Nobody Knows

Chapter 5: Between Hymns

Sunday mornings always felt heavier than the rest of the week.

Not just emotionally.

Physically.

I woke to the soft sound of dishes clinking downstairs and the faint smell of coffee drifting up through the floorboards. My eyes opened, but my body did not follow.

For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

My limbs felt slow. Not sore. Not aching. Just… weighted. Like my muscles had decided to resist gravity instead of cooperate with it.

I shifted slightly.

A dull pressure sat low in my abdomen. Not pain. Just awareness. Subtle, unfamiliar. I pressed my palm lightly against my stomach, waiting for something sharper.

Nothing came.

Just heaviness.

I sat up slowly. The room tilted for half a second before steadying again. I blinked, exhaled, and told myself it was nothing.

Late night.

Not enough sleep.

Too much thinking.

That was all.

A knock came at the door.

“Sam,” my mother called, her voice calm but firm. “We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

“I’m up,” I replied, though I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for my body to catch up with me.

“You stayed up studying again?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of her footsteps moving away.

I stood and walked toward the mirror.

My reflection looked normal.

Neat.

Controlled.

Unbothered.

Only I knew how slow my movements felt. How every small action required a little more effort than usual.

I brushed my hair back and watched myself carefully.

Nothing looked wrong.

So nothing was wrong.

I dressed in my usual Sunday uniform. A modest dress that fell below my knees. Soft fabric. Neutral tone. My hair tied back tightly, no loose strands.

The version of me that required no explanation.

As I reached for the door, the dull heaviness returned for a brief second.

I paused.

Waited.

It faded again.

See.

Nothing.

Church always smelled the same.

Polished wood. Old hymn books. A faint trace of perfume and pressed clothes.

Everything clean. Everything orderly.

We slid into our usual row. My mother smoothed her skirt before sitting. My father adjusted his watch. I folded my hands automatically.

Around me, people smiled in recognition.

“Good morning, Sam.”

“You look lovely today.”

“Such a respectful young lady.”

I returned every smile with the correct version of gratitude. Small nod. Soft voice. Controlled eye contact.

I knew the choreography.

The pastor began speaking, his tone steady and practiced.

He talked about discipline.

About resisting temptation.

About guarding one’s character in a world that had lost its values.

The words drifted through the air like something rehearsed.

“Young people today,” he said, “are easily led astray. They mistake freedom for recklessness. They think consequences will never find them.”

Soft murmurs of agreement rippled through the pews.

My mother nodded.

My father hummed quietly in approval.

I kept my expression neutral.

Temptation.

Recklessness.

Consequences.

The words should have made me uncomfortable.

Instead, they made me aware of how easily everyone separated themselves from the problem.

As if temptation belonged to someone else.

As if mistakes happened only to other families.

Other daughters.

The pastor continued, “True character is what you do when no one is watching.”

That line almost made me smile.

If only they knew how true that was.

Around me, heads bowed in silent agreement. Hands folded tighter. Eyes closed in prayer.

I bowed mine too.

Not in guilt.

Not in confession.

Just performance.

Because this version of me was the one they trusted.

The one who would never give them reason to whisper.

When the final hymn began, voices rose together, unified and clean.

I sang softly.

On key.

On cue.

And wondered how many of us were pretending.

We hadn’t even finished greeting everyone outside the church when my aunt appeared, waving like she had spotted something valuable in a crowd.

“There you are,” she said brightly, pulling me into a hug before I could step back. “My favorite niece.”

I smiled automatically. “Hi, Aunt Dhel.”

My cousin stood beside her, posture straight, hands clasped politely in front of her. Perfect.

“We thought we’d drop by for lunch,” my aunt continued. “It’s been too long.”

My mother lit up immediately. “Of course. You should.”

Lunch felt louder than usual.

Not chaotic.

Just full.

My aunt talked the most. She always did. And every story somehow circled back to her daughter.

“She’s been waking up at five every morning,” my aunt said proudly as she reached for more rice. “Very disciplined. She says routine builds character.”

My cousin laughed softly. “Mom, stop.”

“No, it’s true,” she insisted. “She plans her whole week ahead. No wasted time. No unnecessary distractions.”

My father nodded approvingly. “That’s rare.”

“And she doesn’t stay out late,” my aunt added casually. “She knows how important reputation is. Especially for girls.”

The word reputation hung in the air.

My mother smiled. “That’s admirable.”

“She’s careful,” my aunt continued. “I never worry about her. I know exactly where she is at night.”

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Careful.

“I always tell her,” my aunt went on, “protect your future. One mistake can follow you forever.”

My cousin lowered her eyes modestly.

My father cleared his throat. “That’s wise advice.”

“And she’s very focused,” my aunt added warmly. “No silly relationships. No unnecessary drama. She knows her priorities.”

The room felt smaller.

My mother turned to me with a proud expression. “Sam is like that too. Very well-behaved.”

“She’s never given us problems,” my father said. “Always responsible.”

I felt their confidence settle over me like a borrowed coat.

Too tight.

Too warm.

If they knew.

If they knew how carefully I climbed through my window.

If they knew how easily I let strangers touch me.

My aunt looked at me again. “You two are so similar,” she said. “Quiet. Composed. Not like other girls.”

Not like other girls.

I swallowed.

My cousin began talking about her internship plans. Her future. Her schedule. Everyone listened with admiration that felt earned.

I answered when spoken to. Short sentences. Safe smiles.

Every compliment landed like another brick being stacked around me.

Responsible.

Disciplined.

Careful.

Reliable.

Each word made my chest feel tighter.

After lunch, my aunt hugged me again. “You’re doing great. Keep it up.”

Keep it up.

As if this was a performance I could drop at any moment.

As if they would not notice the difference.

When they finally left, the house felt quieter.

But the weight did not.

After the house settled into its usual post-guest quiet, I slipped outside for air.

The afternoon sun had softened, the light warm but no longer sharp. The backyard felt smaller than it used to, like even open space had limits.

I leaned against the low fence and inhaled slowly.

The heaviness from earlier hovered faintly in my body. Not strong enough to alarm me. Just present enough to notice.

Across the yard, Mr. Reyes was tending to his garden.

“Hey, Sam,” he called, straightening up with a small wave. “Enjoying the day?”

“Trying to,” I replied with a polite smile.

He chuckled. “Your mom told us your aunt visited. Busy house, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded, pulling a small weed from the soil. “My daughter mentioned you again the other day. Said you’re one of the smartest in class.”

I shifted slightly. “She’s exaggerating.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he said. “You’re always focused. Always polite.”

Polite.

Another word that felt heavier than it should have.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” he added. “Not many kids your age do.”

I smiled softly. “Thank you.”

He leaned on his rake and studied me briefly, not in a suspicious way. Just observant.

“You’re quiet,” he said. “But you notice things.”

I hesitated.

“I do,” I admitted.

He nodded as if that confirmed something. “That’s a good trait. Means you think before you act.”

If only that were always true.

The breeze moved lightly through the yard, brushing against my dress. Everything looked peaceful. Ordinary.

And I wondered how easy it was to appear steady on the outside while feeling split down the middle.

“Tell your daughter I said hi,” I said.

“I will.”

I stayed there a few minutes longer after he went back to his plants.

The sunlight felt warm on my skin. Grounding.

From a distance, this life looked simple.

Predictable.

Safe.

I pressed my hand lightly against my lower stomach again without thinking. The heaviness lingered for a second, then faded.

Probably nothing.

Too much stress.

Too many late nights.

I exhaled slowly and went back inside before the calm could turn into something else.

By evening, the house had returned to its usual rhythm.

The television murmured downstairs. Dishes clinked softly in the sink. My parents spoke in low, steady tones about schedules and the week ahead.

Normal.

Predictable.

I lay on my bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling again.

The day had been ordinary.

Church.

Lunch.

Polite smiles.

Careful conversations.

Nothing unusual.

And yet, my body still felt slightly unfamiliar.

Not painful.

Not alarming.

Just… present.

Like I was more aware of myself than I wanted to be.

I shifted onto my side and pulled the blanket closer.

Maybe I was just tired.

Maybe I had been pushing myself too much.

Maybe this was what it felt like to slow down.

I closed my eyes and listened to the house breathe.

The fan hummed softly above me. A car passed outside. Somewhere downstairs, my mother laughed quietly at something on television.

Everything was steady.

Stable.

Exactly how my life was supposed to be.

And yet, beneath that steadiness, something waited.

Not loud enough to name.

Not strong enough to demand attention.

Just there.

I pressed my palm lightly against my stomach again, almost absentmindedly.

The heaviness flickered.

Then disappeared.

I let my hand fall back to the mattress.

Nothing.

I was overthinking.

I turned onto my back and stared into the dark.

The silence stretched, longer than usual.

And for reasons I could not explain, it did not feel comforting.