Like when someone you haven't seen in months doesn't notice how much weight you've lost and emptiness tastes so much better than food for a few days after.
When shoulders that can hold up the world seem somehow less than delicate wrists with a child's watch, hanging loose on bones that still bear the never-quite-healed cracks of too many fractures, and the memory of jeans that slid over narrow hips and the gap between waistband and concave stomach.
When you laugh about how sweet you take your coffee cause you used to count it as food, the only calories you will allow yourself today, 16 in each spoonful of sugar, and the habit never totally left, even after you started eating solid things again.
Standing in front of the mirror, breathing in, trying not to long for xylophone ribs and telling yourself over and over that you shouldn't miss the spikes and troughs of skin stretched over skeleton.
Repeating this mantra of It is better to be healthy and trying to resist the urge to stealthily spit the concept of health into a napkin and hold it under the table, rolled in cold spidery hands until you can safely dispose of it without anyone noticing.
When you have a decent grasp on reality for 90% of the time but the other 10% is when you embrace those delicious twin beauties, control and potential, like an illicit love affair that is only indulged in darkness, in secret, and you know that you could go back, so easily, any time you wanted but you also know you won't.
You grieve for the loss of the girl you were for 20 years and the girl you might have been, if only. This is not a good if only.
When you get scared so you cut the food on your tiny plate into miniature pieces, eat half of them and spend the next 20 minutes arranging the rest into the corner of a circle, a place which doesn't even exist.
and you light a cigarette and allow your mind to wander over the parts of your body that didn't used to be there, telling yourself again that yes, this is worth it.
When he wraps his arms around you and says God, you're so tiny and you know that he means it in comparison to his own broad shoulders and hands that easily encase the width of your back and not like the ache of tentatively expressed concern as he counts the bones of your spine.
And if you ever need to be reminded why you left yourself behind and became something less like a ghost and more like a real person, you look in his eyes while his hands slide over your hourglass curves, lingering for a moment at the pinch of your waist and you see a beauty reflected in his smile that no mirror ever allowed you to feel.