The clatter of cutlery and the sound of laughter filled the small dining room, but for Racheal, the noise was just another reminder of where she stood—or rather, where she didn't. She sat at the far end of the table, a half-eaten piece of bread in her hand. Her brothers and sisters joked among themselves, their voices weaving into a melody of belonging that didn't include her.
"Pass the butter," one of her brothers said, and the dish slid across the table—but no one thought to pass anything to Racheal. She reached over silently, her cheeks heating as her sister rolled her eyes at the sight of her stretching.
Their father's gaze swept over the table, sharp and calculating. For a brief second, his eyes locked on Racheal. There it was again—that look. Disgust. His lip curled almost imperceptibly, but she caught it. She always caught it. She lowered her eyes quickly, pretending to be busy with her bread. Her chest tightened, but she forced her lips into a smile.
"Dad, guess what happened in class today!" her younger sister blurted out, her voice bright. Their father's face softened instantly as he leaned toward her, listening with interest. Racheal swallowed hard, her throat dry. No one ever asked about her day. She could have vanished from the table and not a soul would have noticed.
She laughed quietly at a joke one of her brothers made, but no one looked her way. No one cared that she was laughing. To them, her voice was background noise. Unnecessary. Forgettable.
By the time dinner ended, Racheal's smile felt like a mask she couldn't peel off. She excused herself softly, but her words were drowned out by the chatter. She slipped away like a ghost, unnoticed.
---
Later that night, Racheal lay on the narrow bed she shared with her older sister, staring at the cracked ceiling. The room smelled faintly of detergent and dust, the air heavy and still. Her sister was already asleep, her steady breathing filling the silence.
Racheal closed her eyes. In her mind, the walls around her melted away. She was no longer in this cramped house where no one saw her. In her imagination, she walked across a stage in a glittering gown, cameras flashing, people chanting her name. Men turned their heads when she entered a room. Her father's eyes were full of pride, not disgust. Her siblings clung to her words, desperate for her attention.
She let the fantasy wash over her until her lips curved into a genuine smile, the kind she never showed anyone. Here, in her mind, she was everything she wanted to be—beautiful, rich, desired, loved.
But when she opened her eyes again, reality pressed down like a weight. The cracked ceiling was still above her, the ache in her chest still sharp. She turned onto her side, facing the wall, and whispered into the darkness:
"Maybe someday… maybe someone will see me."
Her voice cracked, but she forced the smile back onto her face, even though no one was watching. Because that's what she did. She smiled through the pain, through the rejection, through the emptiness.
It was all she had.