The Ceiling

You trained in a room with no mirrors, until your body became one— reflecting only what was demanded, never what was yours. They praised the height of your kick, the symmetry of your stance, the discipline in your breath. As if excellence were evidence. You mistook expectation for love. Silence for testing. The locked door for a trial. You thought: work harder. You thought: be sharper. You thought: if I become undeniable they will have no choice. Your stance was corrected a fraction inward. Not for balance, but for a horizon He kept glancing toward. When the prophecy was near, the praise sharpened. His hand stayed longer, steadying something within Himself. The room was arranged before you entered. The audition had already been scored. There is a particular cruelty in being told you are destined and then shown the ceiling. Not rejection: reassignment. Not contempt—containment. You were not discarded for weakness. You were narrowed for magnitude. The locked door was not a test. There was no key. You can name the structure and still bruise against it. You were always enough. They never needed you to be.