One Bite at a Time

The presentation ended an hour ago, but Osamu can’t get the images out of his head. He’s just sitting there in the dim glow of his laptop, the apartment silent except for the fridge humming and a police siren wailing somewhere far off in Tokyo. His fingers hover over the keyboard, still trembling a little.

Frequent bathroom trips after meals. Petechiae—tiny red dots around the eyes from burst capillaries. Excessive tooth brushing. Weight fluctuations. Avoidance of shared meals.

He’d done the research. Too much, maybe. What started as a random Health class assignment turned into something else—a mirror he couldn’t look away from, reflecting stuff he’d been too blind to see.

Osamu leans back in his chair. The cheap metal frame groans. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is Atsumu. His twin. His other half.

How long has it been?

Memories surface like bodies dragged up from dark water. Middle school: Atsumu was always lean, but one summer he seemed to shrink. Cheeks hollowed. Volleyball jersey hung looser. Osamu figured it was just a growth spurt. High school: Atsumu would scarf down his lunch, then excuse himself to the bathroom the second they got back to the gym. Osamu laughed it off. Called him a nervous eater.

And that fight. The one Atsumu never explained. Left him with a bite mark so deep on his shoulder it took twelve stitches—neat, precise, terrifyingly professional. Atsumu said it was a rival player. A stupid scuffle over a girl. Osamu believed him because it was easier than asking real questions.

The front door clicks open.

Osamu minimizes his slides. His heart pounds in his throat for reasons he can’t name yet. He listens to the familiar footsteps—light, quick, purposeful—then a gym bag hitting the floor. The fridge opens. Closes. A cabinet. The sink runs exactly thirty seconds.

Then footsteps toward the bathroom.

Osamu gets up. Moves silently, like when they were kids sneaking past their parents’ bedroom to steal snacks after midnight. The hallway’s dark, but the bathroom light spills out through the crack in the door, a thin yellow wedge across the worn carpet.

He stops just outside. Listens.

The sound of a toothbrush scraping against teeth. Over and over. Same spot. Methodical. Compulsive.

Osamu counts to one hundred before the brushing stops. Then the flush. The sink again. The light clicks off.

The door opens, and Atsumu freezes.

“What are you doin’ standin’ there like a creep?” His voice is light, teasing, but Osamu catches it—the flicker in his eyes. Something hunted. Something cornered.

“Nothin’,” Osamu says. “Just wonderin’ what’s takin’ you so long.”

“I brush my teeth, Samu. It ain’t a crime.”

Their eyes meet. In the dim light, Osamu sees them now. The tiny red dots clustered under Atsumu’s eyes, so faint they’re nearly invisible unless you’re looking. Unless you know what to look for.

He hadn’t been looking before.

“You do it a lot,” Osamu says. “Brush your teeth.”

Atsumu’s smile turns sharp. “Maybe I just like havin’ clean teeth. You should try it sometime.”

He tries to push past, but Osamu doesn’t move. The hallway’s narrow; barely room for one, let alone both. Atsumu’s shoulder brushes against his chest, and for a split second, Osamu feels it—the wrongness. The boniness where there should be muscle. The sharp edge of his collarbone pressing through his hoodie.

“Move,” Atsumu says, the playfulness gone.

“We should order takeout tonight,” Osamu says. “The place you like. The one with the karaage.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightens. “What’s your problem?”

Osamu doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. But one thing he knows for sure: he’s not letting his brother walk past him into that dark bedroom where he can disappear for another night, another week, another year.

“No problem,” Osamu says. “I just want to eat with my twin. Is that so wrong?”

The silence stretches between them, thick and brittle as old glass. Atsumu’s eyes search his face, looking for the trap, the trick, the joke. Osamu holds his gaze.

Finally, Atsumu sighs—a sound of surrender that cuts deeper than any words.

“Fine. Whatever.”

The takeout arrives forty minutes later. Osamu ordered enough for three people, spreading the containers across the low kotatsu table in their cramped living room. Steam rises in fragrant plumes, filling the space with the smell of fried chicken, rice, miso soup.

Atsumu sits across from him, chopsticks in hand, posture rigid. He picks at a piece of karaage, turning it over, examining it like it might bite him.

“It’s good,” Osamu says, shoving a mouthful into his own cheeks. “Eat.”

“I’m eatin’.”

“You’re playin’ with it.”

Atsumu’s eyes flash. “Why are you watchin’ me so close? Did you turn into some kinda weird food police while I was at practice?”

“Just eat, Atsumu.”

The name hangs between them. Osamu rarely uses it—always Tsumu or some variation of bastard or idiot. The formality makes Atsumu flinch.

He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows.

Osamu watches his throat move, his Adam’s apple bobbing with visible effort. Another bite. Another swallow. Atsumu’s hand trembles as he reaches for his water glass.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Atsumu mutters.

“Doin’ what?”

“Starin’.”

Osamu looks down at his own food. He eats mechanically, forcing himself to take large, obvious bites. A demonstration. See? This is how it’s done. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

But every time he looks up, Atsumu’s bowl is still nearly full. The chicken rearranged. The soup pushed aside.

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Atsumu says, starting to rise.

Osamu’s hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist.

Instinct. Pure, unthinking muscle memory from years of playing on the same team, knowing where his twin would be before he got there. But this isn’t volleyball.

“No,” Osamu says.

Atsumu’s eyes go wide. “What the hell—”

“You’re not goin’ to the bathroom.”

“I gotta piss, Samu. Let go of me.”

“You don’t gotta piss. You gotta throw up.”

The words fall out flat, dead, factual. Like reading from one of his slides. Frequent bathroom trips after meals. A common compensatory behavior in individuals with bulimia nervosa.

Atsumu’s face drains of color. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I did my presentation today,” Osamu says, barely a whisper. “On eating disorders. I spent three weeks researchin’. The signs. The symptoms. The...” He swallows. “The damage it does to your body.”

“That’s—that’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

“Then sit down. Finish your dinner. Stay here with me.”

Atsumu’s breathing faster now, shallow and ragged. His wrist trembles in Osamu’s grip, the bones feeling too small, too fragile.

“Let go,” he says, and this time his voice cracks. Breaks.

“I can’t.”

“Let go, Samu!”

He wrenches his arm free, stumbling backward, his chair scraping against the floor. The sound is like a gunshot in the tense silence. Atsumu’s eyes are wild, darting between the bathroom door and the front door, calculating the fastest escape.

Osamu stands up slowly, hands raised in front of him. “Tsumu. Just breathe.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. You don’t get to—you don’t get to pretend you care now, after all this time—”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Then where were you?” The words tear out of Atsumu’s throat, raw and jagged. “Where were you when I was ten and someone told me I was too fat to play volleyball? Where were you in middle school when I started countin’ every single thing I put in my mouth? Where were you when—” His voice breaks, and a sob escapes him, ugly and wet. “Where were you when he bit me and I had to go to the hospital alone because I was too ashamed to call anyone?”

Osamu feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“I didn’t know,” he says, the words hollow and useless. “Tsumu, I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know. You were too busy with your boyfriend and your life and your—your perfect existence to notice that your own twin was fallin’ apart!”

He’s crying now, tears streaming down his face, shoulders shaking. Osamu has seen Atsumu cry before—after losses, after fights, after their parents divorced and his twin sobbed in his arms for three hours straight. But this is different. This is a collapse. The sound of a dam breaking after years of holding back a flood.

“I gotta go,” Atsumu chokes out. “I gotta—I can feel it comin’—”

He lunges for the bathroom, but Osamu is faster. He throws himself in front of the door, blocking the path with his body, arms spread wide like a goalkeeper defending the final point.

“Move,” Atsumu sobs.

“No.”

“Samu, please—”

“No.”

Atsumu hits him. His fist connects with Osamu’s shoulder, weak and uncoordinated. Then his chest. His face. Each blow weaker than the last, fueled by desperation and shame and a hunger that has nothing to do with food.

Osamu takes it. Every hit. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t block, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just stands there, letting his brother beat the pain out against his body, because it’s the least he can do.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t see. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry, Tsumu. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Atsumu’s fists slow. Stop. He sags forward, forehead pressing against Osamu’s chest, hands fisting in his shirt.

“I can’t do this,” he breathes. “I can’t. You don’t understand. The food is just—it’s in my head, it’s always in my head, and the only way I can make it stop is—”

His body convulses. A violent heave wracks his frame, and he claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with panic.

“Kitchen,” Osamu says, grabbing his arm. “Come on. Kitchen.”

They stumble together through the living room. Atsumu is shaking so hard he can barely stand, and Osamu half-carries him, arm wrapped tight around his twin’s waist, feeling the sharp jut of his hipbone through his sweatpants.

They make it to the kitchen bin just in time.

Atsumu collapses to his knees, body retching, gagging, emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the plastic liner. Osamu stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressed against his own mouth as he fights to stay composed.

The sounds are horrible. Wet and desperate. The sound of a body turning against itself.

When it’s over, Atsumu stays on his knees, forehead resting on the rim of the bin, breath coming in ragged gasps. He looks small. Broken. Nothing like the cocky setter who dominates the court with his arrogance and skill.

Osamu lowers himself to the floor behind him. He wraps his arms around Atsumu’s shoulders, pulling him back against his chest, holding him like they’re kids again, hiding from a thunderstorm under a too-small blanket.

“I’m not lettin’ you go,” Osamu says, voice rough with tears he refuses to shed. “Not again. I’m not lettin’ you go, Tsumu. Do you hear me?”

Atsumu’s body shudders. A hand comes up to grip Osamu’s arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“It hurts,” he whispers. “Everythin’ hurts. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Osamu says. “Together. I’m not leavin’ you alone anymore.”

They stay like that for a long time, on the cold kitchen floor, surrounded by the remnants of a meal neither of them truly ate. The apartment is dark and quiet, city lights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the walls.

Eventually, Osamu helps Atsumu to his feet. He cleans the bin, ties up the bag, takes it to the garbage chute. When he comes back, Atsumu is sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, knees drawn up to his chest.

Osamu sits down next to him. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

“It started in middle school,” Atsumu says, voice flat and distant. “I was ten when I realized I wasn’t growin’ as fast as the other kids. The coach said I was too small to be a setter. Said I needed to bulk up if I wanted to compete.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

“So I started eatin’. A lot. Protein shakes, extra rice, anythin’ I could get my hands on. And it worked. I got bigger. Stronger. But then I kept goin’. I didn’t know when to stop. By the time I was twelve, I was chubby. Nothin’ drastic, but I noticed. Other people noticed.”

“The comments started. ‘You don’t look like a volleyball player.’ ‘Are you sure you should be eatin’ that?’ ‘Miya’s always been the heavier twin.’” He closes his eyes. “I stopped eatin’ lunch. Started skippin’ breakfast. By the time I was thirteen, I figured out that if I ate, I could just... get rid of it. No one had to know.”

Osamu’s hands curl into fists in his lap. “And I never noticed.”

“You weren’t supposed to notice. I got good at hidin’ it. Real good. I could eat a full meal in front of you and then throw it up before you even finished your second bowl of rice.”

“What about the fight?” Osamu asks, barely audible. “The bite. Who was he?”

Atsumu’s face crumples. He presses his palms against his eyes, trying to push back the tears.

“His name was Ryo. We dated for six months. He was... he was nice at first. Told me I was beautiful. Made me feel like I wasn’t broken. But then he started noticin’ things. The bathroom trips. The way I never ate dessert. He figured it out.”

“He tried to help. Made me eat. Sat with me after meals to make sure I didn’t run to the toilet. And I hated it. I hated him for seein’ me, for knowin’ the truth. We got into a fight, and I—I said some awful things. He grabbed my arm, and I hit him. He hit me back. And then he...” Atsumu touches his shoulder, where the scars lie hidden beneath his hoodie. “He bit me. Hard. Drew blood. I had to get stitches. I told everyone it was a fight with some guy from another school.”

“I never went back to him. But I also never stopped. The disorder, I mean. It got worse after that. The only thing I could control was what I put in my body. And I figured, if I just stopped eatin’ altogether, no one could use it against me. I could be perfect. Light. Untouchable.”

“Apples,” Osamu says. “You survive on apples.”

Atsumu nods. “They’re safe. I know exactly how many calories are in an apple. I can control it. If I eat more than that, I panic. I have to get it out.”

Osamu turns to face him fully. He reaches out and takes his brother’s hand—cold, trembling, the fingers too long and too thin.

“What is it?” Atsumu asks, voice cracking. “What are you thinkin’?”

“I’m thinkin’ about all the times I could have helped and didn’t. I’m thinkin’ about that summer in middle school when you stopped comin’ to dinner, and I just assumed you were eatin’ in your room. I’m thinkin’ about how I was so focused on my own life—my boyfriend, my tournaments, my future—that I let you starve right next to me.”

“That’s not your fault.” Atsumu shakes his head. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have known.” Osamu’s voice breaks. “You’re my twin. I’m supposed to know everythin’ about you. I’m supposed to be able to tell when you’re hurtin’. That’s the whole point of bein’ a twin.”

Atsumu is crying again, silent tears tracking down his cheeks. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was ashamed.”

“There’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.” Osamu squeezes his hand. “You’re sick, Tsumu. That’s all. You’re sick, and we’re gonna get you help.”

“I don’t know if I can get better.”

“We’re gonna try. Together. I’ll find a therapist. I’ll go with you to every appointment. I’ll cook for you—real food, safe food, whatever you need. We’ll take it slow. One day at a time.”

Atsumu stares at him, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “Why are you doin’ this? After all this time, why now?”

“Because I finally see you,” Osamu says. “And I’m not gonna look away again.”

That night, they sit on the bathroom floor until the sun starts to rise. Osamu talks about stupid things—volleyball stats, the new ramen shop down the street, a funny video he saw online. Atsumu listens, occasionally nodding, his head resting on Osamu’s shoulder.

When the first rays of sunlight creep through the window, Osamu stands up and holds out his hand.

“Come on. Let’s get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Atsumu takes his hand. His grip is weak, but it’s there. That’s enough.

The next morning, Osamu wakes to the sound of the refrigerator opening. He pads into the kitchen to find Atsumu standing in front of the open door, staring at the contents.

“I don’t know what to eat,” he says quietly.

Osamu moves to stand beside him. He surveys the shelves—leftover takeout, a carton of eggs, some vegetables starting to wilt.

“How about an apple?” he suggests.

Atsumu nods. Osamu reaches in, pulls out a single red apple, and hands it to his brother. Atsumu holds it in both hands, turning it over, studying it like it holds all the answers to the universe.

“I’m scared,” he admits.

“I know,” Osamu says. “Me too.”

He reaches out and places his hand over Atsumu’s, steadying the tremble.

“But you don’t have to be scared alone anymore.”

Atsumu bites into the apple. The sound of the skin breaking is crisp and clean, a small victory in a war far from over. He chews slowly, deliberately, and when he swallows, he doesn’t run to the bathroom.

Osamu’s hand stays over his, warm and solid and present.

It’s only one bite. But it’s a start.