Lily stood in front of the mirror, her mother's words echoing in her mind.
"Then let me help you."
It sounded simple. Almost too simple. Like something plucked from a movie script or a self-help video. But it struck a chord deep in her chest, one she hadn't realized was even there. For so long, she had believed this was something she had to do alone—this war with her body, this desperate pursuit of perfection.
She had fought with food, fought with her reflection, fought with the scale. And yet, nothing changed. Nothing felt enough.
But now, the idea of letting someone in—of not carrying the weight all by herself—felt like breathing after holding her breath for too long. It didn't feel like weakness. It felt like relief. A tiny, flickering flame of hope in a place she'd long accepted as cold.
The next morning was awkward.
Lily paused outside the kitchen, her bare feet rooted to the tiled floor. She could hear the soft clink of a knife against a cutting board, the hum of a tune she couldn't quite place. Her mom's voice, light and airy, drifted through the open doorway.
She peeked in.
Her mother stood at the counter, slicing pawpaw into neat cubes, every movement calm and deliberate. The sunlight filtered through the small window, casting warm, golden beams across the kitchen table. There, in the center, was a small bowl of oatmeal topped with sliced bananas and a gentle drizzle of honey.
It wasn't toast. It wasn't instant noodles swimming in too much oil. It looked… warm. Thoughtful. Like someone had taken the time to care.
Lily lingered by the door. Her voice came out softer than she intended. "Did you make that for me?"
Her mom turned, her smile gentle. "I thought we could eat together today."
Her heart fluttered nervously. Something about the scene made her feel like a little girl again—like back when her mother used to braid her hair before school and tell her she was beautiful without her even asking.
Lily's stomach twisted, but not from hunger. From fear. From guilt. From all the nights she had crept into the kitchen like a thief, snacking in the dark, wrapping crumbs in tissues and stuffing wrappers into the bin beneath older trash. Every secret bite weighed on her now, thick and heavy.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered, eyes locked on the bowl.
"You don't have to eat it all," her mom said, her voice a soft cushion. "Just try. We'll take it one step at a time."
One step at a time. Lily swallowed hard and nodded.
She sat down, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the spoon. The oatmeal smelled faintly of cinnamon. She hesitated, then took one bite. It was warm. Sweet. Her mind screamed—you're going to get bigger, this will make you fatter, stop—but her mom's presence was a quiet anchor. Stable. Grounding.
They talked about small things—Matt's homework tantrums, Ava's obsession with braiding her dolls' hair and giving them dramatic names like "Queen Sapphire." With every laugh, every sentence, the food felt less like the enemy. Less like guilt. More like… nourishment.
After breakfast, Lily helped clean up. She washed the dishes with slow, careful movements, watching the soap bubbles cling to her fingers. She hadn't felt this calm in weeks. Maybe longer.
Back in her room, she sank onto her bed and opened TikTok out of habit. Her thumb hovered over the usual—fitness routines, 'what I eat in a day' videos, comparison before-and-afters. But one video stopped her. A girl, curvy and unbothered, danced around her room to loud music. Not toned. Not thin. Just… happy.
Lily blinked.
She clicked on the profile. It was filled with affirmations and messages about body neutrality. Choosing kindness over criticism. Moving because it felt good, not as punishment. This girl wasn't trying to shrink herself. She was trying to live.
Lily stared at the screen, conflicted. Could you really be okay without trying to change everything about yourself?
She scrolled through the comments and typed one before she could stop herself: "I wish I felt this free. I feel stuck most days." Then she locked her phone and flopped onto her bed, heart pounding. Why did that feel like such a big deal?
During break at school, while Lily was sketching absentmindedly in the corner of her notebook, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and found Mide, the girl who sat two rows behind her in Biology.
They hadn't really talked before. Mide was quiet, always with her earbuds in, always scribbling in a worn notebook.
"Hey," Mide said, offering a small smile. "I saw your comment on that TikTok post—about feeling stuck. Was that really you?"
Lily blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah. I didn't think anyone would notice."
"I just wanted to say… I get it. Like, really get it. I've been there too."
There was something in her voice—soft, understanding, real. No pity. Just honesty.
Lily's throat tightened. "Thanks. I've just been trying to figure things out."
Mide nodded. "It's hard. But you're not alone. If you ever wanna talk, I'm around."
That evening, Lily did something she hadn't done in months. She opened her old journal—not the one filled with food logs and measurements, but the one she used to write in just to feel better.
She didn't write calorie counts. Didn't draw charts or schedules.
She wrote about breakfast. About how scary and safe it felt at the same time. About Mide. About the girl on TikTok. About the quiet thought in the back of her mind that maybe—just maybe—freedom looked different than she had imagined.
Around 8 p.m., her mom poked her head into the room.
"Want to go for a walk?"
Lily looked up. "Like… exercise?"
Her mom shrugged. "Like fresh air. That's all."
She hesitated, then nodded. They walked down the street slowly, the orange evening sun dipping behind rooftops. Kids laughed in the distance. A dog barked. Her mom talked about her day—how the power went out at work, how Ava had declared herself a 'fashion queen' and insisted on wearing lipstick to school.
Lily listened. The air felt cool on her skin. Her body didn't feel like something she needed to hide from or fix. It just… was. Moving. Breathing. Existing.
When they got home, she passed the hallway mirror and caught a glimpse of herself. She didn't stop. Didn't stare. Didn't tug at her shirt or pull in her stomach.
She just kept walking.
That night, for the first time in weeks, she didn't dream of numbers. Not of calories or dress sizes or imaginary before-and-after versions of herself.
She just slept. And when she woke up, the world felt a little quieter.