Chapter 6 Chapter 5: Winter

"Hey," I mumbled, surprised by the unusual calm that surrounded them. The tension in my chest simmered just beneath the surface. I went to the sink and filled a glass with water, hoping to wash away the remnants of sleep. I could feel my mother's eyes on me, an unusual weight in her look as she exchanged strange glances with my father. It wasn't lost on me that they seemed less like the high-strung professionals I was used to seeing during the week and more like regular people.

Before I could fully process this curious shift, my mother cleared her throat, drawing me from my contemplation. The sound cut through the hazy morning, and I focused on her, a small flicker of unease igniting in me.

"Winter," she began, her voice steady but filled with an unfathomable emotion. "We need to talk."

Instantly, the knot in my stomach tightened. "What is it?" I asked, setting my glass down carefully. It felt as if the air was charged with static, the calm before a storm, and I sensed this was not going to be the easy, lazy Sunday I had imagined.

"We can't attend your swimming tournament," she said, her words hanging in the air like the last note of a symphony—a quiet conclusion that reverberated in me long after it had been spoken.

The cup of water I had just filled pulled my thoughts in like a strong current. "What? But you promised!" My heart pounded against my ribcage like a prisoner desperate to break free. "You always said you'd be there!"

My father spoke then, his tone calming but firm, "There's an important meeting at the office, one we can't miss. We're sorry, Winter. We understand how important this is to you, and we fully support you. You're talented and strong; you'll do great."

I felt my fists clench involuntarily, heat surging through me like an angry river of molten lava. I was overwhelmed, feelings of betrayal mingling with a potent sense of frustration that shook me to my core. "You don't get it!" I exclaimed, unable to rein in my voice. "This isn't just any tournament for me. I've been training for this, and not just for the sake of winning! I need you there."

As if the sheer intensity of my emotions triggered an internal floodgate, the water from the tap suddenly burst out, splashing across the counter and pooling around my parents' feet. At the same time, I stood there completely dry, pulsing with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Their eyes widened, but they didn't flinch. Instead, my mother's expression softened into one that resembled concern. "Winter—"

"No!" I interrupted, feeling fury rush through me like electricity. "Maybe it's not a big deal to you, but it is to me! I matter too!" I was furious, and the frustration boiled over, the hurt swelling until I was ready to burst.

Without waiting for another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the kitchen, the echo of my emotions chasing after me like shadows. Each step felt heavier than the last, disappointment carving deeper holes in my resolve. My mind raced; I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so alone, even in a house filled with people. I needed them to understand my world, to be part of it, not just observers on the sidelines.

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.