She laughs, shaking off the seriousness of the questions we slip so delicately into conversation. When she isn’t looking, our eyes meet secretly across the table. I can see the worry in their eyes. I think she sees it too. “Seriously, guys,” she tells us, “You don’t have to worry about me.” I look down at my fingers, picking nervously at the polish on my nails. Something inside me wants to believe her. That girl inside me that knows how it feels to be called anorexic, who knows how it feels to be accused of not eating: she wants to believe her; she wants to smile and hug her and say we were wrong, we trust her. But there’s another voice inside my head, playing back of all those health classes about eating disorders and the warning signs that people often miss. That voice is screaming at me that something is wrong. And I can’t keep believing her when she tells me she’s fine.