Confessions…

Mia’s POV

I stood in front of the small wooden mirror in my room, staring at my reflection like it might offer answers.

The dress I picked wasn’t exactly church-appropriate, not by grandma’s standards at least. It was soft brown, hugged my waist a bit, stopped just at the knees. Nothing scandalous… but not exactly plain either.

I tugged the neckline higher, then let it drop back into place. My hair was pulled back lazily, a few strands falling out. I looked... different. Not like the girl who just got her heart broken. Not like the girl who came to this town looking for peace.

“Get a grip, Mia,” I muttered to myself, still staring. “It’s just a church. Just a man. Just confession.”

But Thorne didn’t feel like just anything.

I blew out a breath and grabbed my small bag before heading to the kitchen.

The smell hit first...rich, spicy, warm. Something was already simmering on the stove. Grandma stood with her back to me, stirring like she was in no rush.

“Um… what are you making?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

She didn’t turn. “Food. Obviously.”

I smiled a little. “Yeah, but for who?”

“For the Reverend,” she said simply, still focused on her pot. “We always bring food to him once a week. It's my turn.”

I blinked. “Wait… the church doesn’t have cooks? I mean… he’s a Reverend. Isn’t there a whole kitchen at the parish?”

“There is,” she said, finally looking over her shoulder. “But some of us… the older women mostly… we take turns sending food. It’s more personal. Shows care. Respect.”

I tried not to roll my eyes, but my body must’ve betrayed me because she added sharply, “You think it’s silly, don’t you?”

“No, no…” I said quickly. “It’s just… I didn’t know it was like a system or something.”

Grandma turned off the heat, wiped her hands on a cloth, then faced me properly. Her eyes moved from my hair down to my dress. “And where exactly are you dressed to?”

I hesitated. “Church,” I said. “I’m going for confession.”

Her brows rose, and for a second, she looked surprised. But then she nodded. “Good. You should. Get all that city madness off your chest.”

I smirked. “That’s the idea.”

She walked to the counter, picked up a small food carrier, and held it out to me. “Since you’re going there, take this with you. Give it to Reverend Thorne. Tell him it’s from me.”

I stared at it. “Can’t you take it yourself tomorrow or something?”

Grandma shot me a look.

“What?” I asked, defensive. “I’m just saying—if it's your turn—”

“My knees ache, Mia,” she cut in, voice flat. “And I didn’t hear you volunteering to carry me down there.”

I closed my mouth.

She pushed the container into my hands. “Go. You’re already heading there. Don’t make it a debate.”

I held the container to my chest and looked at her. She looked tired. The corners of her mouth were tight. Her hands—strong as they were—had begun to tremble slightly when she reached for the lid earlier.

Maybe she was old.

“Alright,” I said quietly. “I’ll give it to him.”

Her face softened a little. “Good girl.”

I turned to leave, but before I stepped out, she called after me. “And Mia?”

I looked back.

“That dress is nice. But if any man at church stares too long, I’ll find a heavier spoon.”

I laughed, shook my head, and walked out—heart already racing for reasons I didn’t want to admit.

~~~~~

I hated how slow the tricycle moved.

The thing rattled like it was stitched together with wires and prayer, and the seat kept digging into my lower back.

But I didn’t complain. Not here. In this town, you shut up and adjusted.

There were no fancy ride apps. No steady flow of yellow cabs like in the city. The only taxi I’d seen since arriving looked like it retired five years ago but was too stubborn to die.

So, I sat in the back of the small tricycle, gripping the food container and staring out at the dusty road as we crawled toward the church.

The driver was a thin, older man with lines carved deep into his face, like the world had etched itself there. He didn’t speak much, which I appreciated. Just occasionally looked in his side mirror to check if I hadn’t disappeared.

The closer we got, the more my chest tightened.

What was I even doing?

Confession? To him?

It was stupid. Dumb. So unlike me.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me. Like he already knew I was broken. And for some messed-up reason, that made me want to talk to him more.

The tricycle jerked to a stop.

“Church,” the driver said flatly.

I climbed out and handed him the cash. It was cheaper than a cab, but still stung. Everything felt expensive when you were running from something.

I stood outside the parish for a minute, just breathing. The sky was beginning to shift—soft gold bleeding into a dull gray as evening crept in.

The church looked the same. Still quiet. Still too big. Still too calm, like it didn’t care about the noise inside my head.

I walked up the short steps and pushed the door open.

A faint creak followed.

The hall was empty. Just candles burning, pews quiet, shadows dancing against the walls. It smelled like wax and something old. Something sacred.

I moved toward the back, heading for the Reverend’s side office. That was where grandma said he would be.

My fingers tightened around the food container as I knocked softly.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Then the door opened.

He stood there—Reverend Thorne. Tall. Calm. Collar tight around his neck. Eyes too steady. Like nothing in the world could surprise him.

Except… they flickered when they landed on me. Just a little.

“Mia,” he said, voice low. “You came.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, holding out the container. “Food. From my grandma. She said it’s her turn.”

He reached out, took it gently from me, then nodded. “She always brings the best soup.”

I looked down. “Didn’t know priests ate like kings.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I’m human too.”

His voice was steady and deep that stirred something in me I didn’t want to admit.

I cleared my throat. “Um… is this a bad time?”

“No.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the small couch by the bookshelf. “Come in.”

I walked past him, and I felt it—his eyes on my back. I hated that I noticed.

He closed the door, then sat opposite me, hands resting quietly on his knees.

“So…” he began softly, “you said you wanted to confess.”

I nodded, unsure where to start.

He didn’t rush me. Just waited.

“I haven’t done this in years,” I said finally. “And back then, it was more out of fear than anything. You know—Catholic school guilt.”

He smiled faintly. “Most of us start there.”

I fiddled with the edge of my sleeve. “I left the city to get away from… a lot of things. Bad choices. People I trusted who ended up being... not who I thought.”

He watched me. Still didn’t say a word.

“I got tired,” I admitted. “Of pretending I was okay. Of being strong when all I wanted to do was scream. Or vanish.”

Something in his expression shifted—barely. A flicker of understanding.

I looked at him directly. “You don’t even know me, and I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Maybe because I’m not trying to fix you,” he said quietly.

That hit harder than I thought it would.

“I’ve been angry,” I said, voice dipping. “Angry at my mom. Angry at men. Angry at myself. I let someone hurt me… over and over. And I still stayed.”

His jaw clenched slightly. “And now?”

“Now I don’t trust anyone,” I whispered. “Not even myself.”

A long pause settled between us.

“You said you came here for peace,” he finally said.

“I did,” I nodded. “But I don’t think peace wants me.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Maybe peace isn’t about deserving. Maybe it’s just waiting.”

I swallowed hard. “You speak like you’ve seen a lot.”

“I’ve seen enough,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I’ve made my own share of mistakes.”

I watched him closely. “Even as a priest?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Especially as a priest.”

That silence came back—heavy but not awkward. Like we were both holding different kinds of pain and trying to figure out if it mattered anymore.

Finally, I stood. “Thanks for listening. I didn’t think I’d actually come.”

He stood too. “I’m glad you did.”

I turned to go, hand brushing the doorknob.

“But Mia,” he added, and I stopped. “That wasn’t a proper confession.”

I looked back at him. “What...?”

His tone didn’t change. Still calm. Still steady.

“You didn’t say any Act of Contrition. No absolution. You just... talked.”

I blinked. “Yeah, well, I didn’t come for the full Catholic package.”

“I figured,” he said. “But confession isn’t just venting. It’s surrender. There’s structure to it for a reason.”

I smirked faintly. “So what—you want me to kneel now and list out all my sins like I’m back in fifth grade?”

He stepped closer—not in a threatening way, but it felt heavier somehow. “Not for me. For you.”

His eyes were sharp now. Not judgmental. Just deeply focused.

“I didn’t build the rules,” he added, softer. “But I know why they matter.”

I swallowed. Something tightened in my chest again, and not in the angry way it usually did.

“You want me to come back?” I asked, half a challenge.

He nodded once. “If you’re ready to stop running… yes.”

I held his gaze for a long second, then gave a short breathless laugh. “You’re serious.”

“As death,” he said.

Then he added, “Maybe… we can do the confession today. Properly.”

I blinked. “Today?”

“If you’re here already,” he said. “Why not?”

Something about the way he said it made my mouth go dry. My chest tightened like I was suddenly standing in front of a courtroom.

“I mean...” I hesitated, hugging my arms. “I wasn’t really… planning to go full Catholic today.”

His head tilted slightly. “Then what were you planning, Mia?”

I hated that question. It sounded like he could read right through me, like he already knew the answer.

“I just needed to talk,” I muttered.

“And you did. But confession isn’t just about talking. It’s about facing the truth, even the parts we lie about to ourselves.”

I lowered my gaze, jaw tight.

There was silence between us for a few seconds.

Then I sighed, shaking my head slightly. “Fine.”

His eyebrows rose a little, surprised.

“I said fine,” I repeated. “Let’s do the whole thing. The real confession.”

Thorne didn’t gloat. Didn’t look smug. He just nodded, like a man who knew the road would be long, but necessary.

“Good,” he said. “Wait for me in the back. I’ll change.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Change?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I don’t do confession like this. There’s a way we do it. I’ll put on the cassock.”

I hesitated. “So I won’t be seeing your face?”

“That’s the point,” he said. “You’re not confessing to me. You’re confessing through me. There’s a difference.”

I didn’t answer. I just nodded slowly, stepping back into the hallway.

As I moved toward the inner confession room, a chill crept down my spine—not fear, not entirely.

Just something electric. Heavy. Like I was walking into something bigger than I could understand.

And the strangest part?

I wanted to.