> "The mouth doesn't open for food anymore.
Only for memory.
And memory feeds nothing."
---
Day 6.
I haven't eaten.
Not because I'm refusing.
Because I keep forgetting how.
The spoon feels foreign.
The taste — too loud.
Like chewing on broken records.
Instead, I lie on the floor and listen.
To the sound of my body collapsing gently into itself.
To the orchestra of the stomach,
playing a symphony of ghosts.
---
I used to count calories.
Now I count echoes.
One for every verse I sang without him.
One for every note I swallowed like it was poison.
I'm not losing weight.
I'm shedding silence.
---
> "You don't need bread," the voice says.
"You need resolution."
I laugh.
Not because it's funny.
But because it's true.
I'm not hungry for food.
I'm hungry for closure.
---
I find an old napkin by the piano.
It has my handwriting on it —
but it's a song I never wrote.
---
LYRIC SCRAP #1 – found beside an uneaten apple
> "I kissed you in reverse
So I could forget forward.
But you tasted like endings."
I fold the napkin.
Hide it under my shirt.
Close to my ribs.
Where the hunger lives.
---
In the mirror,
my reflection mouths the word: "swallow."
I shake my head.
She opens her mouth wider.
From inside it, a chord escapes:
> G#m – F#m – E
A progression I used once.
In a song about staying.
---
I walk into the kitchen.
Open the fridge.
There's nothing inside —
except a microphone.
Cold.
Covered in frost.
I lift it to my lips.
Whisper:
> "Feed me."
The fridge hums in A minor.
---
The hunger begins to rise.
It's not physical.
It's melodic.
A pressure between my ears.
Each pang is a verse.
Each tremor — a chorus.
---
I collapse in the hallway.
Too weak to move.
Too alert to sleep.
That's when the walls begin singing.
---
> "You never meant to be famous."
"You wanted to be heard."
"Now they listen… but don't understand."
"Now you speak… but there's nothing left."
---
The floorboards respond:
> "Eat your words."
---
I press my ear to the floor.
Hear a heartbeat.
It's not mine.
It's faster.
Louder.
A kick drum.
---
Suddenly, I'm on stage.
Or maybe just imagining it.
Lights blind me.
The crowd is silent.
But I hear music.
Coming from inside me.
Not vocal.
Visceral.
---
A spotlight drops.
It's him.
But he's not holding a guitar.
He's holding a plate.
And on it —
our first verse together.
Still raw.
Still bleeding.
He offers it.
> "Sing it or starve."
---
I reach for it.
My hands tremble.
But before I can touch it,
the lights cut out.
And I wake up —
On the floor.
In the kitchen.
Mouth full of napkins.
---
Each napkin has a different lyric.
---
LYRIC SCRAP #2 – soaked in ink
> "I loved you in lowercase
So the world wouldn't notice."
"But you capitalized my goodbye."
---
LYRIC SCRAP #3 – smells like cinnamon
> "My silence was soft
Until your voice broke it like glass."
"Now every echo tastes like pain."
---
I try to hum.
Nothing comes out.
I try to cry.
Only dust.
---
I grab a pen.
I write the same line
ten times
on my forearm.
> "He was the last song I ate."
The ink enters the skin.
Becomes warm.
Becomes real.
---
I crawl to the recording booth.
Hit record.
No lyrics.
No plan.
Just breathing.
Heavy.
Starved.
Sacred.
---
> "This is my hunger."
"This is how I sound when I'm empty."
And for once —
the silence listens back.