Connection | 18+

OLIVIA:

   The next morning, I found myself sitting in Ethan's car. Despite his sharp tongue and the way he constantly reminds me that I'm a waste of his time, he hadn't left the hospital room last night. Not even once. His presence lingered like a shadow, silent but inescapable.

   The test results had come in early, and while I expected bad news, the reality was far worse than I'd braced for. Severely malnourished. Anemic. Sodium, iron, and every other goddamn level the doctor rattled off were critically low. I'd sat there bored as the doctor gave Ethan specific instructions as if I weren't even in the room. Eat a rich, balanced diet. Avoid exertion, and bla–fucking–bla. "If she doesn't take care of herself, she's looking at the future of bed rest—eternally." 

   Drama Queen and over-exaggerating, he was. Eternal bed rest? Like I'd ever be that lucky. 

   Not that it's entirely my fault. I do like food. I even have my favorites. But there was a time when eating wasn't just eating. It was an event I needed to escape from, a shared table filled with heavy silences, loving glances and piercing glares, expressions of that sickened love and hands I couldn't bear to see, let alone eat from. Back then, skipping meals wasn't about rebellion or negligence—it was about survival. 

   Sometimes that survival came in the form of frat parties, where the music and the buzz in my veins drowned out everything else. Other times, it was in the bottom of a bottle or the blur of a high that made me forget who I was entirely. And sometimes, it was quieter—hours spent in a library with stories that let me live a thousand lives that weren't mine. Lives that I could only imagine being in a world of fantasies.

   Anything was better than sitting at that table. Anything was better than tasting food tainted by memories I wanted to burn out of existence. 

   But habits like that don't just vanish. They stick, growing roots so deep you don't even notice them anymore. And somehow, that habit stuck around, as if my body recognized that I was still running away.

   Eating has become a chore. Something I forget to do until my body forces me to remember. At work, it's easier to grab a bite when I start to sway or when my hands tremble too much to hold a cup. At home, it's less of a meal and more of a quick fix—just enough to stop the room from spinning. 

   Because, let's face it, food doesn't keep me alive. Sure, it keeps the machine running, but that's about it. Survival isn't about living; it's about enduring. And for me, every day is just that—a relentless endurance test. Testing to see how far I'll hold on before falling.

   Breathing feels like a battle. My mind? A ruthless prison guard taunting me with the life I'll never have, the light I'll never reach. 

   I discovered on the first day of middle school that I wasn't living—I was merely existing. It hit me like a punch to the gut as I watched the other kids laughing freely, their voices bouncing off the walls, spilling over with unfiltered joy. They joked, teased, and talked to their friends with an ease that felt alien to me. That was the moment I realized how stupid I'd been to think everyone's life mirrored mine.

   They weren't surviving their days like I was. They were living theirs.

   But for me, it was survival. It still is. And I'm too much of a coward to quit, even when the darkness presses in so tightly it feels like my lungs might collapse. 

   Winning isn't in the cards for me. It never has been. But losing? That's a game I know well. When you're just trying to survive, the concept of victory is a cruel joke. The finish line doesn't care how battered you are when you cross it. It only cares that you're still standing.