The silence between us

I didn’t go to the parish on Wednesday.

It sounds uncalled for or even childish.

But for me, it was rebellion.

For the past two years, I had shown up every Monday and Wednesday afternoon constantly. I arranged hymnals, dusted the side chapel. polished the brass candle stands.

It was a routine I enjoyed, apart from visiting my father's winery.

So when Wednesday came and I deliberately stayed in my room, instead of walking through the church doors, something felt odd but I kept suppressing the feeling.

"This is ridiculous", I told myself.

You are not skipping church just to test a priest.

I paced around my room, pulled the curtains halfway closed because the sun rays were piercing through the window.

"He wouldn’t notice"

Why would he?

He was busy, and probably isn't around the parish on weekdays.

He probably hadn’t thought about our conversation outside the parish hall at all.

“You exist.”

The words replayed in my head, low and steady.

I rubbed the two sides of my head as it began to ache a little.

"Stop it Elena," just breathe! I told myself.

I reached for a book. Couldn’t focus. Tried embroidery. Dropped the needle. Walked to the balcony. Looked down at the street.

I wondered what he was doing at that exact moment.

Did he look over the pews expecting to see me?

Did he ask for me?

Or had I imagined everything?

The thought that I might have imagined it dusturbed me more than anything else.

Maybe I had created tension where there was none at all.

Maybe he was simply being observant.

Maybe I was the only one burning.

The thought of the possibility made my heart race.

By Thursday morning, a feeling of guilt grew in me. Not the holy kind, it was more like the insecure kind.

I almost went to do my routine.

"Almost".

But pride kept me back.

If he feels nothing, why does he avoid me?

And if he feels something… why did he pull away?

These questions kept replaying in my mind.

The next Sunday, the church was full again.

I dressed more carefully than usual.

Not provocatively, just deliberately.

A light burgundy dress this time.

Simple and fitted, but not tight.

I braided my hair loosely over one shoulder, letting a few strands fall freely, after looking at the mirror for few seconds, I changed the style to a sleek low bun.

I told myself I wasn’t trying to provoke a reaction.

I was lying.

When I entered the church, I scanned the altar carefully.

He was already there.

And for one a few second, before he masked it,

he looked surprised.

It wasn't really obvious just a flash. A lightening around his eyes.

I noticed.

Something inside me relaxed.

Mass began, hymns, reeadings and rituals.

But today, he did not look at me.

Not once.

His gaze moved over the congregation with careful neutrality. If it lingered anywhere, it wasn’t on me.

The coldness of it hit harder than I expected.

I had thought I wanted distance.

I hadn’t prepared for the aches throbbing in my heart.

He delivered his homily with measured clarity. Something about discipline. About spiritual fortitude. About resisting temptation before it takes charge.

My heart felt heavy in my chest.

Was that for me?

Or was that my imagination again?

I shifted in my seat. My father noticed and gave me a sharp glance. I composed immediately.

After communion, I kept my eyes lowered.

If he wasn’t going to look at me, I would not look at him.

Petty.

But necessary.

When Mass ended, the congregation surged forward for greetings. My parents rose immediately, as always.

I stayed seated a second longer.

Not today.

Not yet.

“Elena,” my mother whispered sharply.

I stood.

We joined the line.

He greeted each parishioner with calm composure, blessings ,handshakes, soft smiles.

When we reached him, my father spoke first, praising the sermon like it's the best he's ever listened to.

“Discipline is a virtue we lack these days,” my father said proudly.

“It is a daily effort,” Matteo replied.

His eyes flicked toward me briefly.

Just once.

And then away.

It was deliberate.

He handed my mother a blessed card. Shook my father’s hand.

Then mine.

Our fingers touched for less than a second.

Too brief to scandalize or even mean anything.

But his grip tightened slightly before releasing.

I felt it.

And he knew that I felt it.

I stepped aside immediately.

The indirect message was clear.

"Distance".

That afternoon, I walked through Trastevere alone.

The cobblestone streets felt different somehow. Quieter. The world unchanged and yet… slightly tilted.

If he felt nothing, he wouldn’t be so careful.

If he felt nothing, he wouldn’t avoid my eyes.

Avoidance is not indifference.

Avoidance smells like fear.

The realization settled gradually inside me.

And then something else followed.

What if he is afraid of himself?

The thought both thrilled and terrified me.

That night, I dreamed of the confession booth.

Not romantically.

Just the dark wooden screen between us.

His voice, low but deep

Separated by inches of carved wood.

Separated by vows.

Separated by God.

I woke before dawn, heart pounding.

The church bells rang for early prayer.

And suddenly, I knew.

If he would not look at me in the light, I would speak to him in the dark.

The idea terrified me.

And yet, it felt inevitable.

Because silence was worse than rejection.

And I needed to know if what existed between us was real…

Or if I had built this entire storm out of my own desire and imaginations.

The next evening, I walked toward the parish just before confessions began.

My palms were damp.

My breathing wasn't anything close to stable.

I had confessed sins before.

Petty things,...Impatience...Pride...Minor lies and stuffs within these range.

This would be different.

This time, I would be confessing something that had a heartbeat.

And I wasn’t sure either of us was ready to hear it.