Hunger

“There’s plenty left.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’d really like you to try and eat something.”
“I’d really like you to stop mentioning it.” 
It had been three weeks since she’d eaten something in front of me. When I held her at night I could feel her shrinking, every night a bit smaller than the evening before. I didn’t want her to have to go to hospital again, no, that would be too painful.
“I can make you something else? Or we could order something? How about a Katsu Curry? You love Chicken Katsu-”
“Honestly, I am FINE.”
She was angry now, angrier than usual. Her small wrists tensed as she grabbed her metallic purple water bottle, which now seemed like a permanent attachment to her right hand. 
“I love you, you know that? All of this is from a place of complete and utter love.”
The truth was I was saying it for me. I needed to remind myself of why I stay. Why I continue to put up with this. To put up with her. 
She places her bottle on the table, and picks up the fork, all the while keeping her eyes locked on mine.

​(c)  Caitlin Magnall-Kearns