Archive of Our Own

In the sterile quiet of Princeton-Plainsboro, James Wilson shuffled through his office, the morning light just beginning to filter through the blinds. He hadn’t turned them open yet; the dimness was a kind of comfort. Shadows softened the sharp edges of everything, and somehow, lately, that seemed necessary. He ran his thumb over the edge of his desk, pausing on a small, rough nick in the wood. It was new. Maybe from his keys, or maybe it had always been there and he’d just never noticed.

He’d been getting good at noticing small things like that. Minute details, tiny adjustments he could make, edges to file down and manage.

This morning, he had already counted: three sips of black coffee, no cream, no sugar. Nothing else yet. He could feel his stomach twisting, but he was used to it. It was like holding onto a secret, a small, hollow space that belonged to him alone. It made him feel lighter, like he was peeling away the unnecessary layers of himself.

Wilson drew his gaze to the lunch he had meticulously prepared for later—a single apple, cut carefully into twenty slices, arranged in a small Tupperware like a puzzle he’d put together. He could already imagine pulling it apart piece by piece, savoring each taste like it was more than just a scrap of food. He’d learned that if he ate slowly enough, he could trick himself into thinking he was full.

A knock came at the door, jolting him. He looked up to find House leaning in the doorway, his sharp gaze flickering between Wilson and the Tupperware on his desk.

“Really, Wilson?” House’s voice was low, almost mocking, but his eyes held an edge of something unreadable. “Planning on rationing that apple for the entire week?”

Wilson forced a half-smile, tilting his head in a way that he hoped seemed casual. “Trying to keep it light, House. They say you should eat less if you want to live longer.”

House’s gaze hardened for a fraction of a second, then softened into something more familiar. “Yeah, but ‘eat less’ doesn’t mean ‘turn yourself into a breath of wind.’” His voice was light, but Wilson could feel the weight of it.

Shrugging, Wilson picked up a slice of the apple, holding it delicately between his fingers as if it were something fragile. “It’s just…” he trailed off, his voice barely audible, “easier this way.”

“Easier than what?” House’s question cut through the room like the sharp edge of a scalpel, but Wilson had nothing to say in reply. Easier than living with the burden of himself, with the weight of expectations, of other people’s needs, of his own endless empathy that always seemed to leave him empty.

Wilson looked away, the apple slice resting untouched in his hand. He felt House’s eyes linger on him, felt the prickle of his friend’s scrutiny as if House were cataloging the shadows under his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the collarbones he now noticed were visible beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Alright,” House finally muttered, his voice thick with an emotion Wilson couldn’t name. “Starve yourself if you want. Just don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when you shatter.”

House turned, his cane tapping against the floor as he walked away, leaving Wilson alone with the twenty slices of apple he already knew would be too much for him to finish.

The fluorescent lights in the hospital bathroom cast a harsh glow, reflecting off the pristine white tiles. Wilson stood before the mirror, observing himself in the unforgiving light. His fingers traced over his collarbones, sharp and prominent beneath the thin barrier of skin. He shifted his gaze to his face, inspecting the lines under his eyes, the hollowed shape of his cheeks, the way his skin seemed to stretch taut across his bones.

He’d skipped dinner again. Yesterday, he hadn’t had more than a few bites of toast in the morning. The idea of eating—of filling that carefully maintained emptiness—felt suffocating. He wanted to be weightless, like the pretty girls on magazine covers with their slim arms and hip bones visible beneath tanned skin. They looked like everything beautiful about life, like they were free of something that still clung to him, that heavy ache of always trying to be more than he was.

His mind was already organizing today’s meals: a cup of black coffee for breakfast, maybe half a yogurt cup for lunch, sliced strawberries to make it last. Tiny, controlled bites to keep up appearances.

The door creaked open, and he jumped slightly, startled from his thoughts. A young nurse stepped in, giving him a quick smile as she adjusted her scrubs. “Dr. Wilson, you okay?” she asked, her tone light but with a hint of genuine curiosity.

Wilson forced a smile, letting his hand drop from his face. “Yeah, fine. Just… long night.” He offered an excuse, aware of how practiced it had become. He’d been fielding questions like this more often lately, his weight loss noticeable even to those who weren’t looking closely.

The nurse’s smile faded as she glanced him over, brow creasing just slightly. “Well, take care of yourself,” she said, her words as kind as they were dismissive.

As she left, he turned back to the mirror, staring at his reflection with something like defiance. He could make it through the day on a few sips of water and whatever fruit he could tolerate. It was a challenge, a game, a way to be someone else, someone stronger.

It would get easier with time. The growling in his stomach had started to feel like a reward, like proof that he was succeeding at something.

The bar was dimly lit, filled with the murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Wilson shifted uncomfortably on his stool, keeping a careful grip on his vodka and Diet Coke. House had just ordered them another round, but the drink in front of Wilson was still mostly full, the ice barely melted.

“You’re drinking slower than usual,” House noted, eyeing Wilson’s glass with a raised brow. “What’s the deal? Afraid you’ll be too hungover to save lives tomorrow?”

Wilson chuckled, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pacing myself,” he replied, taking a small sip to prove his point. The Diet Coke was flat, diluted with melting ice, but that suited him fine. It didn’t taste like much, just something he could hold to keep his hands busy.

House scoffed. “Since when are you the model of moderation?”

Wilson managed another thin smile, deflecting with a shrug. He glanced around the room, pretending to be interested in the crowd, while mentally calculating how much longer he had to stay. Socializing took on a different edge lately. The air around him felt thick, almost suffocating, like he was weighed down by the mere act of sitting here, holding his drink, keeping up the front. The irony wasn’t lost on him; his stomach was as hollow as it had ever been.

His hand drifted to the glass of water he’d ordered alongside the drink, taking a quick sip and feeling the familiar rush of relief as the cool liquid filled him. Water was his constant companion these days—safe, free from calories, something that soothed the emptiness without adding to it. He kept count of every sip, each glass an achievement, an attempt to quench a thirst he couldn’t quite name.

“Seriously, Wilson, Diet Coke?” House’s voice was pointed, the skepticism obvious. “It’s like you’re trying to ruin the one thing vodka’s good for.”

Wilson looked down, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Just… trying to watch what I take in,” he muttered, the words falling out before he could fully register them.

“Watch what you take in?” House repeated, his voice turning sharp. “You don’t exactly have much to ‘watch,’ Wilson. Starting to think you’re trying to disappear on me.”

Wilson laughed it off, a quick, nervous chuckle that made his pulse spike. He took a larger sip, letting the vodka burn just enough to settle him. But as he set his glass back down, he caught the look House gave him—narrowed eyes, an unspoken question hanging between them.

“I’m fine, House,” Wilson said, his voice as steady as he could make it. “Really.”

Wilson’s laptop glowed dimly in the quiet of his office. The blinds were shut tight, keeping out the late afternoon sun. He hunched over the screen, his eyes scanning list after list, numbers blurring as he read them again and again. A few days ago, he’d found a website with calorie counts for nearly everything imaginable: fruits, vegetables, grains, sauces. He’d bookmarked it immediately, and now it was his constant companion, a place he turned to in quiet moments like this.

His fingers hovered over the keys as he typed “calories in toothpaste.” It was absurd, really. He knew it. But the compulsion was stronger than logic. The number—so small, almost insignificant—still made his stomach clench. He sat back, feeling the unease settle in, the familiar tightening in his chest. The same feeling that had led him down the grocery store aisles last night, wandering among shelves stacked high with food he couldn’t allow himself to eat.

The memory of it crept back: aisle after aisle, his eyes trailing over labels, his mind locked on numbers. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred. Anything higher, and he’d move on to the next product without a second thought. Just seeing the numbers felt like a victory, proof that he could resist, that he didn’t need it, that he was stronger than whatever hunger gnawed at him. He’d lingered by the display of fresh fruit, counting the calories in a single apple, wondering if he could make it last an entire day.

Back at his laptop, he scrolled through another page of calorie counts, as if memorizing them would grant him some kind of control over himself, over the gnawing feeling that seemed to live under his skin. His phone buzzed—House, no doubt. A text he didn’t need to read to know the gist of: “Lunch. My office.” He turned his phone off.

The invitation sat unopened on Wilson’s desk—a small, glossy card with gold lettering, announcing a party thrown by one of the department heads. House had mentioned it earlier, nudging Wilson with an elbow and giving him that smug grin that always meant he was in the mood to drag Wilson into something.

But the idea of being there, surrounded by food and drinks and endless small talk, filled Wilson with dread. He pictured the buffet tables lined with heavy platters, the glasses of wine being passed around, the laughter, the full plates. He could almost feel the stares, the unspoken questions about why he wasn’t eating, why he looked the way he did. He felt as though any bite he took would reveal too much, as if one glance could give away how hollow he felt inside.

Instead, he leaned over a stack of patient charts on his desk, burying himself in work. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the files as he meticulously reviewed every detail. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Every skipped meal, every moment of hunger—it was proof of his control, his ability to choose restraint over indulgence.

Around seven, he heard a soft knock on the doorframe. House leaned in, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Party’s starting soon, Wilson,” he said. “I thought you were coming.”

Wilson didn’t look up. “Got a lot to catch up on,” he said, tapping a pen against the file in front of him. “Besides, I’ll just slow you down.”

House took a step closer, his expression shifting, curiosity giving way to something harder, a sliver of concern. “You work too hard, Wilson. You don’t have to drown yourself in patient charts every night.”

“I like it,” Wilson replied, keeping his voice light, hoping House would drop it. He forced a small smile, not quite meeting his eyes. “Keeps me busy.”

House’s stare lingered, scrutinizing, as if he could see straight through the excuses. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try to save you from the boredom of self-imposed martyrdom.”

House left with a huff, his footsteps fading down the hallway, and Wilson released a quiet sigh. He glanced at the unopened invitation one last time, then returned to his notes.

Christmas morning crept in quietly, the hospital halls hushed in a way that only happened on holidays. Wilson had planned to take the day off, but he was here anyway, tucked into his office, trying to keep his mind occupied. Outside, lights strung along the hallways flickered in the soft red and green glow of holiday cheer, while the nurses traded candy canes and warm laughs.

But his office was silent, empty except for the low hum of his computer screen and the stacks of charts he was pretending to review. He’d come in under the guise of “catching up” again, but really, it was just easier to be here than to face an empty apartment, easier to ignore the texts from his family asking where he was.

A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, spreading through his jaw, his teeth. They hurt more lately—he knew that—but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to care. He flexed his hand, fingers curled into his palm, knuckles pressing up against his lips as he ground his teeth, feeling the tension ripple through his jaw. The feeling was sharp, grounding, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

The thought slithered into his mind before he could stop it, dark and almost soothing in its simplicity. If he kept pressing, if he just let himself sink into the feeling of his knuckles against his teeth, if he clenched his jaw just a little harder—maybe his heart would give out. He’d read about it before, about the way malnutrition wore on the body, how the heart weakened, how sometimes it just… stopped.

The hollowness in his chest felt like peace. He closed his eyes, letting the idea wrap around him, imagining what it would feel like to finally give in. No more empty calories counted, no more pretending, no more waiting for something he couldn’t name. Just… release.

A knock on the door snapped him out of the trance, his eyes shooting open as he quickly dropped his hand from his mouth. A nurse popped her head in, smiling brightly. “Merry Christmas, Dr. Wilson,” she said, holding out a small gift bag.

He forced a smile, reaching to take it from her. “Merry Christmas,” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

As the door closed behind her, he stared down at the bag in his hands.

Wilson leaned against the cold brick wall outside the hospital, pulling his coat tighter against the winter air. He fumbled with the cigarette, trying to remember the motion he’d watched people do so many times—lighter flick, inhale, exhale. He held it between his fingers, marveling at how fragile it looked, almost brittle. It felt right, in a strange way, to have something as delicate as he felt.

The first drag filled his mouth with a harsh, bitter taste, making him cough and blink against the sting. But he tried again, this time breathing it in slower, letting it settle. The feeling was sharp, intense, grounding. It distracted him from the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, from the way his body seemed to fold in on itself more each day. He’d started to notice how his clothes hung looser, his belt pulled tighter, bones beginning to press against his skin like secrets.

The days passed in a blur, each cigarette easing him deeper into the quiet emptiness he craved. Each time he inhaled, the hollow inside him felt like it stretched a little further, pulling at the edges of him, like he was becoming less and less real. He started keeping a pack in his pocket, something he could reach for when the hunger became too loud, too insistent. The smoke numbed him, dulled the ache, even if just for a moment.

One night, after another too-long shift, he dragged himself to his bed and collapsed, too tired to even think about food, the smoke still faint on his clothes. As he shifted his head on the pillow, something crinkled beneath him. He lifted his head, confused, and felt his stomach drop.

There, scattered across the white pillowcase, were clumps of hair, thin strands that glistened faintly in the dim light. He reached up, running a hand through his own hair, only for another few strands to fall into his lap.

For a long moment, he just stared at the fragile, dull strands in his hand, unable to reconcile what he was seeing. His chest tightened, and he felt the edges of himself fraying, a quiet panic threading through his veins. The ache, the emptiness—it had spread further than he’d thought. It was no longer something he could ignore or pretend away.

But as he lay there, looking at the strands of hair, a strange, twisted satisfaction curled inside him.

Wilson stood in his office, fingers trailing over the small model skeleton on his desk. It was meant to be a teaching aid, a detail to make patients feel at ease, but now, it seemed almost too real. The bones felt sharper, the empty eyes of the skull staring back at him with a knowing gaze, hollow sockets mirroring his own reflection in the window.

House walked in without knocking, as usual, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “Wilson, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to match your new friend over there,” he joked, nodding toward the skeleton. “You’re already halfway there.”

Wilson forced a chuckle, but even he could feel the edges of it were paper-thin. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the sharpness of his ribs under his palms, the way his skin felt stretched thin over hollow spaces.

He’d started to feel it more acutely, as though he were shrinking inward, curling around the emptiness like it was the only part of him that still felt real. There were days he could almost imagine flowers blooming inside him, as if the hunger itself had taken root and was growing, delicate and fragile but consuming, sprawling through the hollows of his ribs, pressing up against his lungs until his breaths came shallow and tight. It was beautiful in a grotesque way, the feeling of something alive blooming where he should feel hunger or need.

Sometimes he’d close his eyes and picture it—sunflowers, wild and invasive, forcing their way up his throat, bright petals choking him but filling him with a strange, twisted sense of peace. Each bloom pressing up against his skin felt like proof of his control, his ability to shape and reshape himself in his quiet defiance of his body’s demands.

The line between him and the skeleton models in his office grew thinner every day, the distinction blurring as he caught glimpses of himself in mirrors, shadows hollowing his face, cheekbones and collarbones sharpened to harsh lines. He felt like he was becoming a part of the skeletons that lived in the corners, the ones meant to be instructional but now looked almost like companions in his emptiness.

House’s words had a way of sticking, though. As Wilson worked late into the night, filling the quiet with patient charts and the soft shuffle of papers, he’d catch sight of the skeleton, its fingers curled in an open palm as if offering him something. And he’d think about how he was crumbling, fading, his body wearing itself thin under the weight of something invisible but all-consuming.

And still, he didn’t eat. Because somehow, the ache, the emptiness, and the imaginary garden blooming inside him felt safer than whatever lay on the other side of hunger. It felt beautiful, tragic in a way that no one else would understand.

Wilson stood in his dimly lit bathroom, eyes fixed on his own reflection. He’d grown gaunt, his skin stretched thin over his cheekbones, his collarbones sharp and defined beneath his shirt. He ran a trembling hand down his side, fingers skimming over the sharp line of his hip bone. He felt like porcelain—fragile, hollow, but perfect in the way that only something breakable could be.

Some nights, he’d lay awake, mind spinning through fragmented thoughts he didn’t dare voice. He couldn’t explain why he did this, why the ache of emptiness felt like a twisted sort of comfort. He couldn’t explain why he felt like each day he grew a little smaller, a little more in control, even as he was losing himself in the process.

He wished House could see, really see, what was happening beneath the jokes and deflections. But he knew that even if House caught on to the reality, even if the mask slipped, he’d never understand. House would see it as weakness, something to dissect and criticize, another puzzle to solve. And yet, a part of Wilson wished for that moment—wished for the day House would walk in, notice the brittle bones and hollowed eyes, and ask him why he’d done this to himself.

But he didn’t have an answer. He was smart, he reminded himself. Smart enough to know better. And yet, there he was, staring at his phone, scrolling through search results about the calorie content of toothpaste, tallying the things he couldn’t eat, the control slipping through his fingers even as he fought to cling to it.

The image of those “pretty girls”—pretty, skinny girls—flashed in his mind. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, bitter and hollow. Pretty dying girls. Pretty dead girls. He’d seen too many of them in his career, and yet here he was, slipping into their place, letting the emptiness consume him in the same quiet, relentless way.

He knew, deep down, that the parasite growing inside him couldn’t be destroyed. It clung to him, a part of him now, something that whispered lies he was desperate to believe. And still, there was something beautiful about it, something perfect in the brittle bones and the delicate, sharp lines of his own reflection.

The hollow comfort of control, the ache of emptiness—it was everything he had left. And in the end, that quiet satisfaction was all he needed.