Her hopeless eyes fixated on the wall. Her faint heartbeat was a constant reminder of how bad she was getting. It didn't beat normally – instead of the regular thump, a dull, softer, more cushioned beat was there. Her body ached; her veins throbbed with a dull pain. She was starting to perspire, but she felt so cold and vulnerable she hugged her quilt tighter around her. Hot tears formed in her eyes and fell uncaught onto her bed. She was too weak to live, yet not weak enough to die.

The pink pony, once plump and strong, was now so thin. She didn't care about how she looked, but she just lost the appetite to eat. And she didn't eat. She skipped meals, went days with a biscuit and didn't realise she was doing it so much, until now.

How long had she gone without eating now? She remembered how it first hit her yesterday.

She was just standing around feeling hunger at its worst. It stabbed her stomach and made her unable to stand still. She tried taking a bite from the biscuits she had in case she would need them. She was hit with an instant urge to regurgitate. She banished the biscuit to a bin, but she was now overcome with a feeling that commanded her to either puke or faint.

Who'd ever think Pinkie was anorexic?