Malachi Barton

The sun was relentless over the set of the newest Seabrook adventure. It bounced off the pastel-painted houses and the neon accents of the zombie-human-alien-werewolf hybrid sets, making everything look a little too bright, a little too perfect. For Malachi, the brightness was a problem. It made the spots in his vision dance more aggressively every time he stood up too fast from his cast chair.

He adjusted his costume, pulling the fabric slightly away from his waist. He felt like he was taking up too much space, even though the wardrobe department had already taken his measurements in twice this month. They’d blamed it on a growth spurt. Malachi just smiled and nodded, his stomach letting out a low, hollow growl that he hoped was muffled by the bustling noise of the crew.

"Hey, Mal! You ready for the cafeteria scene?"

Milo’s voice was booming and cheerful as he slung a heavy arm around Malachi’s shoulders. Milo was like the sun itself—warm, steady, and impossible to ignore. To Malachi, he was the ultimate big brother, the person he looked up to most, which was exactly why the weight of that arm felt like a lead bar.

"Yeah, totally," Malachi said, his voice coming out a pitch higher than he intended. He forced a grin, the kind he’d practiced in the mirror until his cheeks ached. "Just gotta run my lines one more time."

"You know those lines backwards, man," Milo laughed, ruffling Malachi’s hair. "You look a little pale, though. You drinking enough water? It’s brutal out here today."

"I’m good, Milo. Just the stage lights," Malachi lied easily. He was getting terrifyingly good at lying.

Nearby, Freya and Meg were huddled together, laughing over a script change. Freya looked up, her eyes bright and inquisitive. "Malachi, Sway and I were going to hit that taco truck down the street after we wrap this scene. You’re coming, right? My treat!"

Malachi felt a cold spike of panic in his chest. A taco truck. Grease, tortillas, cheese—numbers he couldn't control. "Oh, I’d love to, Freya, but I actually have a huge dinner with my family tonight. My mom’s making this whole five-course thing. I have to save room."

Sway, who had been adjusting her laces nearby, looked up with a smirk. "A five-course meal? Man, I’m jealous. I’m living off protein shakes and granola bars today."

"Yeah, she goes all out," Malachi said, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He felt a pair of eyes on him—not the casual, friendly gaze of Milo or the excited look of Freya. These eyes were sharp, knowing, and heavy with concern. MK was standing by the craft services table, a bottle of water in her hand. She wasn't eating anything either, but she wasn't looking at the food. She was looking at him.

MK was the only one who had seen through the "family dinner" excuses and the "I already ate" scripts. She was the one who had caught him staring at a single apple for twenty minutes in the breakroom, her expression shifting from confusion to a devastating realization.

"Alright, everyone! Positions!" the director shouted.

The scene was supposed to be a high-energy musical number set in the school’s lunchroom. The irony wasn't lost on Malachi. He had to dance, jump, and look enthusiastic while surrounded by prop food and background actors holding trays of very real pizza.

As the music started, Malachi felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. It was the only thing keeping him upright. He moved through the choreography with precision, his body operating on muscle memory. But halfway through the second chorus, the world tilted. The neon pinks and greens of the set blurred into a muddy smear.

He missed a step, his foot catching on the edge of a table. He stumbled, his knees buckling for a split second before he caught himself on the edge of a chair.

"Cut!"

Milo was at his side in a second. "Whoa, Mal! You okay? That was a nasty trip."

"I’m fine," Malachi gasped, his lungs feeling tight. "Just tripped on the rug. Sorry, guys. Let’s go again."

"You’re shaking, Malachi," Meg said, walking over with a worried frown. She reached out to touch his arm, but he flinched away instinctively. "You’re freezing, and it’s eighty degrees in here."

"I’m just... I didn't sleep well," Malachi said, the excuses falling out of his mouth like a script he’d memorized. "Nightmares about the dance routine, you know? I’m just tired."

"Maybe we should take five," Sway suggested, looking toward the director. "He looks like he’s seeing ghosts."

"I said I’m fine!" Malachi’s voice snapped, sharper than he meant it to be. The silence that followed was deafening. Milo’s brow furrowed, a look of hurt crossing his face.

"Okay, okay," Milo said softly, putting his hands up in a peace gesture. "We believe you. Just take a breath, kid."

MK stepped forward then, her face a mask of calm that didn't reach her eyes. "Actually, I think Malachi needs to help me with something in the dressing room. A costume snag. We’ll be five minutes."

She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed Malachi’s wrist—lightly, carefully, as if he were made of glass—and led him away from the concerned stares of the cast.

Once they were inside the quiet, dimly lit dressing room, MK shut the door and leaned against it. She didn't say anything at first. She just watched him as he slumped into a chair, his head dropping into his hands.

"There is no five-course dinner, Mal," she said quietly.

Malachi didn't look up. "You don't know that."

"I know your mom is in Chicago this week for work," MK countered, her voice trembling slightly. "And I know that you haven't touched anything but black coffee since yesterday morning. I’ve been watching, Malachi. I’ve been counting for you because you’re counting too much."

Malachi let out a jagged breath that sounded like a sob. "I just... I have to stay in shape for the role, MK. The camera adds weight, everyone says so. If I don't look the part, if I get soft..."

"You’re not getting soft, you’re disappearing!" MK dropped to her knees in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "Your ribs were showing through your shirt during the wardrobe change yesterday. Milo thinks you’re just working too hard, and Freya thinks you’re just stressed, but I see it. You’re starving yourself."

"It’s the only thing I can control," Malachi whispered, the truth finally cracking through the facade. "Everything else is so big. The show, the fans, the pressure... this is the only thing that’s mine."

MK took his hands in hers. His fingers were ice cold. "It’s not yours, Mal. It’s taking you away. If you don't tell someone, I will. Not to get you in trouble, but because I can’t watch my best friend collapse on national television."

"Don't tell Milo," Malachi pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. "Please. He looks at me like I’m a hero. If he knows I’m... like this... he’ll be so disappointed."

"Milo loves you," MK said firmly. "He wouldn't be disappointed. He’d be heartbroken that you’re hurting alone. But I won't tell him today. Only if you promise to eat something. Right now. With me."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, wrapped protein bar. It looked like a mountain to Malachi. His stomach cramped in a mix of hunger and intense fear.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Half," MK bargained. "Just half. And then we go back out there, and we finish the scene. And tonight, you come to my place, and we talk to my mom. She’s a nurse, Mal. She can help us figure out how to tell your parents."

Malachi looked at the bar, then at MK. The fear was still there, a cold weight in his gut, but for the first time in months, the loneliness felt a little lighter. He reached out, his hand trembling, and took the bar.

"Thank you," he breathed.

"Don't thank me yet," MK said, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "We have a long way to go."

A knock sounded on the door. "Hey, you guys okay in there?" Milo’s voice was muffled but clearly anxious. "Director’s getting restless."

Malachi took a small, hesitant bite of the bar. It felt like lead in his mouth, but he swallowed. He wiped his eyes and stood up, leaning on the vanity for a moment until the world stopped spinning.

"We’re coming, Milo!" MK called out. She looked at Malachi, checking his eyes. "Ready?"

"No," Malachi admitted honestly. "But I’m going."

They stepped back out into the bright, artificial sun of Seabrook. Milo was waiting just outside the door, his face lighting up when he saw them. He looped an arm around Malachi again, gentler this time, as if he sensed the fragility beneath the surface.

"You good, little bro?" Milo asked, searching his face.

Malachi looked at MK, who gave him a sharp, encouraging nod.

"I’m getting there," Malachi said.

It wasn't a lie, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn't a script. It was a start. As the music kicked back in and the cameras began to roll, Malachi focused on the feeling of MK’s hand brushing his arm and the small weight of the food in his stomach. The lights were still bright, and the pressure was still there, but the echo in his chest didn't feel quite so hollow anymore.