A Safe Space

“Oh no, she’s home,” I think to myself as I hear the keys unlocking the apartment door.

Please do not knock on my door. Please do not…

Knock, knock.

“Hey, are you there?” she calls out.

“Uh yeah, hang on.”

What is she doing home so early? She’s not supposed to be back till past 5am - according to her track record.

I quickly hit pause on Netflix and get out of bed, one hand pulling the blanket off me, the other holding the box of chocolate cake from Koko Black.

I hide the box in my wardrobe, wipe all evidence off my lips, and open the door.

“Hey, I thought you were going dancing with your friends,” I say while adjusting my PJs as if I had just changed.

“Oh I decided not to. I have hot yoga at 6am tomorrow. Anyway, can you open the door for Rob in the morning? 9-ish. He wants to drop off some of his mum’s ravioli. Super carby, but apparently I have to try it,” she says, half-rolling her eyes.

“Uh yeah sure. I’ll be home.”

I close the door and take a deep breath. In...and out.

Wow, that was a close call. My room doesn’t have a lock so she could have easily barged in, as she has a few times before when she had exciting news to share.

I slide open the wardrobe to see my cake sitting next to the stack of home shorts.

I reach out to it but stop myself just before my fingers meet the brown paper box.

Then, I stand in front of it, frozen, for about 10 seconds.

Should I continue enjoying my cake and risk being caught, or hide it until my housemate’s asleep?

I should play it safe, I decide. After all, she had already caught me with the taro GongCha three days ago. I can’t risk it again. I simply can’t.

Five days, two pieces of macarons, one salted caramel cupcake, and two cups of hot chocolate I pretended to be coffee later, I find myself needing to go to the mall.

A place I’ve been trying to stay away from since this toxic relationship with food took over.

Although, no one believes it’s a problem because I am not anorexic or overweight. I went to the doctor once and expressed concerns over how food consumes my thoughts, every second of the day. She did blood tests and all, and the result was that I was fine. Normal, as she said.

Nothing to worry about.

Heck, I even went to the University counsellor because I thought it might be psychological.

No luck there.

Eating is supposed to be normal. A necessity for living, found right at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

But I know I am not normal.

It started out as a way to deal with the stress, a lifebuoy when I was drowning in all the assignments and exams.

But now, it has become an addiction.

As soon as I arrive at the mall just a 20-minute-walk from my apartment, I take the escalator and head straight down to the bookstore, avoiding all eye contact with the bakeries and cafes calling my name.

Now, what was the name of the book Sara, my classmate from Psych, had on her Secret Santa wishlist again?

Right. Super Simple Smoothies: 100 Healthy & Colourful Recipes.

No wonder she has those abs she always shows off with her crop tops.

I walk to the Health & Fitness aisle and find the book, with all the colours of the rainbow on its cover. Colourful indeed. I pick it up and just then, another book catches my eye.

Jess Clark's Easy Guide to Beating Food Addiction.

How to Say No, the subtitle reads. Under it, an average-sized woman (normal, as the doctors would say) in a red dress is holding her arms out, her face turned away, to keep her distance from the tempting plate of cake being offered to her.

She’s saying no!

Perhaps I can learn to do the same?

This book might help. But the title. The title is too obvious. I can’t be seen buying a book on overcoming food addiction. It’s shameful.

I’ll just buy it online.

But what if it’s not available online and I’ll have to come back here, in person, and buy it later anyway?

I should just buy it now. It’s literally in my hand.

Then again, do I really want the cashier to judge me? I caught a glimpse of her before. She looks like she goes to the gym, her curves visible from the slightly tight Borders T-shirt.

But why do I care what she thinks? I don’t know her and will probably never see her again. So what if she knows I’m a weak sucker for carbs?

No, I live near this mall. I might have to come back and she’ll remember me as that girl who needs to read an effing book on how to have a normal relationship with food!

This is too much. I can’t decide now.

I need to get out of here.

I need...I need...I need chocolate.

Abandoning the books, I walk up the escalators, as fast as I can, and scramble to find a cafe.

The one nearest to me happens to be where I used to go for their creamy carrot cakes, until I began to worry the staff might start recognising me.

“One chocolate brookie to take away please,” I say to the girl who used to serve me my carrot cake with a side of iced chamomile tea.

“Oh wow, I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s it going?”

She recognises me. I was right. They are on to me.

“Good good,” I reply with a smile hiding the anxiety within.

I pay for my brookie with cash in one hand and grab the striped pink and white paper bag with the other.

The cafe has at least six empty tables, two outside in the warm sun, but no, I can’t be eating this sinful brownie cookie here. Not out in public, where judgment fills the air.

I could walk home, but the 20-minute journey back is too long to bear.

I need chocolate in. my. mouth. now.

Where can I go in this busy mall to escape from the prying eyes?

I walk around, frantic. I think people can see it in my face. They can sense the fear. They are looking at me.

They are looking at the bag I’m holding - the bag that contains at least 570 calories.

I need to escape.

I see a sign in front of me. A place for privacy!

This must be it.

I turn left, as the sign says, walk down the hallway and open the door with the red, skirted figure on it.

I walk into the stall at the very end, lock the door, and breathe a sigh of relief.

My heartbeat begins to slow down and the tightness in my chest eases.

I take the brookie out of the bag and take a big bite.

At last, I am safe.

--

P.S. This story was written in December 2019. While it's fiction, it is inspired by the very real experiences I had when I was in Uni.