I make my way past the Mall and the Bethesda Terrace Arcade, where at least two couples are taking engagement photos at all times, until I land on the corner of 72nd Street and Fifth Avenue, satisfyingly out of breath, to start my cooldown. My version of a runner’s high is nearly indistinguishable from that of an addict’s. I’m fully addicted. To the alertness; to the acute feeling of your own cells shrinking exactly where you want them to; to the knowledge that, if I weren’t getting married next weekend, I’ve worked out so much today that I could come home and binge, standing in the cool light of the open fridge, clawing at leftovers until I could throw up, feeling absolutely nothing.

There’s also a power in seeing everyone watch as I pass: I’m too thin to be obviously running for weight loss, and too fast for this to merely be a two-mile jaunt to fill my government-suggested movement necessity for the day. I’m a runner now. I run.

“You’re going to run until you disappear,” Danny, our uniformed doorman, exclaims when he sees me approaching. My strongest appetite is for comments like this: you’re so thin, you’re going to disappear; if you turn to the side, you’ll disappear; you’re going to run until you disappear.

Sometimes I want nothing more than to do exactly that.

“T-minus six days,” I say as he holds the door open and follows me into the lobby. Normally I revel in walking in before men, knowing they’re scoping out my ass, the way my hips move in my jeans, hoping my dress blows just the right amount to see a little bit more. But not Danny. He’s either gay or superabundantly dedicated to whomever that gold ring on his left hand ties him to. Or both. Meanwhile, Graham’s eyes can’t stay away from a woman with grabbable hair or a girl with an innocent face.