Page 85 of Healing Eleanor

“You know better, Eleanor. You’re a dancer. You have to be disciplined. That body isn’t just yours—it’s your career, your purpose. And if you can’t control yourself, you’re nothing.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I didn’t dare let them fall. I nodded, silently vowing that I would never disobey, that I would control everything I could. My body, my food, my habits. Because it was the only way to survive her.

My hands shake and I fight for air. Nik’s voice is distant and warm, but I can’t hear him. I can only hear the repetition of my mother’s words, my ten-year-old self trapped in that kitchen, learning the rules of survival: control or crumble.

I shove my chair back and stand. “I’ll be right back.” I dash toward the bathroom without a second look.

I slam the door behind me, pressing my palms to the cool surface, knowing that when I step out, nothing will ever feel the same.

16

Snacks and Panic Attacks

Nikolai

The tea and croissants sit untouched, steam curling upward like a reminder of her absence. Minutes pass, but it feels like a lifetime. Watching Eleanor unravel into a full-blown panic attack renders me powerless. I don’t know how to reach her or if I even should.

Daria used to get panic attacks, too, though never as severe as the one I just witnessed. With her, a few grounding cues like touch, sound, and steady breathing, were enough to bring her back. But Eleanor… she bolted, as if escape was the only thing keeping her alive.

My suspicions feel all but certain now. Eleanor has to be battling an eating disorder. The thought weighs heavy, threading unease through every part of me. And for one of the first times in my life, I realize I have no idea how to help.

“How’s everything?” Terri asks, wiping down the table beside ours.

The question fills me with instant apprehension. Everything isn’t okay. She means the food, but right now everything feels like it’s unraveling, and I’m not strong enough to hold it together. “Good, good. Can I actually get some boxes to go? My friend isn’t feeling too well.”

Friend. The word feels too insignificant for what she’s becoming to me, but it’s all I can afford her to be.

A ripple of concern washes over Terri’s face. “Not a problem. Be right back.” She gathers a few dishes and disappears into the back.

I rub the back of my neck, caught between logic and conviction. The sensible thing is to take Eleanor home and leave her be. But burning questions gnaw at me, urging me to stay close. I can’t press her. Not now, at least. What I can do is stand by her. To prove that I won’t walk away when things get difficult. To offer her the same love God has poured over me when I was broken, just like Evelyn and Mama have been suggesting.

“Here you go, hon.” Terri hands me a few boxes and two small to-go bags.

I mutter a quick thanks and pack up the food. Once everything is settled, I carry the bags and walk over to the bathroom, leaning a shoulder against the wall to wait. The minutes drag, long and agonizing, until Eleanor finally steps out. Seeing her so delicate makes something protective rise fiercely inside me.

Her head hangs low, eyes fixed on the ground. She doesn’t notice me until I lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumps, gasping and pressing a hand to her chest.

“Oh, gosh. You scared me,” she gasps, her breath catching.

I wince. “Sorry. I just… wanted to make my presence known.”

She nods uncertainly, repeating the motion to bolster her own resolve. “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry about that, I—I think I’m just not feeling too well.”

Her words tell one story, but her eyes betray her. She’s lying. But I can’t bring myself to call her out.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say softly. I shift the bags into one hand and place the other on her lower back, guiding her gently toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”

The drive to Eleanor’s apartment is wrapped in a stony kind of silence. Not awkward, exactly, but heavy. Full of unasked and unanswered questions. By the time I pull up to her building, I fight the urge to stop her, to beg her to talk to me, to say anything that might unlock the smile she keeps buried beneath layers of hurt.

“Thank you for the ride. I’m sorry, again.” Her voice is feeble, fraying with each word.

“It’s no problem. Really. I’m happy to do it. And you don’t need to apologize,” I reiterate.

She gives a small nod, reaching for the door handle.

Just before she steps out, I catch myself. “Oh—here, don’t forget this.” I hold out the little bag with the croissant and tea.

She eyes me, then the bag, before her gaze lands back on my face with narrowed eyes. For a moment, I think she might refuse. The war playing across her face is so clear, it nearly undoes me. At last, she reaches out and grabs it, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.