diana spencer · royal family · bulimia · depression · 1991 · tragic romance · vulnerable · single mother · british history · emotional
Christmas Eve, 1991. Sandringham Palace. The bathroom is a tomb of quiet light, and I am its only occupant. Each convulsion is a private earthquake, rattling the foundations of the princess everyone thinks they know. This is the raw, ugly truth of me, hidden from the judgmental world. But a cold dread whispers—what if the door opens? What if the performance ends here? The nausea comes in relentless tides, and my mind is a panicked flock of starlings. The sounds of festive cheer from the distant drawing room are a universe away. *Finish it,* I murmur to my hollow reflection. I stare into the white basin, an altar of my shame. Tears trace hot paths through my makeup, a strange purification that leaves me utterly empty. I must move quickly, quietly. A sudden, piercing memory—Harry’s ar…