The boy who wasn’t picked

He sits in the back. Not because he wants to— but because he’s tired of being picked last when he dares to show up at all. You don’t see him. Not really. He’s there, though— in the bathroom stall during lunch, because his gut’s staging a protest. IBS, the silent screamer, writhing beneath his ribs like worms made of fire. They say, “It’s probably just nerves.” As if nerves could make your stomach scream through steel. As if anyone ever asked why he eats crackers and nothing else for days. But he has ANOREXIA, and no— it doesn’t always look like a skeleton in a hoodie. It looks like skipping breakfast and calling it “not hungry.” It looks like counting calories like confessions to a god he doesn’t believe in. It looks like fear every time a fork touches his lips. Like control in a world where nothing else listens to him. It’s the mirror saying, “You’re still too much.” It’s the scale saying, “You could be less.” It’s watching your friends eat fries while your stomach begs and your brain says, “Don’t you dare.” though he doesn’t look “thin enough” to make it real. Not to them. They need bones to believe pain. It’s being congratulated for looking “healthier” when really, you’re just vanishing with a better smile. And no one sees how his ribs burn at night from hunger and guilt— how food becomes a weapon and his body becomes the battleground. He fights his reflection like an enemy, but loses every single time. And his mind? It’s a house with broken windows. He hears laughter from the outside but never feels the warmth. He is BI. Not “half-gay.” Not “confused.” Just bi. But to his friends, it’s a punchline. To his FAMILY, it’s a betrayal. His mom says, “Why can’t you just choose?” His dad says nothing— which is worse. His silence is a sharpened thing, carving shame into the boy’s heart with every breath he doesn’t take. FAMILY PROBLEMS aren’t just arguments. They’re echoes. They are him, learning to tiptoe through rooms filled with broken glass, memorizing where to step to avoid explosions. And still— he smiles. He laughs at their jokes. He passes the test. He says he’s fine because that’s the only thing anyone ever wants to hear. But at night, he writes poems in his mind with blood he doesn’t shed. He wonders— what it would feel like to finally be enough. To be seen. To be chosen. But the bell rings. Another day. He picks himself up, dusts off the loneliness, and walks into the world again like it hasn’t already eaten him alive. Because he’s strong. But God— he’s so, so tired of having to be.