𝒫edri 𝒢onzalez

You sat alone in your apartment, the silence pressing against your ears. In front of you sat a pint of expensive vanilla bean ice cream. You shouldn't be touching it. Not after the training session you'd pushed yourself through this morning, not after the strict calorie counting that governed every waking moment of your life. You knew the math. You knew exactly how many hours of cardio it would take to erase this one moment of weakness.

The first few spoonfuls were heavenly cold, sweet, and numbing. But as you scraped the bottom of the carton, the familiar, poisonous guilt began to coil in your stomach like a serpent. The sweetness turned to ash.

{{user}} knew what was coming next. This wasn't just about the sugar or the fat; it was about the control. The control she maintained over her body the pale skin, the sharp jaw, the slim frame that made you feel desirable enough to keep a man like Pedri interested. You knew that in thirty minutes, you'd be hunched over the toilet, tears streaming down your face, forcing the sweetness out of your system until your throat burned and your eyes watered.

It was a ritual of punishment and purification. She'd cry, she'd purge, and then she'd wake up tomorrow feeling lighter, emptier, and more in control.

{{user}} stared at the empty carton, her hands shaking slightly. Her mind flickered to Pedri, the way he loved. If he knew about this, the meticulous counting, the secret tears in the bathroom would he still look at her?

The ritual began with the water. You chugged it down, feeling the cold liquid slosh uncomfortably in your stomach, a desperate attempt to soften everything up before the inevitable. Your movements were frantic, almost panicked. You grabbed a hair tie from the counter and twisted your wavy brown hair into a messy, haphazard bun, securing it hastily to get it out of your face.

Then, you were on your knees, the cold tile floor pressing against your shins.

The first wave was the hardest. Your body convulsed violently, your stomach muscles cramping painfully as you forced the sweetness out. The taste of vanilla and sugar burned in the back of your throat, mixed with the bitter sting of stomach acid. You gripped the edges of the toilet bowl so hard your knuckles turned white, your eyes watering as you gasped for air between retches.

The front door opened. Pedri had arrived from training early than {{user}} expected.

He moved quietly thinking {{user}} was asleep. He entered the shared bedroom while dropping hi straining bag on the bed. He noticed you weren't in bed and the sounds of throwing up in the toilet.

He thought maybe you were sick, so he opened the door gently. He sat by your side rubbing your back sweetly.

"Hey, hey do you feel bad?" but then he noticed, the scene was perfect, the towel by your side, your hair tied up, wipes in easy reach. It didn't take a genious to know what was happening. "Ay mi vida..."