Unseen Girl
Copyright© 2026 by BareLin
Chapter 10: Darkness
Reader Address: I’d like to say that the journey was smooth. Once I won, everything was easy. But that’s not the truth. The truth is, winning was just the beginning of a new struggle. Sometimes, the struggle was almost too much.
The first day of summer, I woke up to the light filtering through the curtains of my room at the Ventnor house.
It was June, and the Massachusetts summer had arrived in full force. The sun was warm, the air was sweet, and the world outside my window was lush and green.
But I didn’t feel the warmth. I felt the cold.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the motivation to get up. The threats had been getting worse. The hate mail was constant. The fear was a weight I carried everywhere.
“Are you awake?” Ivana’s voice came through the door.
“Yeah,” I said. “Come in.”
She entered, her expression concerned. “You’ve been in bed all day. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tired.”
“It’s more than that,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You’ve been different since the trial. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know how to tell her that I was falling apart.
“Connie,” she said, her voice soft. “Talk to me.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should be happy. I should be relieved. But I’m not. I feel ... empty. Like I’ve been fighting for so long that I don’t know who I am without the fight.”
“That’s normal,” she said. “You’ve been through so much. It’s going to take time to heal.”
“But what if I never heal?” I asked. “What if this is who I am now? Broken and hollow and lost?”
She reached out and took my hand. “Then we’ll figure it out together. That’s what friends are for.”
The threats continued.
Every day, there was a new email, a new message, a new voice on the phone telling me I was wrong, that I was a freak, that I didn’t deserve to live.
I tried to ignore them. I tried to focus on the positive. But the negativity was overwhelming.
“You need to talk to someone,” Luke said one evening, holding my hand. “A professional. Someone who can help you process all of this.”
“I don’t need help,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he said. “That’s okay. It’s okay to not be fine.”
I felt tears prickling in my eyes. I’d been holding it together for so long, pretending to be strong, pretending to be okay. But I wasn’t okay. I was falling apart.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to someone.”
Dr. Helen Park was kind and patient.
She listened as I poured out my fears, my doubts, my exhaustion. She didn’t judge. She didn’t interrupt. She just let me talk.
“I feel like I’m drowning,” I said. “Like I’m being pulled under by all of this. The threats, the media, the expectations. Everyone is counting on me. Everyone is watching me. I don’t know if I can keep going.”
“You’ve been carrying an enormous burden,” she said. “It’s okay to put it down sometimes. It’s okay to rest.”
“But I can’t rest,” I said. “There’s too much to do.”
“Connie,” she said, “you can’t help anyone if you’re not taking care of yourself. You need to prioritize your own well-being. That’s not selfish. That’s necessary.”
I thought about that. She was right. I’d been so focused on helping others that I’d forgotten to help myself.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try.”
The next few weeks were a process of healing.
I started taking time for myself—reading, walking, just sitting in silence. I started saying no to some of the speaking engagements, the interviews, the demands on my time. I started prioritizing my own mental health.
It wasn’t easy. I felt guilty, like I was letting people down. But I also felt lighter, freer, more like myself.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Ivana said one afternoon. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m learning.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s all any of us can do.”
The first time I smiled genuinely in months was on a Sunday afternoon.
I was sitting in the park with Luke, watching the ducks swim in the pond. The sun was warm on my skin, and the breeze was gentle, and for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.
“Thank you,” I said. “For being patient with me.”
“Thank you for letting me,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me.”
I leaned against him, feeling his warmth, feeling his steadiness. He was my anchor, my rock, my safe place.
“I love you,” I said. It was the first time I’d said it.
He smiled. “I love you too.”
The first time someone threw something at me in public, I was at a community event.
It was a warm June evening. I was speaking at a community center in Jamaica Plain, sharing my story with a small audience. The room was supportive—I could feel the warmth and encouragement in the air.
But then the doors burst open, and a group of protesters rushed in.
“You’re a pervert!” someone shouted. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Before I could react, someone threw a drink at me. It hit my chest and splattered across my skin. The liquid was cold and sticky, running down my stomach, dripping onto the floor.
I froze. I was so shocked I couldn’t move.
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