Chapter 9

Back in my room, I slammed the door behind me, letting the force of it echo through the walls, as if it could somehow chase away the growing tide of disappointment. The edges of my anger started to soften, replaced by an aching sadness that wrapped around me like a poorly fitting blanket. I wanted to scream, to cry, to let it all out, but the tears wouldn't come. 

Leaning against the cool wood of my desk, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, my eyes searching for answers, for comfort; yet all I saw was a girl tangled in her turmoil. I grabbed my journal from the bedside table, the well-worn pages welcoming my frantic thoughts.

With pen in hand, I poured my heart out, scribbling furiously. How could they not see how important this was?Why did everything feel like an uphill battle, an exercise in futility? My writing raced across the pages, the ink spilling the secrets of my heart that I hadn't found the words to say aloud.

"You're not alone," echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the girl from my dream. But who was she? A figment of my imagination or a part of my heart?

As I gave in to the catharsis of writing, the storm inside me found brief moments of calm. My fingers moved across the pages, each word grounding me more, reminding me that I had dreams and that I could resist the currents pulling me under. 

A glance at the calendar pulled me out of my daydream. I was running out of time. I couldn't let the disappointment from this morning define me. There were only three days left until the tournament—and five days until my eighteenth birthday—and it was time to embrace the girl in my dreams, the one who dared me to believe that I could rise above the noise.

With renewed determination, I closed my journal, bracing myself against the waves of emotions that had filled my morning with chaos. I was sinking into the dark abyss of my doubts, but I knew I could swim. With heavy eyelids and a mind cluttered by the day's events, I avoided the reflection of my parents' concern imprinted in the kitchen and the handwritten notes they had left for me—snippets of love that felt foreign in their earnestness. The warm meals that awaited me, each crafted with diligent care, only served to remind me how isolated I felt amidst their attempts to reach out.

I sometimes wanted to scream, not out of rage but out of pure desperation. Here I was, a teenager full of promises, nearing adulthood, yet the longing for an overbearing family, an enigma of love sprinkled with meddling questions, gnawed at me. The irony wasn't lost: my peers all clamored for a taste of my so-called freedom, the independence my parents gave me, their travels filled with unwavering trust. But they didn't see the depth of my loneliness, nor understand that the independence often felt like a chasm where affection drowned.

I tossed and turned, sheets twisting around me, until sleep finally crawled back into bed with me. It whisked me away once again into the dreamscape that had become a hauntingly familiar place. As the darkness gathered around me, there she was—the girl with golden hair radiating warmth that cut through the shadows. She stood there, just beyond my reach, smiling with a brightness that felt supernatural in its certainty.

"Don't give up, Winter," she whispered, the words a gentle touch on my eager thoughts.