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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The day of Winter's birthday party was fast approaching, and the air felt thick with a sense of dread that I couldn't shake. The girls were buzzing with excitement, their voices filled with a kind of manic energy that seemed almost too bright, too forced. They were planning every detail of the party with an enthusiasm that felt out of place, as if they were trying too hard to make everything perfect. But no matter how much they gushed about decorations and outfits, a gnawing unease settled in my gut and refused to go away.
I couldn't explain it. It was more than just a bad feeling. It was as if there were invisible threads pulling at me, telling me that something was horribly wrong. I kept thinking about Winter, about how she was behaving. I'd seen her laugh and joke, seen her throw herself into the preparations with a zeal that seemed almost desperate. But it didn't add up. Her laughter was always too loud, her smiles too wide, as if she was trying to convince herself and everyone around her that everything was okay.
But it wasn't. I knew it. Winter was always so good at hiding things, but there was something fundamentally different now. She was always surrounded by people, always putting on a show. I'd catch glimpses of her when she thought no one was watching—her face would momentarily flicker with something I couldn't quite name before she'd mask it with another forced grin. It was like she was playing a role, one she couldn't break free from even for a second.
Her excuses were always the same: she was tired, she needed some rest. It wasn't unusual for Winter to be exhausted, but it was the way she said it, the way she avoided eye contact and changed the subject so quickly. It was as if she was afraid that if she let her guard down, even for a moment, something terrible would happen. I couldn't get a straight answer from her, couldn't get her to talk about what was really going on. Every time I tried, she'd shut me down with a smile and a joke that didn't quite reach her eyes.
It was driving me mad. I felt like I was losing control of everything. My sleep had become a distant memory. I'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to quiet the storm of thoughts racing through my mind. It was like I was waiting for something, but I didn't know what. The days dragged on, each one blending into the next, and the more I tried to understand, the more I felt like I was spiraling deeper into a void.
This wasn't like Winter. Not at all. She was known for her fiery spirit, for the way she'd lash out when she was angry or upset. I remembered the countless times we'd argued, how she'd fight me on every little thing, her words sharp and biting. She used to challenge me, used to make me confront my own demons, and in turn, I'd fight back just as hard. Those fights were exhausting, but they were a sign that she was still engaged, still fighting for something.
Now, though, it was different. She wasn't locking herself up for days in her room, wasn't getting drunk and throwing herself into self-destructive behavior. The Winter I knew would have been in the middle of a drunken argument by now, shouting at me for leaving all those years ago, making me relive every painful moment. But she wasn't doing any of that. She was just...gone. All that remained was a façade, a carefully constructed mask that she wore to hide whatever was truly going on beneath.
