Page 118 of Invisible Bars
I couldn’t… wouldn’t.
Ambria had died two years prior from cardiac arrest due to complications tied to an eating disorder she’d hidden too well. She was doing everything to stay runway-ready—pills, fasting, water-loading, excessive workouts. Always smiling. Always pushing. And then… one morning, she just didn’t wake up.
Tears welled up in my eyes before I could even think to blink them back.
I pressed the side of the phone and let it fall to my lap.
My mind drifted—not gently, but fast and harsh—back to that day. The day the agency cut me loose, like all my years of work could be erased with a single signature.
Three Years Ago – Fashion Week NYC
The dressing room buzzed with stylists, makeup artists, and chaos wrapped in couture. Everyone moved fast, talking over each other, pinning dresses, powdering faces and taping shoes to heels. But for me, time had slowed. My heart pounded in my ears, and the lights above felt hotter than usual.
I reached into my purse, tucked beneath the makeup station, fingers brushing through the lining, checking the side zipper.
My medication was gone.
I blinked rapidly, a nervous flutter tugging at my lips. The familiar sensation crept up my throat like an unwelcome intruder—first a tightening pressure, then the urgent, irresistible need to tic. My shoulders jerked slightly, a reflex I couldn't suppress.
No. Not now.
I had to keep calm, to regain control.
The anxiety surged, a tidal wave threatening to drown me. I needed that pill—the one that always helped quiet the storm inside. Panic bubbled up within me as I struggled to focus, my mind racing to find a way back to stability. I had spent time working on my craft, my walk, my talk, and most importantly, how to get down the runway fast enough and with grace before a tic. Oddly enough, modeling soothed me and I was able to afford therapy. But without my medication, I wouldn’t make it.
“Looking for something?” came a voice from behind.
I turned slowly.
Tyla.
One of the “It Girls” of the agency. Pretty, poisonous, and always watching—and she made it her mission, every time we crossed paths to remind me she didn’t like me. There was no reason she could explain, and none I’d ever given her.
“I could’ve sworn I left my—” I began, already feeling the edge of panic scratch at my chest.
“Oh?” Tyla cut in, her lashes fluttering like she practiced the move in a mirror. “You mean your little tic-tic chill pills?”
She held up my prescription bottle, twisting it between her fingers like it was just lip gloss.
Empty.
I snatched it from her hand, gripping it so tight my knuckles turned white.
“Wh—Where did you get this?”
“It was laying around,” she shrugged, and then strutted away—casual, smug—like she hadn’t just snatched the floor out from under me.
I stood there, the weight of the moment crashing over me like an unforgiving wave, leaving me gasping for breath and unable to swim to the surface.
A tightness gripped my throat, as if a heavy chain had wrapped around it, making each inhalation laborious. My facial muscles tensed involuntarily, forcing my eyes into a rapid, uneasy squint as I struggled to process the overwhelming emotions swirling inside me.
Then came the soft, guttural noise I loathed more than anything—a sound that erupted from deep within my chest, unbidden and loud enough to attract unwanted attention. I scrunched my nose in response to the humiliation creeping in, and my jaw snapped decisively to one side, a mixture of anger and helplessness boiling within me.
“Who let the dogs out?!”
People were looking now.
Someone by the wardrobe rack leaned toward another girl and whispered something behind their hand.
