“I’m going to go throw up,” she said casually, as she walked over to the bathroom. I stared after her but didn’t try to stop her. My fork clattered to the plate. I retreated away to the couch and weakly plopped down on it.

My stomach squirmed. I would surely never be able to look at that box of Oreos again- the Oreos she had been eating hungrily only moments before. She came out of the bathroom, her face slightly flushed rose but otherwise normal.

I tried to be that good friend. I asked her how many times she had done this and she answered, “Occasionally.” I tried to remember all the other times she had retreated into a bathroom after a meal. I couldn’t remember. I tried to tell her how wrong it was to do, but she wouldn’t hear me.

I wondered if this incident made her bulimic. But surely I would have noticed it sooner. I thought miserably of all the times I had lied to her and she had wanted me to lie when she had asked, “Am I fat?”

Granted, she wasn’t severely obese or anything but she wasn’t skinny either. She was just larger. That is, larger than my one hundred and ten pounds body. She always looks at me, picturing her life being that much better by being that much skinnier. But truth is, I’m not always happy with my body. Sometimes I hate how my thighs look too big as I have one of those days where you wake up but you should have just gone straight back to sleep. But mostly I hate how other people treat me. If I forget a lunch my lunch at school, suddenly I’m anorexic. If I eat three slices of pizza, they still say I don’t eat that much.

I’m not trying to go on one of those pity rampages that everyone hates to hear. I’m not trying to criticize anyone, as I’m certainly far from perfect. I just wish I knew how to help her. I wish I had the right words to say, that looks don’t matter to people, but I would be lying. I want to tell someone that can help her but I promised it was a secret. And it still is. She could be your friend so please watch out for her, ok? Or maybe she is you. I’m sorry.