Chapter 9
Tilly
New York blurred by like a movie on fast-forward.
The events were amazing.
On the first day, we went to an event that Yana got invited to and managed to get us tickets as well, which is crazy.
I loved every minute of it because it was from a brand I love.
Fashion Week was… I can’t even put into words how magical and stunning it was.
The shopping with Yana paid off because we all looked stunning.
The whole thing was pure magic, and I felt like a princess.
We sat in velvet chairs next to people that I watched daily, and as much as I tried not to fangirl, the line was drawn when I saw Harry Styles.
We cheered for designers whose names we couldn’t pronounce, but that didn’t matter because it was a memory I will never forget.
For a week, I felt like I had slipped into a different version of myself — shinier, braver, and freer.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
The hotels, the shows, the street food at midnight, and the beautiful skyline are gone.
As much as I miss it already, New York is a memory I will hold deep in my heart.
I blink, and suddenly we are at the Miami International Airport.
Miami humidity sticks to my skin like a second layer. I’m not complaining though because Miami is still gorgeous.
Literally the moment we step out of the airport, the views are already gorgeous.
Palm trees and sunshine at its finest.
We are here for the tournament, and I’m equally excited and nervous.
I got used to managing my emotions before tournaments, but sometimes the panic and stress manage to spill into my brain faster than I get to build the wall to prevent it from happening.
It’s the minus of it all. The thrill is great, but I also get scared.
The pressure sometimes gets to the point where I throw up before a game, and, as you can imagine, it’s not great for my play.
Stress gets so high I feel like someone is pushing my head underwater, and I’m slowly losing life.
We agreed to go straight to bed so we would feel fresh in the morning, but lying in this new hotel room, staring at a ceiling that’s too white, I can’t turn my brain off.
I hate when I lose control over my body. I feel trapped in this cycle of thought that changes every second, but each one is so complex that it feels like hours.
It’s like a cage where the bars become thicker and thicker the more thoughts come, and the more I focus on each topic.
I feel panic as the escape is slowly taken away from me, and I can’t do anything because all I can focus on is the past and the future. Never the present.
No one can save you from yourself.
I practiced for this tournament for months, but lately my head isn’t where it needs to be.
Every night I can’t sleep. I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. More stressed out, and more incomplete.
It’s an excruciating process of slowly losing yourself.
Most days, I act normally.
I train, I laugh, I talk, I imagine, and I feel fine.
The sun makes me delirious, and I manage to convince myself everything is fine, fine, fine.
But when the nights come, the weight of my mistakes presses down so hard I can’t breathe. Those nights aren’t pretty.
They’re just me, curled up in the dark, my phone light too bright against my face, my thoughts clawing at me until sleep feels like a joke.
What if’s that manage to throw me off track well enough that getting back on is impossible.
What if my real self isn’t worthy of love?
What if I’ll never be enough — not good enough, not pretty enough, not anything enough?
What if the second I stop pretending, everyone leaves?
It’s me versus me. My flaws versus my perfections.
I hate it.
Living inside a bad mindset is dangerous, especially in my career, but I don’t have a choice.
At night, I let myself crumble quietly, letting tears carve rivers down my cheeks, letting my thoughts claw at me like wild animals. In the morning, I put on my normal face, and everything goes back to normal until the sun sets again.
My ugliness belongs to the night. That’s when it spills out.
In shadows.
In whispers.
In the hollow spaces no one else can see.
The monsters I hide during the day slither free under moonlight. Sometimes they’re silent for a while; other times, they’re ripping at me before the sun has fully disappeared.
Still, I hold it together. Because God forbid I ruin my perfectly imperfect image.
It’s like a jagged rock pressing on my chest, crushing my lungs, pressing my heart into shards that cut with every beat.
And yet I carry on.
Every day, I tuck away the messy, broken parts of me that no one should see. The real me lives only in the shadows.
My bad side isn’t beautiful.
It doesn’t belong anywhere, not in the worthy category, not in the unworthy category, not in any category.
Because no matter where it gets revealed, people will look at me weirdly.
So, I carry it in the night, letting it breathe in private, because if I let it slowly grow without an output, the illusion of Tilly would crumble.
It’s almost funny, the way I let a tiny bit of my bad self slip through — just enough to look normal. Like I’m not perfect.
I’ve learned how to calibrate it, like a science experiment. I know I can’t be perfect, but I’m terrified of being too imperfect.
So I rationalize my flaws. I control how much of me leaks out so it’s the “right” amount — not the kind of imperfection parents whisper about behind closed doors, not the kind that goes around small towns. Just enough to seem human.
It’s a strange kind of prison to live like this.
Night after night, I pull myself apart, and day after day, I stitch myself back together.
I’ve become a ghost in my own life, haunting my reflection, wearing a body that isn’t really mine.
Right now is the perfect example of my nightly routine.
I just tore myself apart, making sure to rip up every tiny piece, and now I’m scrolling through millions of videos of people who made it.
Not really, but I let myself believe they did.
I don’t want to be scrolling right now. I don’t want to cause the dark circles under my eyes every morning to turn even darker, but I know if I close my eyes, sleep won’t come.
I could do what my mom always told me — think about the good things, count blessings, picture the future — but the darkness always wins.
The good things feel like cheap wallpaper over rotting walls. They’re fake.
I always know they’re fake.
Because I lie. Because I am a liar.
I am a betrayer.
I make people feel better by handing them pieces of myself I’ll never get back.
Pieces I need.
I bleed quietly so they can feel whole.
That’s the truth, and the truth hurts.
Which is why I never, ever show it.
I roll over, pulling the sheets up around me like armor. Tomorrow’s tournament looms in my mind.
I want to sleep, but the night is too loud. My own thoughts are too loud.
I’m so tired of hiding.