𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈 everyone knows who she is. Worldwide model, covered in many vogue magazines, walked catwalks, and runaway. But people don't know what happens behind the curtains. Despite the many scandals that have plagued her reputation...
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Sitting in the backyard, I feel an odd sense of calmness mingling with the emptiness inside me. The garden has transformed into a peaceful retreat, the chaotic past left behind. It's a weekend, and the sun is softening the world around us, casting a golden hue on everything. Mom is here beside me, lost in her world of sketches and dress designs.
I hum absently, trying to stay focused on her happiness, though my mind drifts. My eyes follow the graceful movements of her hands as she flips through the pages of her sketchbook. Each design is a reflection of her dreams, her creativity flowing freely. The sun catches the strands of her curly hair, making them shimmer. I see her dark brown eyes, so familiar to me, framed by thick lashes. Her full pink lips move softly as she describes her ideas, and her high cheekbones catch the light just right.
I take in every detail, from the slight crow's feet forming at the corners of her eyes to the faint lines etched on her forehead. They are the marks of a life lived, a lifetime I realize I won't get to experience. The idea of those lines appearing on my own face seems so distant now. I've given myself a few months—months that feel both like a gift and a curse.
I'm determined to make these last months meaningful, to mend the gaps and find some semblance of connection with her. I want to embrace these fleeting moments, even though I spent so much of my life resenting her. My heart aches as I think about how I've missed so much time, how I'll never grow old enough to have those lines of experience and wisdom on my own face.
Mom continues to talk about her designs, her voice a soothing melody. I listen, soaking up every word, every detail, every piece of her that I can hold onto. There's a quiet peace in knowing that, despite everything, we are here together. And as I sit beside her, I realize that this moment—this precious, fragile moment—is all I really have left.
"Hey, Mommy, can you help me unclasp my necklace?" I ask, lifting my curly hair to expose the delicate chain at the back of my neck. My mother's fingers are gentle as she reaches for the clasp, her touch familiar and comforting.
As she works to free the necklace, I watch her intently, trying to savor this simple, intimate moment. "Why do you want to take it off?" she asks, her voice soft and curious.
I hesitate for a moment before replying, "I want you to take it." I reach out and gently lock the necklace around her neck. The small locket dangles there, resting against her collarbone. "I want a piece of you with me," I explain. "So even when I'm far away, You'll have a part of me you can hold onto. I don't want you to lose it."
She smiles, thinking it's about how I'm living in dorms at school and rarely see her. She might think it's just a gesture for when I'm away at college. But only I know the deeper meaning behind this. It's not just about the distance between us or the separation of school life. It's about the certainty of my time running out and the need to cling to the pieces of my life that truly matter.
As she touches the locket, her eyes mist slightly, perhaps thinking about how fleeting our time together has been. I can see her chest rise and fall with a deep breath, a moment of quiet reflection. In this simple exchange, there's an unspoken understanding that transcends words. It's a fragment of my heart that I'm entrusting to her, a way to carry a part of our connection with me, even as I face the inevitable.
