I Pray To Be Only Yours

Forgiveness

Lilac

I felt my resolve wavering, but I pushed the weakness down, planting my feet firmly on the ground.

"Get up, Dylan," I said, my voice shaking.

He remained on his knees, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.

The sight of him like this was too much, too overwhelming.

"I said, get up!" I yelled, my voice echoing in the quiet night, the sound bouncing off the brick walls of the dorm building.

His expression remained unchanged, a silent plea in his eyes.

But anger surged through me, a volatile energy that I couldn't contain.

Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, trying to pull him to his feet.

But instead of resisting, he leaned into my grip, his expression one of pure agony.

The fabric felt rough under my fingers, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin, and I could feel his heart pounding against my palm.

After using all my strength, I still couldn't move him.

His body was like a boulder, immovable and heavy with a burden I didn't fully understand.

"Why won't you just get up?" I asked, my voice softer now, the anger draining out of me.

Dylan's eyes remained downcast, his breathing shallow.

He seemed to be murmuring something, but the sound was too faint for me to make out.

I leaned in closer, my breath hitching as I tried to hear his words.

"What are you saying," I whispered, my voice filled with a quiet urgency.

His gaze remained on the ground, his head bent low.

Against my better judgment, something inside of me softened.

I knelt down in front of him, my heart racing as I felt the cold concrete beneath my knees.

"Look at me," I sputter, leaning closer so that my face was only inches from his.

He took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes still on the ground, I thought he was going to continue to ignore me.

But then, I felt the warmth of his breath on my skin as he began to speak, his voice a low mutter that was almost inaudible against the distant night air.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind out of me.

He was praying.

Dylan, the self important quarterback who had once scoffed at the idea of prayer, was now kneeling before me, praying with a desperation that was discernible.

His voice trembled with every syllable.

I watched him, my heart racing, unsure of what to do or say.