CHAPTER 42: THE PAST

That night, after hours of pacing in her room, after redoing her makeup twice just to feel somewhat put together, Tracy finally grabbed her phone and dialed her closest friends.

She didn’t know what she expected.

Maybe sympathy.

Maybe someone to say "It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault."

Maybe someone to remind her she wasn’t useless.

The moment her best friend picked up, Tracy’s voice cracked.

"Girls... I—something horrible happened," she whispered, wiping at a tear before it could fall.

The screen lit up with multiple faces joining the group call. Three girls, her usual circle , rich, polished, confident, the type who never let a hair go out of place.

"Babe, what’s wrong?" one asked, wide-eyed.

"You sound like shit," another added bluntly but with genuine concern.

Tracy sniffed. "It’s... it’s about last night."

She told them everything.

Not the humiliating details, not the part with the drug, not Timothy’s name , she still didn’t want to expose everything but enough.

Enough for them to understand she hadn’t been with Hunter.

Enough for them to know her mother’s words had sliced through her.

Enough to reveal she wasn’t as strong as she pretended.

Her voice wavered as she spoke. Sometimes she had to force the words out. Sometimes she had to pause to stop her breath from hitching.

Her friends listened.

Really listened.

They murmured support.

They told her mothers could be brutal.

They told her it wasn’t her fault.

They told her she was beautiful enough to get any man she wanted.

They told her Hunter was the difficult one, not her.

Little reassurances.

Small comforts.

Warm words that soothed the burn inside her chest.

For a moment, Tracy felt lighter.

Not fixed — but held together.

"Thank you... really," she whispered, genuinely grateful. "I just... needed someone to talk to."

"dont worry girlie , you know where you can always get in touch with us " one of them said

They said their goodbyes.

One blew her a kiss.

Another told her to rest.

The third told her she loved her.

Tracy smiled a small, tired smile.

The happiness lasted only a few seconds.

Because right before the call officially disconnected , she still heard them talking.

They thought she had already left the line.

Their voices were sharp, casual, and ruthless.

"Ugh, she’s so dramatic."

"She acts like the entire world revolves around her problems."

"Honestly? I’m so tired of her princess attitude."

"Right? She’s always whining about something. She needs to grow up."

"And the way she still expects Hunter to magically fall for her... embarrassing."

They laughed

"poor Hunter , i bet he might be depressed thinking he is going to spent his entire life with a brat"

"thats why he ran yesterday"

Tracy froze.

Her heart plummeted so fast she felt dizzy.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

She didn’t blink.

She ended the call, not wanting to hear anything else, leaving her alone in the dark.

"you forgot to hang up sheesh" she mumbled

Her hand trembled as she slowly lowered the phone.

They said those things so easily.

So naturally.

Like they had been holding it back for years.

She stared at the reflection on her black screen ,her own face looking strangely unfamiliar. Smudged makeup. Red eyes. Trembling lips.

Something inside her chest cracked.

Quietly.

Painfully.

She closed her eyes.

Her throat tightened painfully as she sank down onto the edge of her bed. She tried to swallow the lump rising, tried to stay strong , but her breath stuttered and broke.

Her entire world felt like it was slowly caving in.

Her parents.

Her future fiancé.

Her pride.

Her reputation.

Her friends.

Her body.

Her confidence.

All slipping through her fingers.

She pulled her knees close to her chest, hugging herself tightly, as if doing so could stop the unraveling.

A choked whimper escaped her lips.

Then another.

And another.

The tough, beautiful, untouchable Tracy Meadows , the girl everyone thought had everything , finally broke quietly in the dark, clutching herself as sobs shook her entire body.

Alone.

Completely alone.

"im really ....trying my best here . then the memory start to flash on her mind , the memory of her past

Tracy was five years old by the time , one of the memories she remembered from a young age

She sat on a high, cushioned stool in front of an ornate vanity mirror, one far too grand for a child her age. Soft golden lights frame the mirror, bathing her small figure in a warm glow.

Her mother stands behind her, brushing her long hair with slow, practiced strokes. The brush glides through with a soft sound, and her mother hums a calm, elegant tune, the kind actresses hum in old movies. Tracy hugs her teddy bear tightly, its fur worn from years of comfort.

She watches her own reflection.

A pretty little girl with wide nervous eyes and a bow in her hair.

She swallows, her small fingers tightening around the stuffed bear.

"Mother..." she begins quietly, voice trembling in the reflection.

Her mother doesn’t respond yet—still humming, still brushing.

Tracy gathers courage. "Is it alright if I go out and... and play with the other kids?"

The humming stops.

The brush stops.

For a moment, the room becomes painfully silent. No music, no movement, just the ticking of a gold clock on the wall.

Her mother places the brush down with careful precision and meets Tracy’s eyes through the mirror. Her expression is cold, perfectly composed.

"Go and play with uncivilised kids?" she repeats, as though the words themselves taste unpleasant.

"No, no, Tracy." She smooths a hand down Tracy’s hair, but the touch is firm, almost restrictive. "You are a lady with etiquette. A Meadows. You cannot go outside and tarnish your image by playing with mud."

Tracy’s lips part. She wants to say something, anything, but her voice barely escapes her. "Oh..."

Her mother picks up the brush again as if the conversation is finished.

As if her daughter’s wish was nothing but a childish error to be brushed away.

Tracy lowers her eyes. Her teddy bear is held so tight she might tear it, but she doesn’t loosen her grip. Not even a little. Ofcourse what did i expect, mother will not allow me to go and play

And then, her voice in the present, older, tired, layered with years of silence

’That was the story of my life.’

’I was raised to be a perfect image.’

’A polished doll behind glass.’

The scene shifts, still in memory, but faster now. A montage of childhood moments filtered through glossy lighting and suffocating expectations.

’Using a fork and knife properly by the age of six...’

Little Tracy, sitting alone at a long dining table, practicing cutting her food into perfect, tiny bites while her mother watches with a critical eye.

’Putting on a fake smile by the age of ten...’

Cameras flashing, reporters crouched down to capture photos of her beside her mother. Tracy’s smile bright, cheeks lifted, eyes empty.

’My mother was obsessed with perfection. Maybe... too obsessed.’

Her mother adjusting her dress, her posture, her hands, shaping her into something flawless.

’I was homeschooled my entire life.’

A tutor pointing at books while Tracy stares longingly out the window, watching kids her age riding bicycles outside.

’My friends were chosen by my mother.’

Three girls in matching dresses sit with her at tea parties, all smiling stiffly, all repeating compliments they were taught to say.

’Before I knew it, I was behind cameras, flashing my smile.’

Magazine covers. Commercial shoots. Fancy events where she held her mother’s hand like a prop.

Her mother’s voice echoes sharply in memory:

"You are going to be a star, Tracy. Just like your mother. Soon people will know you. Adore you."

Every time Tracy does something well, her mother claps lightly, eyes shining with approval.

Every time she hesitates, every time she shows fear or uncertainty, those same eyes turn cold, disappointed.

And Tracy obeys.

She rehearses.

She smiles.

She poses.

She becomes what her mother molds.

And inside her own head, present-day Tracy whispers the truth she never dared to say aloud:

’So maybe I turned into this person, this perfect little doll, to get popular.’

’All for my mother to approve of me.’

The memory fades.

And Tracy is left standing in that thought, small, fragile, and painfully honest.

"i just wish they was someone out there who truly loved me , for just being me , not this fake little miss perfect"