I wobbled down the street beside them. My feet dragging. Belly shaking to and fro. I'd always been this way. Apart from when I was younger. I still had the photograph of myself at five years old, wearing a light t-shirt and shorts on holiday somewhere in Spain. Is it possible to be jealous of oneself? I was so tiny then. So thin. A distance memory. Something I must strive for. Something outside my reach. To think I was unhappy then, about nothing in particular, while being so thin.

I would rather be so malnourished as to invite death, than be what I currently was. I announced this to them with a whimper. Then I cried. I wish I'd respected my body back then.

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