cracks in the ceiling

I wake before the alarm, like I always do. Sleep never stays with me—it slips away, leaving me staring at the ceiling above my bed. The cracks are spreading again, tiny veins splitting across the white paint. Sometimes I imagine they’re maps, leading somewhere else, somewhere far from here, where life isn’t so heavy and no one’s words can cut through you like knives.

The house is quiet, but it’s not peaceful. It’s the kind of silence that presses down on your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Somewhere in the kitchen, I hear Mom moving plates. The clatter is sharper than it needs to be—sharp enough to make me flinch. She’s always sharper with me. In the living room, Dad coughs—a rough, low sound that twists my stomach. I know what it means. He was drinking again last night, and I know what that can lead to: shouting, slurred words, sudden anger.

I hate nights. Nights are when I see his real face. Not the polite, smiling man everyone outside the house knows—but the man whose words can cut deeper than knives. The first time I saw him drunk, I was eleven. I remember hiding behind the curtain, holding my knees, watching him tear into Mom. His voice was loud, jagged, terrifying, and for the first time, I understood that fathers aren’t always protectors. Sometimes they are just people hiding behind promises and bottles.

It’s been years, but the memory never fades. Now, every time he walks into a room, my body flinches before he even speaks. My brother doesn’t help—he mocks me for everything, real or imagined. My sister avoids me like I’m some kind of disease. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible—or worse, if they all wish I didn’t exist. Even the walls seem heavy, leaning in as if they can sense my fear, my fragility, and my quiet longing for something better.

And yet, every morning, I wake with hope. Some foolish, fragile hope that maybe today will be different. Maybe Dad won’t drink. Maybe Mom will look at me without that sharp edge in her eyes. Maybe someone in this house will remember I exist—not as a problem, not as a burden, but as a person.

I drag myself to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. A plain girl looks back at me: tired eyes, pulled-back hair, shoulders sloping under some invisible weight. I trace the lines of my face, searching for something—anything—that could tell me I’m enough. I brush my teeth slowly, noticing the way the toothpaste foams and the minty taste fills my mouth, a small comfort in a world that rarely offers any.

I dress in my stiff school uniform and pack my bag, my movements mechanical. I take a deep breath and whisper anyway, just loud enough for me to hear:

“One day. One day it’ll be better.”

I step out into the hallway, listening to the faint creak of the floor beneath my feet. Maybe, somewhere beyond these cracked ceilings, a life waits for me that’s lighter, warmer, better. Maybe today will be the day it begins. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a sliver of happiness that isn’t stolen by fear or silence.

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