Stars Inside Her Chest

The house was never loud in the mornings. Not the peaceful kind of quiet people wrote poems about or posted online with soft sunlight pouring through windows. This silence felt different. It was thick. Heavy. Like the walls themselves had memorized every argument, every slammed door, every cruel sentence that had ever been spoken inside them. The kind of silence that didn’t comfort you. The kind that watched you. Lea sat at the corner of the dining table, shoulders slightly hunched, staring blankly at the fried egg resting on her plate. The edges had already turned rubbery, and the yolk, once bright and warm, now looked pale beneath the kitchen light. Across from her, her mother moved around the kitchen with restless irritation. Cabinet doors opened too hard. Plates touched the counter with sharp clinks. Every movement sounded louder than necessary, like anger disguised as routine. "Are you going to eat that or just stare at it all morning?" her mother asked without looking at her. Lea blinked quickly, pulled out of her thoughts. "I'm eating." "Well, hurry up. You're always so slow." The words were casual. Almost careless. But somehow they still hurt. Lea lowered her head immediately and picked up her spoon, forcing herself to swallow even though her stomach already felt tight. Above them, the old clock hanging near the kitchen doorway continued ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound echoed strangely in the quiet house. Sometimes Lea hated that clock more than anything else in the room. It reminded her how long silence could stretch between two people who were supposed to love each other. Her mother finally sat down with a cup of coffee in hand, scrolling through her phone while occasionally sighing at something on the screen. Not once did she glance toward her daughter. Lea stared down at her plate again. She wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe about school. Maybe about the art assignment she stayed awake finishing until almost two in the morning. Maybe about the drawing teacher who told her she had talent. Or maybe just something simple. Good morning. But experience had already taught her how those moments usually ended. Ignored. Interrupted. Corrected. Criticized. So instead, she stayed quiet. Again. Outside, the neighborhood slowly woke up. The sound of motorbikes passed through the open window. Someone nearby blasted old music from a speaker. Children laughed loudly while walking to school together. Lea listened carefully to those sounds. Other people's lives always sounded warmer somehow. "You left the laundry hanging inside all night," her mother suddenly said. Lea looked up slightly. "Sorry. I forgot." "You forget everything lately." "I said sorry." Her mother sighed dramatically and set down her coffee cup harder than necessary. "Sorry doesn't fix anything, Lea." The sentence landed heavier than it should have. Or maybe it only hurt because Lea had heard it too many times before. Sorry doesn't fix anything. Sorry isn't enough. You always make things difficult. Little by little, those words had built a home inside her mind. Lea stared down at her untouched breakfast, her appetite disappearing completely. At fourteen years old, she had already mastered the art of becoming invisible. She walked softly. Spoke softly. Laughed softly. Even cried softly. Like if she became small enough, quiet enough, careful enough, maybe she would stop feeling like a burden people had to tolerate. The ride to school was the only part of the day she almost liked. Almost. She sat beside the bus window with her headphones on, though no music played through them. People usually avoided talking to someone wearing headphones, and Lea preferred it that way. Outside, the city moved around her in blurry motion. Street vendors arranging food carts. Students running late. Rain puddles left from the night before reflecting dull gray skies. Lea rested her forehead lightly against the cool glass. People always said home was supposed to feel safe. She never understood that sentence. To her, home meant tension hidden behind walls too thin to contain it. It meant unfinished arguments hanging in the air for days. Cold dinners eaten in silence. Exhausted sighs. Sharp words spoken like habits. And a mother who looked permanently disappointed by the existence of her own daughter. By the time Lea arrived at school, she already felt tired. Not physically. The deeper kind of tired. The kind sleep never fixed. At school, Lea blended easily into the background. Teachers rarely called on her. Classmates knew her name but not much else. She became good at shrinking herself into corners where nobody paid attention long enough to ask questions. Nobody noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes. Nobody noticed how she flinched whenever someone raised their voice unexpectedly. Nobody noticed how quiet she became whenever conversations turned toward family. And honestly, Lea preferred it that way. Attention felt dangerous. During lunch break, she sat beneath the staircase near the back hallway where fewer students passed by. Her notebook rested open on her knees while cafeteria noise echoed faintly through the building. Instead of writing notes, she drew. Her pencil moved slowly across the page. A small sketch of a girl sitting inside a house with no windows. No doors. No sunlight. Only shadows stretching endlessly across the floor. Lea stared at the drawing quietly after finishing it. Sometimes she wondered if sadness could become a place someone lived inside for too long. "You're really good at that." Lea startled violently and shut the notebook almost immediately. A girl from her class stood nearby holding a juice box and smiling awkwardly. "Oh... it's nothing," Lea mumbled quickly. The girl tilted her head slightly. "No, seriously. That looked amazing." Lea didn’t know how to respond to compliments. They always made her uncomfortable, like someone had accidentally noticed something they weren’t supposed to see. Before the girl could continue, the school bell rang loudly through the hallway. Students immediately began rushing back toward classrooms. The girl gave Lea one last small smile before walking away with the crowd. Lea remained seated beneath the staircase for several more seconds. Her fingers rested against the closed notebook. Sometimes she wondered what it felt like to truly be seen. Not looked at. Not examined. Not judged. Seen. Like someone noticed the sadness inside you and didn’t immediately turn away from it. The rain started heavily near the end of the school day. By the time Lea reached home, her shoes were soaked through and her uniform clung uncomfortably against her skin. Water dripped from strands of hair onto the floor as she stepped quietly inside the house. The television was already on. Her mother sat on the couch watching a drama series with crossed arms. "You're late," she said immediately. Lea tightened her grip on her backpack strap. "It rained." "You could've walked faster." The response came so naturally that for a second, Lea almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because suddenly she realized how impossible everything felt. Nothing she did would ever be enough. Not fast enough. Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not lovable enough. She stood frozen near the doorway while rainwater gathered beneath her shoes. "I'll clean the floor," she whispered quietly. "You should." Lea nodded once and walked toward the bathroom to grab the mop. As she passed the living room mirror, her reflection caught her attention for only a second. Messy wet hair. Tired eyes. A face still far too young to carry that much sadness. She looked away quickly. That night, after finishing her homework alone in her bedroom, Lea opened her notebook again beneath the dim yellow light of her desk lamp. Rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. The house remained silent. Carefully, she turned toward a blank page and began sketching once more. This time, she drew a small house surrounded by snow. No lights glowing through the windows. No warmth. No smoke rising from the chimney. Only coldness. And instead of placing the girl inside the house this time, Lea drew her standing outside of it completely. Alone. Looking in. As if she didn’t belong there anymore. Lea stared at the drawing for a long time after finishing. Then slowly, beneath the sketch, she wrote a single sentence in tiny careful handwriting. Maybe cold things were never meant to love properly.