The metal of the scale felt cold beneath my bare feet.
The air in the bathroom smelled of shower gel and fear.
The numbers flickered, as if refusing to become visible.
An endless wait until they stood still.
41.3 kg.
My breath caught.
A sound so quiet it was barely audible—an inhale, a freezing in place.
I didn't look.
But I felt my mother stiffen beside me.
She was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, as if unable to comprehend the number:
"Forty-one point three..."
Her gaze met mine.
No anger, no shock—just that kind of fear that cannot be spoken aloud.
"Do you know what this means?"
I remained silent.
Stared past her at the wall, at the white tiles that blurred until they looked like water.
"You're five-foot-five," she said, her voice tense but deliberately calm. "Your normal weight should be somewhere between one hundred fifteen and one hundred fifty-seven pounds. Even one hundred ten would already be too little. But ninety-one point three?"
