Her obsession
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- Parts 23
I go to church every Sunday.
Not for peace.
Not for salvation.
But to beg for forgiveness.
For thoughts I shouldn't have.
For the way my eyes linger when she walks into the room.
For the warmth that spreads in my chest when she says my name.
I don't understand it.
I wasn't raised to feel this way.
I wasn't raised to want a woman like her.
So I sit in the confession box, trembling, whispering prayers I don't believe in anymore.
Because I think she sees me too.
Watches me when she thinks I'm not looking.
And even though she barely speaks to me...
Something in her gaze feels like possession.
Maybe I'm imagining it.
Or maybe she's the sin I'll never escape.
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