Didn’t admire the luxury.
That alone made people uncomfortable.
When she reached Ethan’s room, she paused.
The silence inside wasn’t normal.
It was heavy. Suffocating.
She stepped in quietly.
There lay the boy—fragile, fading… but not gone.
Not yet.
María didn’t rush forward.
Didn’t bring food.
Didn’t speak right away.
Instead, she sat on the floor, a few feet from the bed.
Minutes passed.
Then, softly, she spoke.
“When I was your age… I stopped eating too.”
Ethan didn’t react.
But his breathing shifted—just slightly.
“Not because there wasn’t food,” María continued. “But because I felt invisible.”
Silence.
But different now.
Alive.
“I tried everything to be noticed,” María said. “Nothing worked.”
A pause.
“So I stopped eating… because it was the only way someone would see I was hurting.”
A tear formed in the corner of Ethan’s eye.
For the first time in two weeks, someone wasn’t trying to fix him.
Someone was trying to understand him.
“You’re not sick,” María said gently. “You’re just tired of not being heard.”
Something shifted.
A while later, Ethan whispered:
“Did it hurt here too?”
His small hand pressed against his chest.
María nodded.
“Yes… and no one noticed.”