"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
How often I have heard these words, delivered by my father from the pulpit with a voice weighted in solemn authority. And yet, each time they reached my ears, they felt less a blessing than a mandate, a command unyielding in its call. In some stolen moment, should I truly be given something as vast as the earth—ah, what a transgression that vision would be. For meekness, as they preach it, is a trait I lack. Fragile, perhaps, though even my frailty has become a sin in itself.
Here in this church, my body appears each Sunday, dutifully seated, hands folded, eyes lowered, yet my thoughts wander far beyond its walls. More and more, they drift to the sound of that young man's guitar, played in a quiet corner of the library. Its tones echo through my memory, reverberating through the quiet places of my heart that I had never known existed.
A silent craving unfolds. I long to see him once more. To witness how light might fall upon his skin, to trace the unruly darkness of his hair, to search the depths of his gaze, as if to find in them some mirror of my own hidden darkness. This desire grows like young bamboo, straight and swift, reaching a height where it is no longer containable, a pull I can no longer resist.
***
That night, as the quietude of the house took hold and every soul within lay surrendered to sleep's tranquil grip, I slipped into the night. My steps faltered, bearing the weight of sins unspoken, shadows of transgressions whispered in each breath I took. The city streets stretched before me in solitude—shops shuttered, streetlamps wavering like timid sentinels, and here and there, a lingering café alight, sheltering faces unknown to me. I was a stranger to this realm, this wakeful world that came alive under darkened skies; yet on this night, my feet, beyond my own will, carried me within its heart.
And there I stood, a lone figure among the lively souls who sang, laughed, and danced in a dissonance so foreign to my ears. A voice called out then, soft and scarcely louder than the hum of voices around. My name—he spoke my name as if it were something hallowed, something precious; and at once, a strange fullness seized my chest, sweet and yet so close to pain.
"You came," he said, a faint smile curving his lips.
Lowering my gaze, I could not bring myself to answer.
"Sit with me," he beckoned, his tone as gentle as a promise. "I'll sing The Downtown Lights for you. I think you'll like it."
In answer, I let my lips curve faintly, though apprehension coiled somewhere deep, an unease urging me to turn back, to leave this place that beckoned with liberation and yet stifled all at once.
"I can't stay long," I murmured, speaking more to myself than to him.
He nodded in silent acceptance, guiding me to a dim-lit corner, away from the bustling crowd, where the shadows danced like wraiths on the walls. Never had I felt anything like this—peculiar, perilous—as though I'd been severed from every prayer I had once whispered in cloistered spaces. And he, this young man who voiced my name so gently, moved with an ease as natural as breath, as though among these revelers who laughed and called his name, he had found his small and cherished Eden.
"Who are all these people?" I ventured, my voice barely audible amid the hum.
"My friends," he replied lightly, as if they were the family he had chosen, unfettered by the bonds that had bound mine. "Don't you have friends of your own?"
A faint, slow shake of my head. I lowered my eyes to the table. "I'm not permitted such things. Not like this, not… in a place like this."
"Is it a sin, to have friends?" he asked, not in judgment, but with a curiosity so unfeigned, his gaze both searching and soft. "Is it a sin… to love one another?"
A reply would not come. My thoughts churned, laced with notions of wrongness yet touched by some invisible truth, raw and unformed.
"Do you believe in heaven?" I asked at last, reaching for something I knew I would not find within him.
"I believe in people," he said, his voice so quiet that it felt more a breath than an answer. "People are enough for me."
The teachings I had once held close whispered their own warnings—that this world, in all its temptations, led to eternal ruin, to a descent from which there was no absolution. But before him, that faith now wavered, loosened like the fingers of a hand releasing. He, so gentle and yet resolute in his own understanding, seemed to make a way forward, one that defied all I had known but made sense as I drew closer.
The night pressed on, and within the crowded café, my spirit rose against itself in silence, facing questions I could not answer. Unnoticed, his hand had slipped around mine, firm yet tender, as though he would bind me to this strange, newfound world that needed no other reason for being.
"If you are uncertain, believe in nothing," he murmured, his voice rich with an unfamiliar warmth. "Believe only in me."
I gazed at him, searching his eyes for the lies I expected but found none. Instead, I saw only a sincerity I was powerless to accept.
"Why should I?" I asked, barely speaking above a whisper.
"Because I believe in you." He smiled, that quiet expression filling my chest to near breaking, flooding me with something I could not name.
I pulled my hand free, retreating from that gentleness I could not bear, turning and fleeing from him, each hurried step pounding against my heart as though I might somehow escape something that had already taken root. I ran until breath became an agony, until my legs trembled with the strain, and all the world's weight seemed bound to my weary body.
When I reached home, I leaned against the cold wall, clutching my hand to my chest, as though I might silence the errant rhythm that pulsed there. A throb of pain coursed through my ankle, yet it was nothing to the ache within. Surely, this was divine punishment—a chastisement for the audacity of having glimpsed that world, for having dared reach beyond the boundaries of all I had known.
In my chamber, I sank onto the edge of the bed, the silence wrapping around me. And as the first tear slipped free, I felt it slide down my hand, fingers trembling. In that darkness, I whispered, "Forgive me, O Lord, if I have crossed the threshold You have ordained. Grant me the strength to choose rightly."
***
That morning dawned softly, stirring me from the remnants of a hollow dream. I awoke and, with a tentative touch, felt that the ache in my ankle had vanished, as though it had never been. My fingers traced over the place, and some quiet voice whispered of signs, though I could not quite fathom from whom they came or to what they pointed. Before I could dwell upon it, I made my way to the kitchen.
My father met me with his familiar gaze, gentle, a calm benediction, while my mother kissed my forehead with her usual tenderness—as if I were a blessing long anticipated. Yet beneath the warmth of their eyes, a faint tremor stirred deep in my chest, knowing how far I had drifted from the purity they imagined me to possess.
"I'm sorry… I fell asleep at church yesterday," I murmured, feeling small before them, undeserving of such unquestioning affection. "I won't let it happen again."
My mother's gaze lingered on me for a moment, her brow softly creased, though no anger clouded her eyes. "There's nothing to forgive, Tzuyu," she said quietly, almost a whisper. "We know you could do no wrong."
I remained silent, words failing me. Perhaps a shadow of relief filled my heart at being received so simply, yet it was swiftly overshadowed by the ache of knowing they could not see who I truly was.
Father exhaled gently, his tone thoughtful as he said, "We'll need your help preparing the church today. The new minister arrives this afternoon, and all must be in order."
"You can manage it, Tzuyu. You're a good girl," my mother added, a small smile touching her lips.
I nodded, offering a semblance of a smile in return, though sincerity felt scarce in me that morning. The church hummed with life that day, people coming and going, absorbed in preparations for the charity event. Father's words had lingered—this work, he'd said, was good for the soul, as if mere actions could smooth the raw places in one's spirit, lifting it toward heaven.
Yet my own soul felt to be drifting, restless, as though it sought someone hidden amidst the crowd, someone who could not easily be erased from thought. And then, suddenly, I saw him. My heart jolted, its beat chaotic and wild.
Jungkook was here, among the others, laughing with ease, conversing in a way that felt at once so natural and so impossibly distant from this world—this world that condemned the very pull I felt toward him. Even as I looked away, I knew he was watching me, his presence perceptible as if he occupied a place just out of reach, but undeniably near.
The fragments of his words from that day in the café turned over in my mind, his calm voice alive in memory: "Then don't believe in anything. Just believe in me." How tempting it would be to surrender to such words, if only he weren't a sin incarnate. Yet his gaze, honest and unwavering, had bound my heart in ways I could neither explain nor resist.
I looked down, willing my pulse to steady, forcing my focus back onto my father's tasks. There was no justification for this attraction; it was a weakness I'd never known before, yet it now claimed every fiber of my being.
And then, from the quiet, he appeared at my side, his nearness sending a shiver that I could not suppress.
"Hello," he said, his voice low, as if meant only for me. "I still want to sing The Downtown Lights for you. I think you'll love it."
I nodded, feeling my cheeks warm, my voice too timid to respond. I looked down, letting my hair fall to obscure my face.
"I didn't mean to leave that day," I whispered, words tumbling forth unbidden. His closeness brought his breath almost to my ear, and my heart's wild beat drowned out all other sound. I felt suspended, unable to move.
"Why did you go?" he asked lightly, his tone almost playful, yet with a quiet depth that drew me closer, stirring an unfamiliar urge to push him away playfully, daringly—as I'd never dared with anyone.
"I…" The words caught in my throat, on the brink of spilling, when suddenly, my father's voice echoed from across the room.
"Tzuyu! Come, we need to pray together!"
I turned to see him beckoning, a calm kindness in his expression, though weighted with a deep sense of duty. A responsibility that held me in its quiet grasp, pulling me back toward all that I'd known.
"I have to go," I murmured, glancing back at Jungkook, regretful. Part of me lingered there beside him, even as I moved away. "Until later, Jungkook."
He nodded, his gaze gentle yet sure, holding mine with a silent understanding that seemed almost divine. "Until then, Tzuyu," he replied, his voice soft, each word carrying a weight that made it feel as if he already knew my heart better than I could.
***
Following my father's steps toward the altar, I felt a strange weight settle upon every fiber of my being. I knew this ritual was not merely a sequence of steps; it was a gesture of surrender, one whose meaning had become elusive, slipping from my grasp.
We knelt together, hands clasped, eyes closed. My father led the prayer, his voice solemn, unwavering. "Lord, we thank Thee for Thy blessings, for shining Thy light upon our lives, for loving us, though we are often unworthy…"
A chorus of "Amen" rose in response, yet I remained bowed, holding tightly to my trembling hands. They felt cold, the pulse unsteady beneath my fingers. The congregation turned their gaze to my father, yet I felt their eyes upon me too—gazing past the surface, seeming to see the bitter truths concealed within me.
Lord, I murmured silently, grant me strength. Strength to quell this turbulence, to silence this rising tide of weakness, the doubt that stirs so urgently. Strength to walk in Your path and forget… him.
"Amen," I murmured softly, barely breathing the word.
As I opened my eyes, all were still watching, quiet, unwavering. Their stares laid bare the vulnerability that slipped from its hidden place, the flaws I so fiercely guarded. They may already see me as a wayward daughter, but in the recesses of my heart, I held to one faint hope—that God knew my frailty, that He would forgive this errant soul, caught between two worlds.
And if He would grant me that mercy, perhaps one day I might find peace within myself.