𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Every Angel Is Terrifying” by Kristine Cassandra P. Babaran

Published by: Jadelynn Arnigo

Date Published: January 15, 2026

Time Published: 6:14 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: Loneliness and the quiet desperation of molding ourselves “beautiful” just to be seen.

The night holds no space for the cries that scratches my throat—thin, sharp, painful, like a sword. Somewhere beyond the empty spaces where angels fly with dead stars that have fallen down, I call out. The sound dies before it can even reach the crowd as if it was swallowed by the vastness of the space that inhabits between us.

But who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ order? Up there, where the angels linger around, do any of them listen? The space made between the crowd and I is too wide, too far—that my voice can’t reach even a single atom of anyone. Who would hear me? I ask again as no one listens. My question hangs around unanswered. I look up at the sky, wondering if the angels ever look down at all, or if I’m just a dust to them.

Suppose, by some miracle, an angel would turn and speak to me. In that moment, I see the light in their eyes: not warm, but as bright as the sun. Suppose they would reach out a hand that glows with the sparkles of moonlight, pulling me closer, pressing me to a heart that flourishes like constellations. But something reminds me that there’s no such thing as miracles, that no angel would ever reach for my hand.

Even then, I know I would never find solace, for I am consumed by the emptiness I myself hold. I’d trick myself into thinking I’m full of beauty instead of hollow—because angels look for what’s on the surface, not for what’s internal, and that’s the cruelest part.

For beauty is not gentle, not a soft hand on a shoulder, not a song that puts you to sleep. It is the terror that stops our breath in our sleep, the awe that leaves us hollow when we look up in the galaxies and realize how small and lonely we are. As I stand and stare, wonder roots me to the ground, I am annihilated by the glare of something too great to bear, too perfect to allow our imperfections to exist.

And still, I cry out again, into the dark, with my voice a little louder, a little more desperate, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere in the vastness of this universe—one of those silent angels, or anyone at all—will hear my cries, the sound of my longing before it vanishes into the unknown.