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 know Winter.
More than anyone in this world. I see her, even when she thinks no one does. Every flicker of emotion, every wall she puts up, every unspoken word—I notice it all. It's like she's a part of me, every movement she makes pulling me closer, tethering us together in ways that scare me sometimes. She might not know it, but I've memorized her.
Right now, she's sleeping in my arms, her breathing slow and steady, her face peaceful in a way I rarely get to see when she's awake. But even in this stillness, even with her body so close to mine, I can feel the weight she's carrying. It's in the way she curls up, like she's trying to make herself smaller, to disappear from the world. It's in the way her fingers sometimes twitch, as if she's fighting something even in her dreams.
I don't know what it is that's pulling her away from me again. But I can feel it. It's like she's slipping through my fingers, no matter how tight I hold on. Is it me? Is it my problems weighing on her again? Maybe it's the trial, the chaos surrounding everything with my family. Maybe it's the constant reminder that I've never been able to fully protect her from the shitstorm of my life.
But I know it's more than that.
There's a sadness in her eyes lately, something deeper, darker. She's not drinking, she's not using again—I would know. I would smell it on her, see it in the way her hands shake or the way she withdraws. No, this is different. This is guilt. The kind that festers inside you, that eats away at your soul until you feel hollow. The kind of guilt that tells you you're not enough, that you're a burden to everyone around you. And I fucking hate it.
I hate that she feels this way. I hate that no matter how much I hold her, how many times I tell her she's enough, it doesn't seem to stick. She doesn't believe it. Not yet.
But I see it, even when she doesn't. I see how strong she is, how resilient. How she's clawing her way back, step by step, fighting battles I can't even imagine. She thinks she's weak, but she's not. She's the strongest person I know.
I brush a stray hair away from her face, my fingers grazing her soft skin as I study her in the dim light. She's beautiful, even when she's drowning in her own pain. Especially then. I trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips, committing it all to memory. I want to remember her like this—soft, vulnerable, real.
I know she's healing. But damn, if I don't wish I could fast-forward to the day when she's finally okay. When the weight on her shoulders lifts, when the sadness in her eyes fades, when she looks at herself and sees what I see. I want her to be okay so badly, it hurts. It feels like my chest is caving in just thinking about it.
But I know that's not how it works. Healing takes time. And even though it kills me to see her struggle, I'll be with her every step of the way. I'll hold her when she needs it, fight for her when she can't fight for herself, and remind her every single day that she's worth it. That she's enough.
