The next week passed painfully slowly for WW. Pan seemed to settle in very nicely in their house, and at the shop. Not that WW was totally certain, because he was avoiding him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how awful he’d been to him, dragging up something so horrible. Even after he’d realized that the story behind the eye couldn’t have been a pleasant one. He should have stopped. That would have been the decent thing to do. But no, he just had to be bitter and an absolute ass… Then, the shame had sparked anxiety, which pushed him not to eat, which made him even more upset with himself, and, well, let’s just say that his brain was not a fun place to be.

By the end of the week, WW started relying on old techniques to make his parents think he was still eating. His remorse and unease spiraled every time he stuffed food into a napkin, or picked at his plate, eating only the things he knew were low-calorie, or lied that he’d eaten a big lunch and couldn’t bear to finish his dinner. That lie was an easy one to get away with since he always ate his lunches in the loft, and packed them himself. When Cori asked why he was eating so little at lunch, maybe a couple carrot sticks or some crackers, he told her that he’d come to prefer just eating more at dinner and breakfast, skipping over lunch.

It wasn’t as if she was always in the loft to see him not eating, anyway. She often stayed in the back room with Pan. Her flirting hadn’t stopped. She always found every excuse to go to the back and talk with him. She’d even asked to invite him up to the loft, since they weren’t allowed to bring anyone new up there without the other’s permission, but WW had adamantly refused. Especially when she pouted, saying that she wanted to kiss him, but couldn’t when WW’s parents were around. Whenever she did come to the loft to spend her lunch with WW, Pan was all she ever wanted to talk about. Actually, no. Not talk. She always gushed about him, and it made everything worse. He’d been teaching her more about plants, though she’d already known plenty. But she knew science and facts and he could sense how a plant was feeling. “And it’s not through his magic, either. He just knows what to look for, and he’s showing me how!” She was always beaming and giggling whenever she was talking about him. “He always calls the cut flowers corpses? Which is kind of sad, but he always laughs when he does. It’s just a little joke of his.”

At the end of the week, WW texted James for the first time in nearly a year since he’d been out of rehab. They were only allowed internet for an hour a day, and no social media sites, but they still had their phones. He didn’t even know if he hoped James would answer.

The text was nothing earth shattering. No confession of anything, no apology for how things ended, no… Well, no nothing. Just, “hey james its ww.”

He sent it while staring at his plate of food that he’d brought to his room to ‘eat’. It had only been six days since the bonfire. Six days since he’d been doing so well. Seven and a half since eating hadn’t even prompted a second thought. But six, SIX days of fasting and self-hatred and if he was spiralling down, returning to where he was before rehab… Why not? If he was going to regress, why not regress in his social circle, too? He’d been thinking about it a lot. Rehab, that is. He kept using that to try to make himself eat. Tried to use his shame to make himself eat. But the part of himself that asked, ‘What’s the point?’ was louder, without fail.

James replied five minutes later. WW hadn’t even moved since sending it and opened the message immediately.

What the actual fuck? WW swallowed the lump in his throat. All he wanted to do was chuck his phone under his bed and never look at it again.

His fingers shook as he typed, Sorry, wrong number? Maybe it was from the nerves. Or maybe from the low blood sugar… Or both?

Probably both.

James’ reply was without delay. No. Right number. He sent. But WTF? It’s been a YEAR?!

Nine months? WW frowned at the message he typed.

There was a pause in which WW had time to panic and debate smashing his phone with a hammer. Not that he’d be strong enough to—Though, would he be? Surely the hammer would do most of the work, he just had to—His phone buzzed. It was ringing. “Shit…” He muttered. Would James bust out of rehab to find and kill him if he threw the phone away and never messaged him ever again? This was a mistake. Just how angry was he? It wasn’t as if they’d ever clarified what they’d been to each other. They’d just spent a lot of time together and held hands and kissed and—And then WW just left.

It was on the sixth ring that he got up the courage to press answer and pull the phone to his ear. From his vocal chords came a shaky “Hey.”