It’s half past five in the morning when Minseok trudges to the bathroom, squinting when the cheap fluorescent lights burn into his retinas. He stands stationary, rooted to his spot as he strains his ears against the closing door to hear if any of the other members were still up. In the dead silence of the night, it’s amazing what you can hear if you listen closely. Even the steady, rhythmic breathing of the other band members could be heard as loud as echoes traveling through a cave. Minseok sighs and flicks the lock shut and takes step after step to the corner of the bathroom.

The gentle swiping of feet on fake marble momentarily distracts him from the oncoming fate he’d given himself. Swish, swish, swish. Before he can blink he’s in front of the contraption he’s come to hate with a bitter passion; more hate then Zitao had for any sort of designer item.

He glares at a mechanic screen, who stares back at him with equal spite. He hates it so much, and yet it’s the only thing keeping him sane. The schedules, the practicing, the fans; this thing was the only entity in the world that could have the ability to keep him from slipping over the edge. Like a dam between city and water, or walls to a prison to hold in rowdy fugitives.

He looks down again and breathes nervously. It’s set at a pleasant number, pure and empty.

Lifting his foot take a lot of courage, but when he does and goes to take the first step, he falters and stops when he just barely hovers above the plate. Fear bubbles in the pit of his stomach and his lower lip quivers. He can’t do this. He can’t see the number; it’ll just end up disappointing himself further. But, he’s been good all day. He shouldn’t be this afraid, but the feeling comes in a package deal with the device.

He skipped breakfast, miraculously under the watchful eye of their manager and Yifan. During lunch he’d managed to conceal most of his meal, a meager portion of brown rice and chicken , in his napkin and disposed of it in the hallway trashcan. He’s lasted all day with substantial amounts of water and paltry bites of celery and cucumber.  No one’s looked at him worriedly, and he’s glad because he can’t stand the glances he gets from the others.

He knows he’s fat. He knows how his stomach bulges disgustingly with layers of chubby skin and his cheeks are stuffed to the point where fans had to poke fun at him. His legs might as well been made of revolting fat and tissue. Compared to Luhan, he felt like an elephant near a rat. Or a whale matched to a teenaged girl.

But he’s trying though. He doesn’t eat. He works harder than everyone during practice, and stays behind to get burn the extra calories he doesn’t need. Sometimes, he’ll accompany Yifan to the gym because he can get all the exercise he can get.

Steeling his nerves, he takes his first step onto the cold plate. He suppresses a shiver and fights off the urge to vomit. He can’t chicken out know; he needs to do this.

Next foot comes more easily, but the slightest tremor of his finger causes him to pause before resolving his mind once more. He lifts up his leg and stands firmly onto the plate, stabilizing his weight back on two feet. His eyes are closed and one thought runs through his head like wildfire.

His full weight is on the plate.

The number is rising.

Seconds pass and he can feel gravity pull him down, pressing into his shoulders like a boulder and cause the number to climb up higher than it already is. The feeling comes again; dread.

Panic.

Fear.

His breathing shudders and he curls and uncurls his feet. Minutes tick by like seconds and soon the night melts away to early dawn. Beams of golden spears strike through from the curtains and vanquish any signs of darkness; warming up the cold tile floors temporarily. Yawns erupt from the other rooms and he deduces he has but five minutes before the other members ambled their way into the common room.

He looks down; fearful eyes meet emotionless black lines. They register in his brain for a less than a millisecond before his heart takes a death plunge to his stomach and stays there; burning in the acid while tears spring out faster than his knees can shake and give out. The world seems to fall out around him, the sunlight swallowed up by the unforgiving darkness. Something snaps inside him; the rope connecting him to his brain, his mind to reality; the only thing connecting him to anything real and sane. It snaps, with each fiber ripping apart one at a time until he suddenly falls down into the pit of black abyss, fingers grabbing at nothing while a soundless scream slits his lungs.

No, oh god no. I’m such a failure, someone kill me.

A choked sob erupts from his chest but he muffles it with his hands, and as a result it escapes his mouth as a small pitiful whimper. His sub-conscious attacks him without mercy, stinging him with a poison intended to kill. The venom rushes through his bloodstream, running throughout his body like a racecar sprinting through a track.

You’re such a failure.

No wonder why you have the least amount of fans, fatty.

Chubby. Baozi. Fatty.

“Oh god, please—stop.” Minseok gasps out, clutching the fabric over his heart. His eyes burn from the tears and he barely manages to fall to his knees as noiselessly as he can. The words are knives that slice his skin and the spite is the salt that grips his wounds, leaving him in agony of his own self-loathe.

94 lbs

“Minseok? Are you in there? I need to get ready so can you hurry up?” Jongdae complains from the other side. His usual snappy voice interrupts Minseok from his self-contempt and he straightens up almost instantly, hands bracing upon the sick counter.

“Yeah—sure. I’ll be out in the minute.” He tries to sound normal, but the tears are still streaming down his face like waterfalls.

He wants you to hurry up fatty. Are you so fat you can’t even manage to be quick?

Minseok opens the door and sees a bright Jongdae smiling at him like it wasn’t six in the morning, “Good morning! Did you sleep well?”

Minseok gently nods, looking away, “Yeah. I’ll wake up the others and make breakfast, ok?”

Jongdae doesn’t notice how Minseok’s eyes trail over the expanse of his body, enviously observing his jutting hipbones and sharp facial features.  “Ok!”

Look at him. You’re never going to be like him. Skinny. Handsome.

He holds back a sob and waits for the door to the bathroom to close and lock before turning the corner to his room. He sits down on the bed and lets his mind wander once more. His eyes become glazed over.

“I know.”