Finding Us (Interracial Romance)

Breaking Point: A Crisis of Faith

Cecilia

The sunlight filters weakly through the curtains in my apartment, casting long shadows across the room. I sit cross-legged on the couch, my laptop balanced on my knees, as I mindlessly scroll through YouTube. The algorithms are relentless. One video leads to another until I'm deep in the rabbit hole, watching a video that claims the Grammy's have always been satanic. I almost laugh it off, almost dismiss it, but then... something inside me pulls. It's this sinking feeling, like my heart is being twisted into knots.

The words from the video echo in my mind.

"The music industry is a gateway to darkness, a subtle indoctrination into satanic practices."

I freeze. My fingers hover above the keyboard, unable to press pause. I want to look away, to close the laptop, but I can't. My throat tightens, and suddenly, it feels like the room has shrunk. The weight of the air presses against my chest. I just won a Grammy two weeks ago, for Flowers, an album that was born from my soul. And now, this.

"Look at the performances," the voice in the video continues, its tone dripping with certainty. "Open your eyes to the symbols, the rituals. It's all there, hiding in plain sight."

My head falls back against the couch, my hands trembling slightly. I've heard these conspiracies before, whispers in the wind, but this time it feels personal. This time, it feels like it's directed at me. I think of the ceremony, the lights, the stage, the smiles. Everything felt so surreal that night. I'd never dreamed of winning a Grammy—especially not an independent artist like me. The crowd's applause, the recognition, all of it was so overwhelming... but now I feel dirty.

"What am I doing?" I whisper, the words falling into the silence like stones into a deep well. "What have I gotten myself into?"

I know I'm spiraling. I've seen the signs of it before. This heavy sadness, this feeling of being so alone in the world, even when I'm surrounded by people. It's a familiar darkness, creeping in at the edges, ready to swallow me whole. But this... this is different. This is a crisis of faith. A war inside my soul.

I try to shake it off, to remind myself of my intentions. Flowers wasn't about fame or accolades. It was about healing. It was about love. I dedicated that album to my great-grandmother. She would never think this world was satanic. She always said my voice was a gift from God, a blessing. But now, even that feels tainted.

I close the laptop abruptly, my breathing shallow. I feel sick. I press my hands to my face, the coolness of my palms grounding me, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough right now. I need to make this stop. I need to feel whole again.

It's like someone pressed rewind on a VCR. My career flashes by in grainy frames, whirring backward through memories. There I am on stage at the Grammy Awards, gripping the golden gramophone, my name still echoing in my ears as I hold back tears. Best Independent Album— Flowers. I hear the applause, the cheers that sound so distant now, like they're coming from another life. My smile feels frozen in time. I'm holding that golden gramophone in my hand, but my heart is already heavy. The high should've lasted, right? But it didn't. And now, here I am, telling the world I'm done—for now.

The memory skips like a worn-out VCR, rewinding faster and faster.

I'm at the BET Awards, accepting Best New Artist. Then at the American Music Awards, where faces blur past, congratulatory handshakes and flashes of camera lights. I see the moment my name was called for Best New Artist at the NAACP Awards—my knees nearly buckling as I walked up to the stage. Winning not only for my music but also for portraying Evelyn Torres in Voices In the Skyline felt like a dream within a dream.