Chapter five of my book I’m writting is kind of deep so I thought I could share

Chapter Five - It Runs In The Family

[Princess]

It was 10 p.m. Evie sat at her desk tired and pulled out something to write on. She heard her door click softly, she didn’t think much of it.

Oh To Be Pretty - Evie Groves

To be pretty

is to be known.

But how can one be pretty

if one needs that loan—

a confidence they cannot atone

For Merlin's sake, she’s perfect.

Why does the girl hide in that dome?

Oh right— those insecurities,

Making her feel so, so alone.

To be pretty

is to be known.

Then why can’t they know

the girl I never show? 

The one who wasn’t afraid to roam,

the girl who wants just one thing alone

to love herself like the others made known.

But then I remember

the defense mechanism I grew:

to put myself down

before the others do—

a habit I’ve seen in others too.

“Hey! Cute outfit,”
they quote.

So why can’t my brain
have the same tone?

“Not really…”
I groan,

as if the prettiest girl in the world

didn’t just compliment the style I’ve grown.

to be pretty, 

is to be known. 

But sometimes being known, 

Hurts more than feeling alone.

Evie wrote on parchment with her favorite quill, tears fell down her cheek and stained her face, she choked back a sob and her knuckle-white grip snapped the quill in half,  ink spraying on her nightgown. She groaned and tried to wipe it off with a nearby handkerchief but that only  smeared it more.

 She got in the shower and couldn’t help but cry, as the water ran down her body she felt would never be pretty enough.

 Evie had always been called beautiful-because she was a princess, because people were expected to say it-but the mirror told a quieter, more honest story.

Her eyes were the first thing anyone noticed. Not simply silver, but a shifting, liquid shade-like moonlight caught in water, pale and luminous, almost translucent at the edges. In the right light, they gleamed like polished steel; in shadow, they dulled to something colder, distant, unreadable. One eye, however, was interrupted by a thin scar—starting just above the brow and slicing down through the lid. It had healed cleanly, but it fractured the perfection people expected of her, a permanent reminder that she was not untouched by pain.

Her hair fell in long, heavy waves down her back, deep brown at first glance but threaded with strands of muted silver that caught the light like frost woven into silk. It gave her an otherworldly look, as though time had brushed against her too early and left its mark behind. When damp, it clung to her skin in dark ribbons; when dry, it shimmered faintly, almost metallic, against the soft fabrics she wore.

Her skin was pale-not the flawless porcelain praised in courtly whispers, but something more fragile, more human. Faint shadows lingered beneath her eyes, and there were small imperfections: the barely-there flush of old tears, the unevenness that came from sleepless nights and quiet doubts. Her lips were soft but often pressed too tightly together, as if she were holding back words she never dared to speak.

There was a grace to her posture, trained and practiced, but it wavered when she was alone-shoulders curling inward, as though trying to make herself smaller, less seen. The kind of beauty she carried was not effortless; it was burdened, complicated, edged with something that hurt to look at too closely.

She looked like a girl who had been told she was radiant all her life— and had never quite believed it.

When she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, she looked into the fogged mirror. She reached out with her hand to wipe off the water droplets, but instead drew an X over her face, she wasn’t sure why - she just did. She finally wiped off the mirror. At that moment-when she saw her face- her heart started to race. Her palms went slick with sweat. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t think straight. Her head filled with negative thoughts

 “I am only valuable if I am useful.” 

“If I were not born into this crown, would anyone love me at all?”

“I am replaceable—another daughter could sit in my place just as easily.”

Her breathing became shallow as she sobbed. Eventually, she dried herself off, dressed for bed, and lay down to relax— but her mind did the opposite. It sped up.

“I was born into a story I never chose.”

“Even my future feels like a cage dressed in gold.”

“How can anyone love me if they’ve never met the real me?”

“If I disobey, I am ungrateful. If I obey, I disappear.”

She sobbed, all night long, into her pillow so no one would hear her, so no one would question what she herself didn’t understand quite yet.

The palace was silent. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed.

The laugh seemed directed at her, at her pain. It was cruel though it was not meant to be, it was a genuine sound but that’s what made it all hurt worse, the world moved on while she was stuck. 

She cried and cried, she couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried, but eventually exhaustion took over and she fell into an uncomfortable sleep, her last tear falling onto her pillow that was already damp with tears.

[Edric]

It was 10 p.m. and King Edric peeked through his daughter's bedroom door, seeing her writing at her desk, he thought about checking on her but decided against it.

He quietly closed the door and headed to his room. He entered the bedroom and locked the door, grabbing a full bottle of whiskey and sat on the sofa with a grunt. 

Eadric was a man who was never truly happy. He just learned how to be “ok” and accepted his fate. 

His short, curly hair was a dark brown with greys forming. He was only 38 and already looked like he’d been through ***. He always wore his red velvet cloak but he always questioned if he deserved it, if he earned it. And his scars from past wars that showed, had always made him question his choices, of why he chose this path.

His wife had died while giving birth to Evie and he couldn’t help but be angry, for being left alone to raise a child. But in the end Evie was his everything and he was a better father than he gave himself granted for. 

He popped open the whiskey, took a whiff of the smell, and took a long swig. Everything seemed normal, or did it? 

He sat there questioning everything. 

“Why do I need alcohol to feel fine?”

“Am I really ok?’

“What if I fail Evie and go through with the marriage plans…”

He took another drink of the liquor hoping it’d drown out the persistent voice in his head. 

It didn’t.

So he drank more. He drank so much Merlin only knows where his headspace is now. 

He stood and stumbled over to the door with his half empty whiskey bottle still in hand. He used the wall as support and walked down the corridors. After a few turns he sees an old family portrait and laughs, he’s not sure why-but he does. 

His intoxicated state makes his head cloudy and responsibilities irrelevant. His depression swallows him and the sadness only seemed to worsen with the alcohol. He slides down the wall and cries, sliding his hand down his face and feels helpless, just broken.

Sorry if it’s long guys