My confession

The confession line was shorter than usual.

I felt bothered about it.

I had hoped for time; Time to think, to breathe, to reconsider. But within minutes, I was kneeling behind the wooden partition, the scent of incense lingering faintly in the atmosphere.

The screen between us was carved lattice.

A barrier that pretended not to be one, though it kind of boosted my shaking confidence.

I heard him shift slightly on the other side.

He was waiting for me to begin.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“It has been…” I swallowed. “Two weeks since my last confession.”

A pause.

His voice came low, still deep but calm and familiar, "Go on."

He knew...

I felt it instantly.

He recognized me.

There are things you can't disguise... cadence, breath, hesitation.

But he didn’t say my name.

He didn’t acknowledge it.

He was just professional and disciplined.

That almost hurt more.

“I’ve been struggling with… thoughts,” I continued as my palm started sweating.

Another pause. A bit longer this time.

“What kind of thoughts?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Here we go.

“There is a man,” I said softly.

Silence.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sharp.

It was heavy.

The kind that stretches.

“What about him?” he asked.

The calm was there.

But he sounded inquisitive this time.

“I don’t know what he feels,” I continued. “Sometimes I think I see something in his eyes. And then he pulls away. He becomes distant. As though he regrets something that hasn’t even happened.”

The sweat on my palm has made the wooden panel a bit wet.

“I thought if I withdrew, it would make things clearer. But now I feel… foolish. Unsure.”

The air on the other side changed.

You don’t hear tension.

You sense it.

“And this man,” he said carefully, “is he aware of your feelings?”

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

I forced myself to breathe slower.

“I believe he is.”

“And he has made no… declaration?”

“No.”

“Has he encouraged you?”

The question was sharper now.

I hesitated and then let out a sharp “Yes.”

The word was quiet.

“He looks at me as if I matter. As if I am not invisible.”

Silence again.

Then:

“And that is a sin?”

The shift caught me off guard.

“It feels like one,” I answered “Because he can not have me.”

"Elena, you might regret this later," I thought to myself in the weird silence as the space between us tightened.

“Why?” he asked.

I almost smiled.

Because there is this part that really matters.

“Because of who he is,” I said. “Because of what he has promised.”

His breath hitched.

It was subtle.

But I heard it.

And my heart leaped in my chest.

“You assume much about this man,” he said after a moment.

The composure was back.

But not fully.

“I assume nothing,” I replied. “I observe.”

“And what do you observe?”

“That he is afraid.”

The words jumped out before I could stop them.

I pressed my palm to my mouth, but it was too late.

The air shifted again.

“You speak boldly,” he said.

“Only here.” I replied.

“And outside this booth?”

“I pretend not to notice.”

Silence.

Longer this time.

I wondered what his expression looked like. Whether he was in deep thoughts; whether his fingers were gripping the armrest.

“This man,” he said finally, “if he keeps his distance, perhaps it is mercy.”

“For whom?” I asked

“For you.”

The answer was immediate.

But there was something attached to it.

Something tight.

My pulse sounded in my ears.

“Is it mercy,” I asked quietly, “or fear?”

The silence that followed was different.

It wasn’t measured.

It wasn’t thoughtful.

It was personal.

When he spoke again, his voice changed.

Lower than it had been.

Less polished.

“You are asking questions that do not belong in confession.”

“I’m asking them because I can't ask him.”

I felt a bit angry.

Then stillness.

“You deserve clarity,” he said.

The words sounded forced through restraint.

“If this man can not offer you certainty, you should not linger where you are not chosen.”

Not chosen.

The phrase struck me harder than I expected.

Because that was the fear beneath everything.

What if I had imagined the way he looked at me?

What if I had invented depth where there was only duty?

“And if he does choose?” I pressed on shamelessly.

“Then he must be willing to bear the consequences.”

The weight in that word was unmistakable.

Consequences.

Vows.

Scandal.

Exile.

I swallowed.

“Do you believe,” I whispered, “that some promises are made before one understands their depth and cost?”

The question stood between us like a blade.

When he answered, it wasn’t as Father Matteo.

It wasn’t entirely priest.

“No promise is made lightly.”

But it didn’t sound like certainty.

It sounded like defense.

I felt the weight of my heart in my chest heavier.

I had pushed far enough.

“Thank you, Father,” I said softly.

The formality returned like armor snapping into place.

“Say three Hail Marys,” he said. “And pray for discernment.”

Discernment.

Not repentance.

Interesting.

I stood slowly, my knees were a bit shaky.

Before I stepped away, I paused.

“One last thing,” I said quietly.

A breath on the other side.

“Yes?”

“If he wanted me to stop… truly stop… would he say so?”

Silence.

Longer this time, like he didn't hear me or was unsure of the right answer.

“Yes.” He answered firmly, but not immediate.

I stepped out of the booth before my resolve crumbled.

The church felt larger than before.

A cool breeze flooded in, and it began to dry my damp palms.

I didn’t look toward the confessional as I walked down the church aisle.

I didn’t need to.

I could feel him there.

Still seated.

Still unmoving.

Processing the conversation that was supposed to be a "confession"

Outside, the cold hit me like clarity.

He hadn’t denied it.

He hadn’t claimed it.

But he hadn’t dismissed it either.

And when I asked if he would tell me to stop—

He hesitated.

That hesitation was everything.

For now, I would not pursue.

But I would not retreat either.

I can't, not with this ignited fire burning inside of me.