Eight months since this mirror had become her enemy. Eight months since the usual things had ceased to exist, and she had begun to live in a mirror-world.

The tank top she had once filed out hung limply from her bones. If she pulled it tight, her ribs were visible through the clinging fabric. Skinny, yes. You might say gaunt.

Not skinny enough.

Food was bad. Food meant weak, food meant guilt. She’d quit the dance studio months ago, but it didn’t matter. She had to prove it to herself. Screw the other ballerinas- they’d all be jealous when she got where she needed to be.

She’d start eating again, of course. As soon as the goal was reached. But mirrors didn’t lie, and she was nowhere near beautiful. Soon, she told herself. Soon.

But Anorexia doesn’t wait. She was withering in front of that mirror, day in and day out. Slipping away. Fading.