Saturday mornings were supposed to feel easy. For Racheal, they felt heavier than weekdays. The house was louder—siblings bickering over the television, her father's voice booming as he read the newspaper, her mother moving back and forth in the kitchen. Everyone had a place in the chaos. Everyone except her.
She sat on the edge of the living room couch, trying not to take up too much space. Her younger brother shoved past her without a glance. Her older sister muttered, "Move, Rach, you're blocking the view," as if Racheal were invisible furniture.
She stood quickly, clutching her phone to her chest though she hadn't received a message in days. The only notifications she got were spam emails. Not even Melissa has texted me this week.
Her father's eyes landed on her for a brief moment. That familiar look flickered across his face—disgust, disappointment. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. The silence was enough. She dropped her gaze to the carpet, heat creeping up her neck.
"I'm going out," her older brother announced, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. Instantly, the room shifted. Their mother asked where he was going, her father offered him money for gas, her sisters begged to tag along. The room buzzed with energy.
No one asked Racheal if she wanted to go. No one ever did.
She slipped quietly into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. The faint smell of laundry detergent lingered in the air. She sat on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the pile of clothes she still hadn't folded.
Her chest tightened. The weight of everything—every look, every rejection, every laugh that wasn't shared with her—pressed down until she could hardly breathe.
She grabbed her journal from under her pillow. The pages were filled with words she never dared to say aloud: I'm tired. I want to disappear. I wish someone would notice me. I wish I mattered.
Her pen hovered as tears blurred her vision. For the first time, she scribbled the words she was most afraid of: Maybe I don't deserve love.
She slammed the journal shut, pressing it to her chest as if to suffocate the thought. "Stop it," she whispered to herself. "You're fine. You're fine." But her voice cracked, betraying her.
The hours dragged. She scrolled through social media, watching as Melissa and the others posted selfies at a party. No one had invited her. The comments overflowed with laughter and inside jokes she wasn't part of. Her thumb trembled as she double-tapped the post, leaving a small red heart. She knew they wouldn't notice.
By evening, her siblings returned, buzzing with stories. Racheal sat at the dinner table, listening quietly, her smile plastered on like always.
"You should've seen Jason trying to dance," one of her sisters said with a laugh. Everyone roared with amusement.
Racheal's fork froze halfway to her mouth. Jason. Her Jason. He had been at the party too. Probably laughing, probably happy, probably not even realizing she hadn't been there.
Her chest ached. The walls of her daydreams crumbled a little. For the first time, she couldn't even retreat into fantasy. Reality felt louder, sharper.
Later that night, lying in bed, she whispered into the dark: "I don't want to do this anymore." The words terrified her, but they spilled out anyway.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, rocking herself gently like a child. Deep down, a small flicker of hope still lived—a voice that said maybe one day. But tonight, it was buried beneath the crushing weight of rejection.
Her last thought before sleep took her was a desperate wish: Please, let someone see me. Just once.