Wingless

1. Escape

Note: This book does not intend to body shame, demean, or target anyone. It is told from the perspective of someone who has experienced bullying because of her body shape. My intention is not to hurt or offend but to shine a light on how cruel societal standards can be. I personally know the pain of being compared to others, and I stand firmly against it. Every person carries their own unique beauty, and that deserves to be celebrated. Please remember: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy the journey. <3

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Ximara Lyris Adler stood before the fractured mirror in her bedroom, her reflection broken into shards like a dream splintering under pressure. The tight dress her mother had chosen for her clung to every curve of her body, seams straining at her hips and chest. She tugged at the fabric, her fingers trembling with frustration.

Tonight wasn’t just another evening in her parents’ house—it was a reckoning.

From downstairs, voices drifted up through the floorboards: her mother, Carin, haggling with a wealthy, gray-haired suitor whose hungry gaze had made Ximara’s skin crawl earlier that afternoon. Her father, Ryan, joined in with forced laughter, bartering her future as though she were livestock at an auction.

“You’re lucky he’ll take you, looking like that,” Carin had sneered earlier, her words slicing deeper than any blade.

Ximara’s jaw tightened. She clenched the crumpled paper in her hand—a sketch of soaring walls and open windows, a building she had imagined as her sanctuary. Her designs had always been her rebellion against their cruelty, her shield against the world’s impossible standards. But sketches weren’t enough anymore.

Tonight, she would act.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her duffel bag from the closet. Her movements were quick, deliberate, her heart pounding as she stuffed in clothes, documents, and her sketchbook filled with dreams. The zipper rasped loudly in the stillness.

She glanced at the window. The humid North Carolina night pressed against the glass, heavy and expectant, as though urging her to step through. She pushed the sash open, swung one leg over the sill, and dropped softly onto the damp grass below.

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Downstairs, Carin perched stiffly on the floral sofa, facing Remus Hargrove. His silver hair glistened under the chandelier as he sipped his bourbon, his thin lips curling in a smirk.

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Carin said sweetly, her tone hiding steel. “Talented, too. Draws interiors of buildings like you wouldn’t believe. She’d make a fine wife—keep your home in order, give you a family.”

Remus’s gaze sharpened. “I’m sure she’s… delightful,” he drawled, voice dripping with condescension. “A sturdy girl like that ought to hold up well.”

Ryan forced a laugh, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “She’s a gem, alright. Just needs the right man to polish her up.”

Carin’s smile thinned. To her, Ximara’s body wasn’t her daughter’s to own—it was a problem to be solved, a bargaining chip to buy comfort and silence the neighbors’ whispers.

When she swept upstairs to fetch her daughter, her heels clicked like gunfire on the hardwood. She shoved the bedroom door open.

“Ximara!”

The room was empty. Curtains fluttered mockingly through the open window.

Her eyes narrowed. “That ungrateful little—”

She stormed back downstairs, hissing to Ryan, “She’s gone. Packed up and ran off like some fool!”

Ryan pressed a hand to his temple. “She’ll come crawling back when she realizes what she’s thrown away.”

But Ximara wasn’t coming back.

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The train station reeked of diesel and damp concrete. Flickering lights cast restless shadows as Ximara sat on a cold metal bench, clutching her duffel to her chest. She waited for the train that would carry her to New York—an escape she had dreamed of for years.

A prickling sensation crawled up her neck, like unseen eyes were on her. She scanned the platform: a half-asleep ticket clerk, a lone traveler buried in a newspaper. Just nerves, she told herself.

Her parents had carved at her self-worth for years, their words hammering until shame had settled deep in her chest. Her curves—her softness—had become their favorite weapon. A rare medical condition made losing weight dangerous, but they didn’t care. To them, she was unacceptable, a burden, a blemish.

They wanted her to shrink. She chose to live.

The train horn cut through the silence. Heart racing, she hurried aboard, sliding into a window seat. Pines and shadows blurred past as the train lurched forward, carrying her away from the house that had never been a home.

Her sketchbook sat heavy in her lap, a reminder that she wasn’t just running—she was chasing a future she had designed for herself.

For years, she had admired Arthur Vance, the world-famous racer whose posters had once plastered her walls. A silly crush, maybe, but he had been proof that passion could carve a path through any obstacle. She whispered a vow to herself: if she couldn’t have Arthur, she would build a life with his courage at its core.

As the rhythmic clatter of the train soothed her nerves, she leaned her head against the glass. For the first time in her life, the chains weren’t on her wrists.

They were behind her. Rusting. Forgotten.

And she would never wear them again.

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2. Safe Place

My hands trembled as I hovered near the doorbell, torn between pressing it and turning around. Would he accept me? I knew he loved me dearly, but he loved Mom more. What if he took her side? What if I had just traded one battlefield for another?

Taking a shaky breath, I finally mustered the courage to press the glowing button. The sound echoed faintly inside, followed by shuffling footsteps. My heart pounded as the lock clicked. When the door opened, relief flooded through me, unraveling the tension in my shoulders.

There he was—the one person who had never made me feel like too much or not enough.

“God, I missed you so much,” I breathed, throwing my arms around my grandfather, Alistair.

Alistair wasn’t just my paternal grandfather—he was my anchor, my secret ally. In his seventies, but still broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, he carried himself with the same confidence that must have defined his youth. Some people mistook him for my father,