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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I sat at my vanity, the dim light from the lamp casting a soft glow on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror, really looked. People always told me I was pretty—I mean, I'm a model, after all. But all I could see were my eyes, dark brown and empty, like there was nothing behind them. Dead.
I traced the curve of my lips with my gaze, full and pink, the kind people get fillers to mimic. My nose was slim, perfectly proportioned, and my cheekbones were sharp yet softened by the curves of my face. I knew I was stunning, at least on the outside. But knowing it didn't change the fact that I hated myself.
My fingers trembled as I looked down at the paper and pen in front of me. I took a shaky breath, trying to steady my nerves. I had decided to write my notes early, to have everything ready for when I was gone. So that when they found them, they would understand. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe it wouldn't matter. But I needed to do this. I needed to get it all out while I still had time.
I picked up the pen, the weight of it heavy in my hand, and began to write.
"Dear Lucas,"
The words flowed from my mind, down through my arm, and onto the page. I wrote for hours, pouring my heart out, the pain and confusion that had been festering inside me for years spilling out in messy scrawls. My hand cramped, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
I wrote about how he was always the closest person in my life. We were inseparable, always together, always understanding each other in ways no one else could. But then, one day, he cut contact. He became cold, distant, a stranger in the body of someone I once knew so well. I had no idea why, and the silence from him was like a knife twisting in my chest.
I told him how badly it hurt me, how lost I felt when he left. I had so many questions, things I never had the courage to ask him. Why did he leave? Why did he shut me out? What had I done wrong?
I wrote about the spiral that came after, how I fell into one bad relationship after another, trying to fill the gaping hole he left behind. I told him about Sebastian, the abusive ex who dragged me into the darkest parts of myself, into drugs and alcohol, into a life I never imagined for myself. I wrote about how I got with Sebastian because I was desperate, trying to replace the part of me that Lucas took with him when he left.
But I made sure to tell him that it wasn't his fault. I didn't want him to carry that burden, to think that he was to blame for the choices I made. Those were my decisions, my mistakes. But I couldn't help but wonder—if he had just talked to me, if he had just let me in, would things have been different? Would I have still gone down that path?
I wrote about how hurt I was, how deeply his silence had cut into me. But despite everything, I thanked him. I thanked him for the memories, for the times when he was there, when he was my everything. I thanked him for being the closest person in my life, even if it was only for a while.
The words blurred on the page as my eyes filled with tears. I wiped them away quickly, not wanting to smudge the ink. This was important. It had to be clear, it had to make sense, so that when they found it, they would know. They would know how much I had loved him, how much I had missed him, and how much I had hurt.
