“I think you were grinding your teeth again last night.” My boyfriend places coffee for me on our kitchen table. It’s cold this morning, and I wrap my hands around the mug.

“Eek, that’s so weird. I can’t tell that I’m doing it. How can you tell?”

“It’s like a clicking noise, like chattering.” He passes me cream from the fridge. “It’s kind of rhythmic, too. I say it’s grinding because I’m not sure how else to describe it. It’s like you’re knocking your teeth together.” He holds his mouth open and drops it closed. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, and I shudder.

“Ugh, that is so strange. I’m going to have to tape my mouth shut or something.” He gives me a side hug.

“I still love you,” he says with a wink. He sits down, pulling out his phone to read the news. This is our morning routine, the same one we’ve had for the past year of living together.

“I wonder if it’s my retainer or something,” I continue. “Maybe I need it adjusted, or it’s bothering me in my sleep. I do actually feel like my jaw has been a bit tight lately or something.”

“Could be. You could always call your doctor.”

“Orthodontist,” I correct. “I haven’t been to one in years, though. I mean I got my braces off all the way back in middle school.”

……………………………………………………………………….

That night, I stare at my teeth before brushing. I notice that I have some enamel wear - I’ve always had it worse than most, my dentist tells me it’s because I have an overbite, but now I wonder if I’ve been grinding my teeth my whole life, too. My boyfriend is a heavy sleeper, so the fact that he’s been hearing my teeth knocking means that it must be super loud. It gives me the creeps to think that I’m doing it unconsciously.

I look at the transparent edges on my two front teeth. I tried teeth whitening, but I feel like it almost made the enamel wear stand out more. I brush, trying not to hyperfocus my anxiety on my image in the mirror.

……………………………………………………………………….

The next morning, my mouth is noticeably sore. My jaw feels like I’ve been chewing on gum for hours. My teeth feel ginger to the touch.

“Something is super wrong,” I tell my boyfriend. I am wincing even just opening my mouth to drink my coffee.

“I’m sorry, babe. Definitely call the doctor.” I call my dentist and ask if they have a recommendation for an orthodontist. The office can’t see me for another two days, but at least I have an appointment scheduled. They recommend I remove my retainer at night until I can come in.

“Sometimes, retainers can shift over time.” The office assistant tells me. “It can be anything from it getting knocked around to exposure to hot temperatures to biting down on it too much. It’s possible that it just needs a bit of a readjustment, but we’ll still want to take a look at you to make sure nothing else is at play.” I thank her - it makes sense, I don’t think I’ve had my retainer adjusted in 10 years.

………………………………………………………………………

That night, I gasp to see that my teeth look… different. The enamel wear is significantly worse than it ever has been. I am near tears. I start looking up the cost of dental caps online. It is expensive, and I feel sick with anxiety.

“It’s not that bad,” my boyfriend says, looking at my mouth. “You’re probably just stressed. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning not wearing your retainer.”

………………………………………………………………………

The next morning, I am no longer in pain. Relief floods through me. I roll over, but my boyfriend is not in bed. This isn’t terribly abnormal, as he is an early riser.

“Good morning!” I grumpily mumble as I make my way to the kitchen. But there is nothing.

I head to the bathroom, wondering if he is taking out the trash or something. I freeze. There is dark red smeared around my mouth. The room smells of iron. I realize with horror that it must be blood. I realize that I am stuffed, completely and utterly full, as if I have just eaten a feast. I feel a gurgle in my belly. I open my mouth - a little clump of hair juts out of my sharp, razor-like teeth in the back of my mouth. I call my dad.

“Oh shit, how long ago did you last see the orthodontist?” My dad asks on the other line.

“I don’t know, maybe a decade?”

“Damnit, you’re supposed to go in every 10 years or the suppression wears off. Lesson learned, I guess. Any, uh, anything left of him?”

“No,” I say, sobs starting to build in my chest.

“Ok, good, it’s better that way. Don’t worry about it, let me call my guy. They’ve handled these types of emergencies before.”

“How long will it take my teeth to go back to normal?”

“Eh, now that you’ve fed, they’ll retract in about 24-48 hours. But we’ll want to have your retainer looked at just in case. And make sure you mark your calendar or something for this time 9 years from now. We don’t want this happening twice.”

I cough, shooting out one of my boyfriend’s glasses lenses. I crunch it between my back teeth, swallowing it again.

“Definitely not.”