𝐂𝐇𝐋𝐎𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓 the embodiment of sunshine, always with a bright smile and an easy laugh. She was the one everyone turned to, the friend who never faltered, always radiating positivity. But behind that cheerful exterior, how much darkne...
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Me and Bella sat in the dimly lit room, our knees brushing against the cool plastic of the chairs as we waited. The smell of disinfectant lingered faintly in the air, and the low murmur of whispered conversations filled the space around us. The walls were painted a soft beige, lined with motivational posters about recovery and healing, but they somehow felt distant, like a hollow echo of hope in a place where hope seemed scarce.
Bella fidgeted beside me, tapping her foot nervously against the floor. We had both decided to come here to support Winter, to be there for her as she gave this speech to a group of women, some of whom she didn't know, others who had probably been in these sessions with her. It was the first time Winter had volunteered to speak in front of a group like this, and while we both knew she had been clean for a while, this felt different. It was personal in a way that made my chest tighten with something I couldn't quite name—pride, anxiety, maybe a bit of both.
We weren't allowed to sit in on the full session because it was strictly for women, but we were given special permission to be there for Winter's speech, as long as we didn't disrupt. I didn't know what to expect, but I wasn't prepared for the way Winter's words would hit me, how raw and unfiltered they would be.
Winter stood at the front of the room, her posture a mix of confidence and unease. She wore a simple outfit—a black body suit, and a skirt. Her hair, usually a cascade of wild curls, was tied up into a messy yet elegant bun. She looked different, quieter somehow, as if the weight of what she was about to say was pressing down on her shoulders.
"I know most of you here are probably forced to attend," Winter began, her voice steady but low. She wiped her hands on her skirt, the gesture small but telling. "And I know that a lot of you think that hearing someone's 'healing journey' is bullshit. That it's not going to happen to you."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the room, and even though it was filled with women I didn't know, I could see their reactions. Some sat with their arms crossed, guarded. Others leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued. Bella shifted beside me, her expression a mixture of sympathy and tension.
"I was in your place, too," Winter continued, her voice a little stronger now. "Most of the time, I was there physically but not mentally. I couldn't connect. I couldn't feel anything. And I know how that pit in your stomach feels. The one that won't go away, no matter how much you try to distract yourself. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, making you think you'll never be warm again."
She trailed off for a moment, glancing toward the therapist seated nearby, who gave her a small nod of encouragement. Winter took a breath, her fingers trembling slightly before she pushed forward.
"And I want you to know—you aren't crazy. You aren't abnormal. And this—this feeling, this pain, this isolation—it's not forever. It feels like it is. I know that. But it's not." Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't stop. "The truth is, you won't ever stop feeling things completely. You'll still have bad days. You'll still have moments where it feels like the weight is too much, but it won't always be this bad. You just have to be willing to work for it."
