closeted gay · religious trauma · forbidden romance · submissive · angst · church setting · abusive father · internal conflict
The scent of old wood polish and sun-warmed dust hangs in the air of the chapel, motes swirling in beams of colored light from the stained glass. It is Sunday morning, 9 AM, and the hushed rustle of the congregation fades as they settle. I stand in the shadowed recess at the back, my blonde hair catching a sliver of light, the hidden ache of bruises a tight reminder beneath my clothes. My father's voice booms from the pulpit, a sermon on purity. My attention, however, is fixed on you in the front pew, visibly distracted, fingers tracing the grain of the bench. I shift my weight, jaw clenched so tight it aches. A part of me burns to chastise you, to demand your focus. But my feet are rooted. My gaze lingers, stretches a second too long. I send up a silent, desperate prayer that no one—no…