The ceiling remains constant.
Each Sunday morning, Angela gazes up at it—the same chipped spot near the corner, the sluggish swirl of plaster resembling a slumbering face, the subtle water stain that looks like a map of nowhere. A place that doesn't exist. A place she could disappear to.
Her tiny hands rest in her lap, fingers softly curled inward. Her feet dangle above the church floor, not quite touching the ground. The sanctuary hums with voices—vocalizing, murmuring, supplicating—but none of them reach her. Not really.
In Angela's world, there exists a silence louder than any sermon.
She stares at the ceiling as if it's trying to whisper something to her, as if it holds a secret only she can understand. A portal, maybe. If she stares long enough, hard enough, maybe it will let her in.
"Angela."
A voice. Soft. Gentle. She blinks—the ceiling fades, like fog lifted by the sun.
"Angela." A hand touches her shoulder. It's her aunt, seated beside her, eyes concerned but restrained. Angela nods quickly and stands, brushing her skirt with trembling fingers.
As she walks to the front of the church, the ceiling stays behind, watching. Always watching.
A Couple of Years Ago…
"Angela!"
Her mother's voice shattered the stillness of the house, slicing through it like a whip. Angela didn't answer. She was upstairs, lying on her back, once again tracing invisible lines across the bedroom ceiling. Her safe place. Her only quiet.
"Angela!" Louder. Sharper. Full of the same rage that never needed a reason.
Angela jerked upright, heart pounding like a warning drum. She scrambled off the bed, bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor as she rushed downstairs.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, arms folded tightly, her mouth twisted with fury. A half-broken plate lay in the sink, dirty water still clinging to the edges.
"I've been calling you! Are you deaf?"
Angela paused. The irony stung.
Partially, yes. In one ear. But she couldn't say that.
"I—I didn't hear—" she mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor.
The slap came quick. She didn't cry. She had trained herself not to.
"Don't stand there acting like you're dumb. The dishes! Go and wash them! Or I'll give you something real to cry about!"
Angela turned to the sink, eyes glassy. The water was murky. The sponge smelled like mold. The silence inside her head was louder than anything her mother could scream
Behind her, her mother continued to mutter—about idleness, about unappreciative kids, about how nothing in the home functioned as it ought to. The TV hummed softly in the living room. Somewhere on the upper floor, a clock was ticking.
Her dad was not at home. Once more.
He was seldom.
He departed early and returned late. Occasionally, Angela would notice the garage door opening past midnight. His strides weighty. His voice was soft and weary. If he acknowledged her at all, it was with an unfocused nod. No embraces. No discussions.
The sole true indication of his presence was the scent of his cologne hanging in the corridor, along with the noise of business calls resonating through the walls.
Angela was aware that he didn't have feelings for her mother. Not in the manner that people discussed love in churches, literature, or films. Their union resembled two individuals living under the same roof but not truly sharing their lives. A contract lacking attention.
On most days, they hardly conversed. When they did, it was a fight.
And amidst them Angela.
Eleven years of age. Too tiny to be listened to. Exhausted to the point of silence.
The sponge fell from her grasp. The sink held a cracked plate. Not damaged, yet noisy.
Her mother turned around. "Do you see yourself?!"
Angela stood still.
Her mother lifted her hand once more, but hesitated. Her breath is labored.
"Clear those plates," she whispered. "Also, refrain from eating this evening."
Angela bit her lip and gave a nod. Her stomach churned, yet she continued scrubbing.
That evening, she sat by herself in her room, cocooned in a lightweight blanket. Her small notebook rested open next to her pillow—leaves filled with aspirations she never voiced.
Someday, I'll possess a space with a window and a bookcase. I will prepare my own meals and no one will yell. I will feel joyful. I will be available.
She didn't write anything new that night. Just stared at the ceiling.
The same ceiling as always.
But in her mind, she painted stars on it.