Center Stage

TWO

The bell rang again, and students flooded out like a prison break.

I packed my torn books into my backpack slowly and carefully, pretending the noise didn’t bother me. Pretending the whispers didn’t sting.

"Orphan girl."

"Attitude bigger than her wallet."

"Ugly pride."

I heard it all. I always did. And no matter how much I wouldn't let it show, It always hurt.

I pulled the zipper shut too hard and it jammed halfway. Perfect.

I slung the half-open bag over my shoulder and shoved through the hallway, head high, heart low.

They stared at me — not with admiration, not with awe — but with that same twisted pity and resentment that I hated them for.

I hated myself more for still wanting them to see me differently. I hated that dark corner of my heart that craved the love and attention they showed people like Alia.

In the cracked mirror by the girl’s bathroom, I caught my own reflection —

The blouse was too small, and the shoes were nearly talking at the seams.

I stared at myself.

"You’re nothing," I whispered, voice dead flat. "Nothing but a punching bag that punches back" My voice came back to me cold, repulsed by what I saw in the mirror.

My dark brown hair was in a mess of a bun and there was lipgloss on my lips. I never dressed up for school but I felt experimental today. I wanted to know if people would treat me differently if I looked somewhat different.

So much for that idea

I yanked my gaze away and walked on, face carved from stone, lungs burning. Slowly wiping off the lipgloss on my already pink lips.

I didn’t need it.

I didn’t need anything or anyone.

If I had to carve my own name into the world with bloody fingers, so be it.

I'd make them look. I'd make them regret not seeing me when they had the chance.

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The detention room was cold and smelled like mold and old regrets.

I sat alone, tapping a cracked pencil against the desk, biting back every ugly thing still clawing at my throat.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to fight.

Instead...

I started humming.

Soft at first, broken even to my own ears.

"When the oceans rise and thunders roar..."

"I will soar with you above the storm..."

My voice cracked mid-lyric. I clenched my fists, ready to fall silent—

but then something strange happened.

Another voice joined in.

Soft. Shaky.

A girl — slim, caramel-skinned, sitting two rows ahead.

Then a boy's voice layered beneath hers — warm, rough, steady.

Three broken kids, harmonizing inside a forgotten classroom.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel invisible. The sounds were interwoven so beautifully that I cracked a smile in the middle.

I felt... seen.

We finished the verse in raw, imperfect unity.

No applause, No fake smiles.

Just three lonely voices clinging together against the dark.

For a moment, that was enough for me.

Maybe for the first time,

hope didn't feel like a joke.

"Find rest, my soul..."

"In Christ alone..."

"Know... His power..."

"In quietness and trust."

The last note trembled into silence.

We sat there, breathing in the rawness of it.

The girl — tiny, caramel-skinned, with wild brown curls and a bright pink hoodie — turned around, smiling shyly.

"That was... nice," she whispered, voice uncertain.

I stared at her, my face blank.

"It didn't happen," I said flatly.

The words were sharper than I meant it to be, but I didn’t care.

She flinched slightly, then turned back around, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie. She looked like someone who shouldn't be in detention at all.

The boy — dark-skinned, with neatly plaited cornrows and hazel eyes, sharp but kind — just leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers against the desk.

He didn't try to speak to me.

Good. I thought.

The less effort put in by any of them, the better.

I sank deeper into my chair, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

No friends.

No weaknesses.

No pity.

That was the rule.

Detention went by without either of us saying a word to each other again. There was lingering tension in the air, but it seemed like we were all trying to ignore it desperately.

Mr. Dermont walked in later and gave us our detention assignments and after that, we all headed our separate ways. I left first without looking back.

The stairs creaked as I climbed up to my room — if you could call it that. The orphanage was a large, two-story building. Each room was as tiny as a closet but there were more than a hundred of them. To allow room for as many of them as we can. The only thing that took up a lot of space was the parish downstairs.

I opened the door to find the same sight I had grown to know as home. A sagging twin bed, A cracked window, peeling blue walls someone once tried to paint cheerful.

Home sweet home.

I kicked my shoes off and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I hated this life. Hated how small I felt inside it. I pressed my palms against my eyes until colors danced behind my lids.

"You don't make fun of people...especially people like her."

Mr. Dermont's voice echoed like poison in my ears.

People like me.

The anger boiled up fast, like always. But tonight, it didn’t go anywhere. It just sat there, thick and sour, weighing me down until I couldn’t move.

I didn’t want their pity.

But God... Some nights, I couldn’t stand how lonely it felt to be invisible.

I thought about the detention room today.

The way our voices had tangled together, imperfect but powerful.

For a moment, it had felt like I wasn't carrying it all alone. I usually sing to let go of stress and to calm my nerves but at that point, I felt like I had taken my burdens and intertwined them with theirs. Not necessarily alleviating, just relieving.

I hated that feeling almost as much as I craved it. I rolled onto my side, pulling my blanket over my head.

Suffocating myself in silence.