"Are you going to eat that?" Joy asked, pointing to my last few fries.

"No, you can take them."

After a few minutes, I tried to grab the box. Gone.

"Shit," I grumbled. A flash of anger rose in me. It was just fries, but the craving remained.

It wasn't hunger. Not exactly. It raged in me as an empty feeling that wasn't satisfied with food. At first, I turned it off, but it kept coming back. The thirst was intense, physical—something I couldn't name.

After a week, I chewed on my thumbnail, absentmindedly tearing at it until it broke. Relief. Briefly, but it was the first time the thirst was quenched. I started chewing more—my nails, my cuticles—anything that would let me bite into something. But it wasn't enough. The hunger kept coming back.

Soon, I was biting the skin around my finger, tearing it until it bled. Satisfaction was always temporary. I hated the way my hands looked—raw, torn—but I couldn't stop. Every time the craving came, I would give up. I didn't even care how disgusting it was. I had to bite.

And then, the dream.

I wandered through dark corridors, teeth aching, my hands bleeding. No matter how much I bit myself, it wasn't enough. In the dream, I sunk my teeth into my hand, feeling the skin tear under my bite. For the first time, the hunger disappeared.

I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth.

I looked at my hands. Bite marks, deep and red, my own teeth embedded in my skin. I did it to myself.

My hands trembled as I bound the wound. I told myself it would stop there. It had to be done. But the hunger returned, sharper, more demanding. It was the only thing that stopped me from raging inside.

I gave up again.

I bit my own skin, hiding the wound under my sleeve. Each bite brought a moment of peace, but it was temporary. The hunger always returned. It was never enough. I kept biting—my hand, my arm, anywhere I could reach. My body became a patchwork of scars and fresh wounds. I was stuck.

One night, I looked in the mirror, barely recognising my reflection. Hollow eyes stared back at me, disturbed by the marks on my skin. The hunger would always be there, lurking just below the surface, waiting to devour me again.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, waiting for the next wave to hit.

It always did.

This is one of the top entries for this month's Khero Khata, Star Books and Literature's writing corner.