"Objection, your honor."

February, 15, 2004.

The light jabbed at my eyelids, relentless, and smug. It was the kind of light that seeped into the room, making it imposible to pretend morning hadn't arrived. My eyes snapped open, landing on the ceiling-plain, off-white, and somehow mocking me with its existence.

I shifted, untangling myself from the sheets, and turned toward the nightstand. My phone buzzed softly against the polished wood, the vibration low but insistent, like it knew how to get under my skin.

My silk pajamas stuck to me as I shoved myself upright. The phone on the nightstand buzzed again, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife. I didn't need to look to know what was: emails, texts, and probably some overly cheerful stupidity from Tiffany.

Still, I grabbed it, my thumb swiping across the screen with unnecessary force. Missed calls. Calendar alerts. A message preview: "Good morning! Don't forget-" I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck mid-spin, my vision going momentarily crossed before snapping back. The irritation flared, hot and immediate, curling in my chest like a fire someone had doused in gasoline.

I slammed the phone back on the nightstand, ignoring the loud thud it made on its way down. My feet hit the rug, soft and warm, but it did absolutely nothing to take the edge off. I glanced toward the mirror across my room and caught my reflection: hair a mess, eyes sharp, and the kind of scowl that would terrify anyone stupid, or, rather, foolish enough to bother me right now.

Another buzz from the phone. My jaw tightened. Of course.

I stood, the black silk of my pajamas whispering against my skin as a stomped to the curtains. I yanked them open with far more force than necessary, the dull gray light of the overcast sky pouring in like it was trying to piss me off on purpose. "Fantastic," I sarcastically muttered. I walked back towards the nightstand, and retrieved my phone.

When I felt my phone buzz again, my teeth clenched. As I turned to the door I let myself drown in my thoughts.
'First breakfast, then, maybe, I'd loosen up.' I muttered to myself.

Never mind.

I slammed the door behind me, the clattering door releasing a sharp thud that swept through the quietness of my home like a warning. Nothing went the way I wanted it too. To say my morning was irritating, was an understatement. The incessant notifications. Missed calls. Calendar alerts. Demands. Messages, the endless stream of things I not only had to do, but the constant reminders of the things I could've done better.

I walked to the kitchen, the cold marble under my feet didn't soothe my irritation, but it did feel.. somewhat, nice. When I entered the kitchen I didn't even bother turning on the lights. The dull gray of early morning sunshine peaked through just enough, and either way, I found it unnecessary. I walked straight to the fridge, yanked it open, and stared daggers inside as if it held the secret to fixing my mood. Nothing. Same as always.

Precise, measured. Ordered.

But nothing ever felt like enough. Not today.

Food had always been complicated for me. It wasn't about hunger; it was about control. And I was the epitome of control. Thats all it ever had been. I had mastered the art of never feeling it-hunger, I mean-by simply denying it. I was always calculating, always rationing. calories, portions, choices-everything had to be perfect. It was the only thing I could hold on to when everything else felt as though it was slipping my fingers like sand. I had never addressed it, never even thought about discussing it with those closest to me. Even, when they noticed.