Thirty minutes later.

"Mm, I can't wait 'til these are done," She'd grinned, widely. Expectant. Waiting for him to say the line in his script that he should've said if he was anybody else in the entire world, the words he wanted to say so badly but just couldn't because it would be lying. And he loved Michelle too much to lie.

His smile was forced. He failed to look her in the eye. "I'm really in the mood for a popsicle, actually.. But I'm gonna pig out on them later on, swear.. I just suddenly don't feel like it.." He smiled, confidant in his ability to maybe even get out of this again. He'd checked the calories in a fudge popsicle earlier, the soy kind. Thirty calories. Thirty clean, pristine, fat-free calories.

She just stared at him. Her fists were clenched tightly and she looked as if she were about to cry.

But she didn't.

Instead she began screaming. "I HAVE FUCKING SAT HERE THIS WHOLE WEEKEND, WATCHING YOU STARVE. BLAINE THIS ISN'T FUCKING FUNNY ANYMORE. YOU'RE SCARING THE SHIT OUT OF ME. I'M TIRED OF YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT. AND YOUR FUCKING PETTY EXCUSES. YOU ATE BEFORE I CAME, YOU'RE STILL FULL FROM YESTERDAY, YOU HAVE A BAD STOMACH ACHE.. WHAT THE FUCK!? YOU HAVE SOME STUPID FUCKING STORY FOR EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF FOOD YOU REFUSE TO PUT IN YOUR MOUTH. HAVE YOU LOOKED IN THE FUCKING MIRROR LATELY?"

She was holding herself tightly, screaming, tears now streaming down her face. It was too bad she was beautiful when she cried. But she was calmer now, trying hard not to scream, rigid, hurting.

"I.. I saw you take your shirt off before.. I counted.. 4 ribs.. And when I hug you.."

She was shuddering, spastic, flushed.

"I can feel the bones in your back.. I can feel.. Your spine.. You fucker.. How could you do this to me..How dare you do this to me!?" He couldn't believe his ears. How could he do this to her? "You're a fucking asshole, you know that Blaine? You're no fucking martyr. You think you're not hurting anybody but me, I go to sleep crying every fucking night because I don't know if you'll wake up in the fucking morning or if I'll hear your voice today.. I never fucking know.. And I can't fucking believe you.. Do you get what you're fucking doing to yourself.. It's NOT FUCKING BEAUTIFUL, IT'S NOT FUCKING GLAMOROUS.. JUST GIVE IT THE FUCK UP.. Goddamnit.."

She smashed her wrist into the edge of the counter. He could hear a crack, distinct. She didn't flinch.

"And I can't fucking take it anymore, waiting for every single bleeding reaction out of you, hoping, begging, praying that maybe you'll actually fucking eat and won't excuse yourself to go to the bathroom afterwards.. I can't fucking take it, Blaine!"

Her eyeliner was absolutely dripping. She screamed, raw, the chords in her throat stinging, merlot colored hair crowding her face as she pushed him to the side, jerking herself away as he tried to reach at her. The front door slammed.

She left.

By now he was crying, hard, too, slumped under the counter, knees curled to his chest, body heaving, trembling, shuddering.

The silence she left behind was louder than her screams. He could still hear every word she'd said to him, repeated in her angel's voice. Broken record. The words jilted, pressing into each other, contorting themselves. He could hear her wrist crack all over again. The white noise absolutely reverberated.

His middle and index finger curled around his wrist and his only relief at the moment was knowing that his index finger overlapped the nail of his thumb. Once a girl had told him, "You know you're thin if your two fingers touch when you put them around your wrist." They were on top of each other.. That counted for something, right?

Fatty fatty, two by four.. Can't get through the kitchen door..

A little sound ensued, emanating from the oven. The brownies were done.

Bing!