She knows, realistically, that there's nothing wrong with her. She knows that she's alright, that she doesn't have anything to complain about. She's lucky compared to others, her father says. She should be grateful.

Her father's the preacher. Their family are Christians, with Jesus statues in the hallway of their house and the cross on the wall above her bed. She hears the words her father preaches loud and clear. At times, she thinks her conscious has her father's voice. It's always that same deep timbre whispering in the back of head, like an omnipresent entity constantly watching over her, making her feel bad.

But she knows it's not true. She knows that the self-loathing and hatred she feels is all her own—no one notices but her, really. It's her Catholic guilt, her own cross to bear. The weight on her shoulders drags her down and makes it harder to get up everyday.

Rain hits her roof, droplets streaming down her window. The blinds are closed, only letting a slit of light into the otherwise dark room. It's early morning and the weather is dragging her down into her bed. She doesn't feel like getting up. She knows what the day ahead is going to be like. She feels hopeless, sinking into the overly warm home that was her bed.

She's curled up on her side, knees brought up to her chest and right arm stretched out in front of her. She's half asleep and silent, her breaths silent even to her ears. Her mind whirls at the early hour. Her fingers twitch, spread out. They're touching the wall, imagining there was someone on the other side looking for the same thing she was.

She's lucky to be alive, she realises, when she feels like she's barely holding on, merely existing. She's basically nothing. No one notices her, not even her parents. They only see what they want to see. If she isn't acting out or being extraordinary, her parents rarely acknowledge her. She's trapped in a limbo, wanting to be noticed but also wanting to continue the way she is.

It's not like she has any physical scars to show for it, to guarantee anyone's concern (oh, that would be nice). Her body is untarnished, smooth skin and untouched places she is to save for marriage. She's saving herself for a husband—a husband she doesn't want. She'll never tell her parents. No, she'd rather die than face their angry and disappointed gazes. How their third daughter, so innocent and previous, doesn't want a husband. In fact, she doesn't want a boyfriend either.

She just wants... someone.

Even in her head she can't admit it out loud.

She thinks it would be easy. To go through her entire life, ignoring that part of her that was so loud nowadays, that so badly wanted to be recognised. Instead, each day that passes, the bigger it grows. The urge to acknowledge it, to do something about it, gnaws at her heart each time it's ignored. It chips away pieces of her heart, tiny shard by shard.

Her hand comes to her chest. She feels her heart thumping and finally wakes up. She's alive. She's still alive and it still hurts.

She cries for a moment, letting the tears leave her eyes in obligation before wiping it off. She lies awake, staring at the dark ceiling where she can vaguely make out shapes. The glow in the dark stickers she and her childhood best friend put up there were still glowing bright. A lone star in the abyss of space.

She feels alone. She feels like that tiny, dying star about to explode. There'd be a supernova, she knows, but she doubts many people would attend. Was she talking about the supernova or the funeral she keeps imagining? Her eyes gaze at the star and she wonders when she's going to blow up, when the secret inside her starts to kill her. She can't do what she wants though, she can't do what's best for her. It's impossible. Instead she'll let herself die.

Above her bed, she sees Jesus looking down at her from his cross. He died for their sins. She stares up at him before the guilt caught up to her. She wishes things were different.