Finding Us (Christian Interracial Romance)

A Fault Line Beneath the Spotlight

Cecilia

I sit cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, sunlight streaming through the window and warming the wooden boards beneath me. My Bible rests in my lap, open to the Psalms, but my eyes aren't focused on the words. My gaze drifts to the corner of my room, where my gold Grammy award gleams on a high shelf since I brought it home in a month ago.

One month. Has it really only been that long?

It feels like another life when I was standing on that stage, holding that statue in my hand, and thanking God for the journey. I'd achieved everything I dreamed of as a little girl in Los Angeles, singing to my reflection in a hairbrush. From the outside, I was on top of the world. But inside, I felt like I was standing on a fault line, the ground shifting under me as I tried to hold on.

Now, here I am, sitting in the quiet of my apartment, the career I once fought so hard for in my rear-view mirror. The decision to walk away wasn't easy, but it was necessary.

I take a deep breath and close my Bible, running my fingers over the leather cover. This morning, like so many others lately, has been spent in prayer and reflection. I feel peace, but at the same time, questions linger in the back of my mind like shadows. What's next? What's God calling me to do now?

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, breaking the silence. I glance at the screen. Another email from my manager, Bryce.

"Cecilia, are you sure you don't want to reconsider the Coachella Festival offer before the Soul for Us Music Festival? Two shows, minimal travel, and the money is—"

I close the email without finishing it. Bryce means well, but he doesn't understand. He keeps telling me this is my moment, that I shouldn't throw it all away. But how can I explain to him what I've seen, what I've felt?

It started with small things—a lyric here, an image there—that didn't sit right in my spirit. Then there were the conversations behind closed doors, the stories I heard, the pressure to conform, to do things that went against my values.

I tried to rationalize it at first. I told myself it was just the price of success, that every industry had its flaws. But the more I climbed while I'm confined to my work and home, the darker it got. And the more I prayed, the clearer it became: I couldn't stay.

Even Beyoncé, the woman I idolized growing up, felt like a revelation I didn't want to face. Her music shaped my childhood and teenage years, her performances inspired me to dream bigger, but now... now I see something else. Something deeper. The symbolism, the messaging—it all feels off, like a veil was lifted from my eyes.

I shake my head and stand, pacing the small space of my apartment. Walking helps me think, helps me sort through the noise in my mind.

My phone buzzes again and this time it's a text message. I glance at the screen, expecting another follow-up from Bryce, but it's not him.

Jeremy: Hey, Cecilia! Hope you're doing well. Athena and I are having a small birthday thing on our birthday. Would love for you to come. No pressure or anything, just let me know.

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Jeremy and Athena. The Miller twins have been a constant in my life since we were in our mothers' wombs, a rare source of genuine friendship in a world that often felt transactional. Jeremy's steady optimism and Athena's sharp wit always made me feel grounded, even when everything else was spinning out of control.

I sit back down on the couch and type a response.

Me: Hey, Jeremy! Thanks for the invite. I'll check my schedule, but I'd love to see you both. How's everything?

Almost immediately, the three dots appear and then his reply comes through.

Jeremy: We're good! Athena's been doing her thing, you know, chasing after Annaliese in the backyard. I'm just trying to keep up. Let us know—we'd love to see you.

I set the phone down and lean back, my smile fading slightly as I stare at the ceiling. It would be good to see them, but I wonder if they'll notice the difference in me. I wonder if I'll have the courage to share everything I've been feeling, everything I've been learning.

The industry didn't just show me its darkness; it also showed me how easy it is to lose yourself. I don't want to be that person anymore—the one chasing applause, chasing validation. I want to be someone who chases God.

But what does that look like?

My thoughts drift back to my Grammy speech. I kept it short, thanking God, my family, my friends, and my fans. What I didn't say was that winning felt hollow. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being rewarded for something I didn't even recognize as mine anymore after witnessing such a frightening sight I can't get past my mind.

I stand and walk to the shelf where the Grammy sits. For a moment, I consider putting it in a drawer, out of sight. But no—it's part of my journey, a reminder of where I've been. It doesn't define me, but it's a chapter in my story.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it's my mom.

"Hola, Mami," I answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear.

"Hola, my love. ¿Cómo estás?"

I smile at the sound of her voice. "I'm okay. Just... thinking."

She doesn't press. She knows me too well for that. "How are you doing today? We're worried about you."

"I'm fine, Mami. Just trying to figure things out."

There's a pause and I can picture her sitting at the kitchen table, probably peeling an orange or flipping through the latest issue of a magazine. "Dios tiene un plan, honey. Sometimes we don't see it right away, but He's definitely working. Remember that."

"I know, Mami. Thank you."

We talk a little longer, mostly about family, Jeremy and Athena's small birthday, and the latest church events, before I hang up. Her words linger in my mind: God has a plan.

I return to the couch and pick up my Bible again, flipping through its pages until I land on Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

The words bring a sense of comfort, but they also challenge me. Am I trusting God enough to step into the unknown? To let go of the security of what I've built and embrace something new?

My phone buzzes again and for a split second, I expect another email or text urging me to perform, to come back. But it's Jeremy again.

Jeremy: By the way, Athena says she's making you sing "Happy Birthday" at the party. No excuses. 😂

I laugh softly, shaking my head. Singing used to feel like second nature, like breathing. Now, the idea of performing—even something as simple as "Happy Birthday"—feels weighty, like there's more at stake.

Still, I can't help but smile at the thought of celebrating with them. Maybe it's exactly what I need—a reminder of what real connection looks like, of what it means to share a moment without an agenda or expectation.

I type a quick reply:

Me: Tell Athena I make no promises. But I'll see you on the 22nd.

As I hit send, I feel a small sense of relief. Maybe this is the first step toward something new. Maybe God is leading me back to the simplicity of why I started singing in the first place—not for awards or fame, but to touch hearts, to share truth, to glorify Him.

I close my Bible again, this time with a sense of clarity. Whatever comes next, I'm ready to follow where God leads. I don't need the spotlight to shine. I just need His light to guide me.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll sing again. But this time, it will be on my terms—and His.