Drew Starkey Imagines

Religiously Pt 2

It's strange how healing never feels like healing when you're in the middle of it.

At first, it just felt like silence. Too quiet. The kind that echoed through your apartment at night like a cruel reminder of everything that used to be there — his laugh, his breath on your skin, the sound of him humming under his breath while he cooked shirtless in your kitchen, pretending he knew what he was doing.

Now all that was left was the hum of your own thoughts.

And God, some nights, that was worse.

You didn't leave Rafe because you stopped loving him.

You left because you were starting to lose yourself in the process of trying to keep him alive.

You tried. You fought. You bled for that boy. Loved him so fiercely it nearly drowned you both. And for a while, that love was enough. It was fire and light and hands held in broken churches and whispered prayers under your breath at 3 a.m. when he'd shake from withdrawals.

But he started slipping — and not all at once. That was the cruel part.

He drifted like smoke. Quiet. Subtle. You barely noticed it until one day you looked at him and realized you didn't recognize the man standing in front of you.

And so you left.

Not because you wanted to.

But because he wouldn't fight for you anymore — not the way you fought for him.

⸻

You've rebuilt yourself since then.

Your smile's a little softer now. Your heart, too. You laugh again — the real kind, not the one you used to fake for his sake. You've gone out, met new people, started saying "yes" to life again.

But that ache?

The one Rafe carved into you?

It never really went away.

You still have nights where you see his name pop up on your screen — not from him, of course. Just old memories, tagged photos you forgot to delete, friends asking, "Hey... have you heard from him?" And suddenly, it's eleven months ago and you're back in that house, begging him to look at you like he used to.

Sometimes you dream about him.

And sometimes — even worse — you don't.

⸻

You hadn't been to that church in months.

Not since the last time you drove past and saw his truck in the lot, parked crooked like he always used to. You didn't go in. You didn't need to.

You knew why he was there.

And you weren't ready to know if he'd changed.

Because what if he had?

What if he was finally the man you always knew he could be — but now he belonged to someone else?

You thought about that more often than you'd admit.

But on this particular Sunday, something pulled you back. Call it a gut feeling, or divine timing, or just the ghost of a boy you never stopped loving.

You slipped into the back row, your heart already beating too fast, and you almost didn't see him at first.

Until you did.

He looked older.

Not in a bad way. Just... different. Softer around the eyes. Tired, but peaceful. His hands were folded in his lap, and he was staring up at the ceiling like it held all the answers he never had.

He didn't see you until the final worship song.

And when he did?

It was like the earth stopped spinning.

⸻

You don't even remember walking toward him. Only that one second you were standing ten feet apart, and the next... you were right there. Close enough to smell the same cologne he always wore. Close enough to see the way his jaw clenched like he was holding in everything he wanted to say.

Neither of you spoke.

Until he did.

"I never stopped loving you."

The words were shaky. Honest. Like they cost him something.

You swallowed hard. "You didn't fight for me."

"I didn't know how," he whispered. "But I do now."

You didn't say anything. Just looked at him. This boy you once gave everything to. This man who had every reason to fade into memory — but somehow, still held your heart like it never left his hands.

"I'm not asking to fix it all tonight," he added, voice raw. "I just... I need you to know I'm still fighting. Even if I'm late. Even if I don't deserve you."

Tears stung your eyes. But not the kind from heartbreak this time.

This was something else.

Hope.

You reached out — barely a touch — your fingers brushing against the worn jacket he wore. The one you got him almost a year ago.

He still had it.

Of course he did.

"Do you still go to church?" you asked quietly, your voice barely a breath.

He nodded. "Every week."

"Why?"

He looked at you then, eyes clearer than you'd ever seen. "Because it's the only place I feel close to you. And because I pray that one day you'll walk through those doors again."

Your breath caught.

"Looks like God finally answered."

⸻

You didn't kiss that day. Not yet.

There were still too many wounds. Too many things unsaid.

But you sat with him. On the porch where your story began. In the silence that once haunted you but now felt like peace.

He didn't promise to be perfect.

He just promised to keep showing up.

And maybe that was the real love story after all.

Not the wild, burning, break-each-other kind.

But the kind that survives.

The kind that still believes — religiously.