year later, still fading away. I wasn't even sure what I wanted anymore. My head was hazy and confused, filled with only one voice. And it wasn't my own.

Mom gets up from the table, not even looking at me. The plate shatters as she throws it into the sink. Seconds later, Dad is there. He wraps his arms around Mom, holding her tightly.

“She's going to die.” Mom cries, the sound muffled into my father's shoulder. Turning his neck, he looks in my direction. My eyes drift back to that picture, back to those girls. One of them will be perfect enough to wear a crown. Thin enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. Miss. Dalkery. That had been me. I had been enough.

Sadie walks into the kitchen. As she steps towards the sink, she notices the broken shards of glass. This isn't new for her. Turning around, she just looks in my direction. In her glasses I see a faint reflection, but don't recognize the girl.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks, for the first time in a long time.

My mind drifts to the first time she ever caught me throwing up, and everyday since. The way she had stared in horror with those innocent eyes.

“I don't want you to die.” Standing there she doesn't seem like she's the little sister anymore. The baby. In a year she's grown so much. There is a strength in her eyes, a hardness. “Didn't you hear me? I said I don't want you to die.”
I remember I used to tell them I'm not going to die whenever they would tell me they were scared. Back then, I was so sure I wouldn't. I have it under control. Now, I feel my body breaking down. I'm so tired of fighting food and that voice in my head. “Maybe it's just easier if I do.” It comes out so softly, before I even realize what I'm saying. But the idea doesn't sound so bad.

Sadie's eyes widen in horror.

“Who are you?”

For the first time in ages, I laugh. I have no idea who I am anymore. Or, for that matter, who I ever was. “I'm going for a walk,” I tell Sadie, slipping out of the kitchen. No one calls after me as I walk right out of the house, even though I take slow and deliberate steps. The sun is hot on my face, but my body still feels chilled. The question plagues my brain as I stare at the clouds above me. Am I ever going to feel the warmth of a June day again? Am I ever going to just be okay and just happy? Suddenly big tears are rolling down my cheeks. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

One year later—I was supposed to be happy. The world was supposed to be mine to wow. A boyfriend. School. Anything but the white walls of a hospital or the front line of my World War Me. There was no room left for wishes and dreams. For a future. My feet dragged against the concrete as slowly inched down the street. Part of me wanted to run, arms wide, to feel the wind in my hair. To feel free. I think about my past, before this became my life. Walking for ice cream with Kass and Sadie. My feet start to pick up speed as I start to run. Baking cupcakes just because. Birthdays and barbecues and everything in between. I could fly if I jumped high enough. I could be free.

And then it hits me. Pain. Deep, pounding, radiating pains in my chest. I can barely catch my breath. Collapsing down on a bench, my head drops between my knees. Is this what dying feels like? Everything you once loved slipping from memory until there is nothing left.

My eyes dart to the left, and there it is. The hospital. Large and looming, brick and metal. Why did I always end up back here when nothing ever seemed to change.

“Oh my god, Calista. Are you okay?”

My family stands in front of me. Mom, Dad, Kass and Sadie. Worried eyes. A protective bubble of family forms around me. Dad wraps his sweater around my shoulder. “I wanted to go for a walk.” I tell them, through gentle gasps of air. “It's such a sunny day.”

You couldn't help help waiting for those words. Any second I would hear it again: You have to eat something. You're going to die. A broken record, always repeating the same line.

“Your Dad used to bring you here to feed the birds.” Mom smiled, wrapping her free arm around Kass' shoulders. “Do you remember?”
Did I remember being a kid, when none of it mattered.“Barely.”

“I remember.” Sadie smiled, and I glanced at my sister. “We used to fight about who got to fight which birds. You always wanted to feed the ducks, and said I could have the pigeons.”

“And then Dad would take us for milkshakes.” Kass added. “And you would fight over who got to order strawberry, and who was stuck with vanilla.” I did remember that. Chocolate was never an option because Kass had already claimed it. And Dad would always be stuck with something random, like banana or coconut.

I could hear birds in the distance. “What happened?” Mom brushes the tears from my cheek.

No one says anything for a long time. Silence. Everything had been wonderful once, simple. So where had it had gone wrong? When had our lives gone from fights over milkshakes and ducks to fights over eating anything?

“I'm going to die.” I say aloud for the first time. Simple words, repeated over and over every day. And yet when I say them they seem so big.

“No you're not.” Mom cries, her arms tight around me. Then there are six more arms around me, holding me. “You're going to beat this. No one is giving up on you.”

Brushing tears away from my cheek, I look up into four familiar faces. My family. Four people who, for some stupid reason refuse to give up on me, no matter how much I push them away. Idiots. “Can I be alone a minute?” Mom nods, and then there is just me. Slowly my eyes trace the ground to the hospital, to the automatic doors, opening and closing robotically.

Nothing ever changes.

I take a deep breath.

You're going to die.

Exhaling, my mind drifts. One year, and nothing is different.

A bird lands at my feet, a pigeon. He pecks at the dirt, searching for something to eat. Watching his as he struts, I think back to fighting over which birds to feed. Over milkshakes. I've missed so much. I don't know my family anymore—what Kass now wants to be when he grows up, or if Sadie still listens to Johnny Cash when she's sad. Do I want the rest of my life to be a blur of memories I'll never really remember?

I just want to be happy. To smile.

Standing up, I take a deep breath, no idea what comes next.

The future feels as hazy as the past.