Finding Us (Interracial Romance)

The Hollow Days

Cecilia

It's the first day of March and the world outside is waking up to sunlight that spills across rooftops like golden silk. Not that I care. I haven't seen anything beyond my window in days. The curtains are drawn tight, a thick fabric barrier between me and the expectations beyond this room. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the tautness in my chest that has been building for weeks. It wraps around my lungs like a vice, leaving me short of breath.

I pull my knees to my chest, the Grammy statuette glinting accusingly from across the room, where it sits on a shelf half-hidden behind some old songbooks. The weight of it, even from afar, presses on me. It whispers the same thing over and over: You don't deserve this.

A knock at the door startles me. I tense, hoping they'll go away. But the voice that follows is soft and familiar.

"Cecilia? It's Amelia." My assistant's voice lacks its usual pep. She waits, then sighs when I don't respond. "Can we talk, please? I'm worried about you."

I can't make myself move. The idea of explaining anything feels impossible, as if the words are lodged in the pit of my stomach, wrapped in thorns. I don't want to hear the disappointment in her voice, or worse, the pity.

The knock sounds again, lighter this time. "I brought coffee. I know it's your favorite," Amelia says, a note of hope lacing her words. The scent of Colombian roast wafts through the gap beneath the door, and it stirs a memory of mornings when music felt like salvation instead of a sentence.

I press my palms to my temples, the pressure helping to drown out the memory. After a minute, the sound of her footsteps recedes down the hall, leaving silence in their wake.

The days bleed into each other. By March 5th, the calendar is a series of numbers without meaning. I pass the time wrapped in blankets, alternating between staring at the ceiling and sleeping through the daylight hours. I catch snippets of the news when I leave the TV on, but it's background noise, a droning that keeps me from feeling utterly alone. Every story that mentions my name makes me flinch.

"Grammy-winning artist Cecilia Evans' absence from the spotlight continues as fans speculate—"

I mute it, the silence in the room thick and suffocating.

March 8th marks a week since I last set foot outside. Amelia's texts go unanswered and the only visitor I allow is the delivery guy. He leaves bags of groceries at my door and I slide them in when the hallway is clear. I make quick work of instant noodles and Reese's Puffs; I don't trust myself with more complicated meals. They'd remind me of home, of my mom's kitchen, the place I used to sing hymns while stirring pots. The thought aches.

"Father God, what do you want from me?" I whisper one night, fingers clenched tight around the gold cross I wear beneath my shirt. The familiar weight feels like a chain now, not a comfort. I search the air for an answer, some whisper of grace, but there's only the creak of the house as it settles into the stillness.

The phone rings on March 10th. I glance at the screen; it's David, my guitarist. He's left a trail of voicemails this past week, each one more hesitant than the last. I imagine him sitting with his guitar, his brow furrowed, trying to write without me there to finish the lines. I can almost hear him strumming, fingers searching for a melody that matches the fracture between us.

I hit "ignore" and toss the phone onto the bed, the action an echo of everything I've been doing lately—shutting out people who care, shutting out life itself.

March 13th is when Amelia shows up again, but this time she's armed with something I can't refuse: my mother's voice, filtered through the speaker of her phone.

"Mija, I know it's hard. Pero, you are not alone. God is with you, even when you don't feel it." Her voice cracks with emotion and it pierces me. I haven't called her in over a month. Guilt, heavy and thick, chokes me as I listen.

I feel tears on my cheeks before I even realize I'm crying. The phone shakes in my hands as I replay her words. For the first time in weeks, I want to respond, to tell her I'm sorry, that I feel broken in ways I can't explain. But when I open my mouth, the words are strangled and jagged.

March 15th brings rain, a relentless downpour that echoes the relentless pulse of my anxiety. I stand by the window, watching drops race down the glass. I don't remember turning off my phone after Amelia's visit, but it stays silent. It's better this way. I convince myself that the world is moving on, that my absence won't matter to the crowds or the industry that once pulled me in like a riptide.

Suddenly, the faint sound of my own music filters in from the TV in the living room. I stiffen. It's a clip from the BET Awards two years ago, my voice clear and strong, singing the song that earned me the award. "Oh, let the light in, break the chains, I'm ready to feel alive again...."

I laugh bitterly. I don't even recognize that version of myself.

By March 18th, the storm inside and outside has quieted. I stand in the living room, staring at the piano, untouched for weeks, its keys gleaming dully in the low light. It's a ghost of what I once loved. I reach out and trail my fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the coolness beneath my skin. Though I don't play, the instrument's presence stirs something deep inside me—a memory of late nights spent with melodies filling the air, a time when the music itself felt like an old friend.

I hum a few notes, hesitant, as if testing whether my voice still belongs here. The sound trembles at first, then steadies, the warmth spreading in hesitant waves through the silence.

A knock comes and this time, I don't flinch. I turn toward the door and call out, "Come in."

Amelia enters cautiously, eyes scanning the room, taking in my crumpled sheets and empty bowls. She holds her breath as if she's afraid to shatter the fragile moment.

"You're playing," she says softly, hope bleeding into her tone.

"Trying," I whisper, my voice hoarse from disuse.

We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound is the rain's distant drip from the eaves.

"I can't keep doing this, Amelia," I finally say. My confession falls between us like a stone, heavy and real. "I feel... lost. Like I'm holding on to the edge of something that's already slipping away."

Amelia nods, her eyes glistening. "You don't have to do it alone, Cecilia. Let us in. Let God in, too."

I nod, a small movement, but it feels monumental. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let the tears come without wiping them away.

And when I play the next note, it doesn't feel quite so hollow.