CHAPTER 48: TRACY

The late afternoon sun painted warm gold across the shoreline as Tracy posed flawlessly, her sunglasses gleaming under the camera flash. The breeze lifted her hair just right, the waves crashed behind her like a movie backdrop, and the photographer beamed with satisfaction.

"Beautiful! Tracy, perfect! Hold that pose, yes, yes, that’s it!"

She shifted her weight delicately, raising a hand to her sunglasses, tilting her chin. To anyone watching, she looked radiant, confident, untouchable.

But underneath the glasses, her eyes stung.

When will this end? She thought as she continued to pose her best ones

"Alright!" the cameraman called out cheerfully. "That’s a wrap! Excellent work today!"

Tracy forced a small smile, barely holding it until the last shutter clicked. She picked up her bag, wrapped her scarf around her shoulders, and headed straight for the car. She didn’t wait for applause, didn’t wait for compliments, she just wanted to disappear.

Her manager, heels sinking slightly into the sand, hurried behind her. "Tracy, wait, slow down, girl!"

As soon as they reached the sleek black car, her manager gently grabbed her arm.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let me see your eyes."

Tracy froze.

Her fingers curled around her sunglasses, hesitant, almost protective. Slowly, she pulled them off, and the truth came spilling out. Puffy eyes. Slight redness. Traces of tears smeared into last-minute concealer.

Her manager’s shoulders dropped as she sighed deeply. "You’re lucky the photoshoot was a beach theme today. Wet eyes, damp skin, it fits the concept. If this were a studio close-up? Tracy, it would’ve been a disaster. Top model showing up looking like she cried all night?"

Her words were practical, coldly practical. Work first. Image first.

Tracy swallowed hard.

Then she lifted her gaze, and when she spoke, her voice trembled, not with anger, but with utter exhaustion.

"Is it a crime to cry?"

Her manager blinked, startled.

"The least you could do," Tracy whispered, her breath starting to hitch, "was pretend. Pretend to care. Pretend to ask if I’m okay. I’m breaking apart and all you care about is whether the camera will pick up my puffy eyes?"

Her sunglasses shook in her hand. She pressed her lips together to stop the crack in her voice, but it slipped through anyway.

"My life is falling apart," she whispered, voice raw, "and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it."

Her breath quivered, chest tightening as she tried to hold herself together. She wasn’t Tracy Meadows the model anymore. She wasn’t the perfect daughter. The elegant young woman with polished gestures. She was just... Tracy. A girl drowning in expectations, betrayal, and a world that only applauded her when she pretended to be perfect.

Her manager softened for a brief moment, surprised, taken aback, maybe even guilty.

"Tracy..." she began.

But Tracy turned her face away, blinking hard, trying to wipe the emotion from her cheeks before the tears could fall again.

Because nobody ever wanted to see her cry.

Nobody ever wanted the messy, vulnerable version of her.

They only wanted the mask

And they will continue getting the mask

"Don’t forget, Tracy," her manager said sharply, closing the car door behind them. "You signed up for this. People want to see the picture-perfect you—not the broken, messed-up version."

The words hit Tracy harder than she expected. She swallowed and forced herself to meet the other woman’s eyes.

"Well, what if I don’t want that life anymore?" she whispered. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. "Nothing is real anymore. Every smile, every pose, every word... it’s all scripted. And no one wants me for me anymore."

Her manager raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Tracy said, louder this time. "Yes, because every time I try to be human, to show I’m struggling, everyone treats it like a flaw. Like a weakness."

Her manager gave a cold, humorless laugh. "Oh please. Spare me the meltdown."

"I’m serious," Tracy insisted, her throat tightening. "I’m tired. I’m so tired, of pretending everything’s perfect, of waking up every day terrified that one mistake will ruin everything. I feel like I’m disappearing."

Her manager didn’t blink. Instead, she leaned in, voice dropping to a quiet, dangerous tone.

"Well," she said, "would your mother agree with you throwing all of this away?"

The question punched the air out of Tracy’s lungs. She froze. Her face paled, and her gaze dropped instantly to the ground. The air around her seemed to thicken as her chest tightened painfully.

Her mother. For a moment she was focused on herself and forgot about the one person who pushed her to this

Her manager watched her reaction with a knowing look, almost smug.

"That’s what I thought," she said simply.

Tracy’s fingers clenched at her sides. Her lips parted, but no words came out. All the strength she had built up for the argument evaporated in seconds, leaving her standing small, defeated, and trembling.

Her manager sighed dramatically. "Now, fix those under-eye bags and get back to what you’re good at, being perfect. The world doesn’t care about your feelings. They care about the product. You are the product."

Tracy’s breath hitched, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in her chest.

"I’m not a product," she whispered, though the words sounded weak even to her own ears.

"Then stop acting like you are one," her manager said dismissively. "And start acting like the queen everyone believes you are. Hide the sadness. Cover the puffiness. Smile. Pose. Shine. You know the drill."

She waved a hand toward Tracy’s face.

"And try to be perfect again."

The door slammed shut behind her manager, leaving Tracy standing alone, silent, shaking, and holding back tears that had already burned their way to the surface. Her sunglasses felt heavier than ever when she slid them back on, a mask to hide a girl who was slowly breaking underneath the weight of being flawless

I wish i could disappear , just for a little while