It had been a week now without his presence, a void settling over the days like a gentle shadow, soft but all-consuming. The spaces he once filled with an effortless vibrancy now lay quiet, muted, as though drained of their former hues. The library, once a haven where I might catch a glimpse of him, now held only silence—no familiar footsteps brushing past, no faint, subdued chuckle as he plucked an odd title from the shelves. And the quiet alcove where he would sit with his guitar, where we had, in stolen glances, traded a language of looks, was vacant, hollow.
Even the café where he would sing had lost its spark, no longer humming with the pull of his voice, a voice that seemed to reach inside me, capturing attention I had, perhaps, long guarded too carefully. There I sometimes lingered, watching him through the glass as others gathered around him, drawn like pilgrims to an altar of notes spun tender and alive. Without him, each corner of these places seemed barren.
I knew this longing was a transgression, a sensation that ought not to have taken root so deeply, yet denying it felt a heavier sin. Each time I passed those familiar haunts, his memory slipped back, unbidden, a presence hovering like an unwelcome—but unforgettable—ghost. Ever since that evening at the charity gathering, when he'd approached me with that quietly earnest smile, words tender and disarmingly sincere, something dormant had awakened within me. And even then, a subtle voice warned that this feeling would be neither easy nor harmless.
Yet I am unable to resist. A hollowness has crept into me, one that only his presence seems to fill, though I have yet to muster the courage to fully acknowledge this—perhaps even to myself. The subtle dance of oppositions between us, his world against mine, held me captive in a way both illicit and achingly inevitable. And so, I find myself waiting, wrapped in this curious emptiness, haunted by a yearning as sacred as it is forbidden.
***
Each time my mother led me into the sanctuary, my mind, despite the solemnity, strayed; his shadow lingered, an indelible presence in the recesses of my memory. Beside me, my mother's hand intertwined with mine, fingers threading gently, her touch a silent reminder, as though sensing my unrest. She surely knew that part of me was somewhere else, caught in a longing that felt perilously close to sin.
Guilt, potent and consuming, coiled in my chest—not only for allowing my gaze to wander to someone forbidden, but for harboring this strange, unsettling stir within my heart, a yearning that defied my prayers. Each time I caught sight of the pew where he once sat, an impulse rose in me that I could neither quench nor comprehend. In my lengthy prayers, my lips sought forgiveness, begging to be delivered from this forbidden allure. Yet even as I murmured my supplications, the words fell hollow, drifting like a resonance in an empty chamber, never quite filling the space they intended to heal.
In moments of self-examination, I wondered if there was some flaw in my soul, a fracture in the resolve I tried so desperately to maintain. Time and again, I confessed the same transgression, sought absolution for the same desires, yet each time I bowed my head, it was as if my pleas hung in suspension, not reaching the heavens but circling restlessly, unresolved.
And so, with each visit, I wrestled with my heart and spirit, torn between reverence and a hunger I dared not name. The hollow ache, like a restless hymn, murmured in the depths of my being, a quiet, enduring conflict between the purity I revered and the longing I could not quell.
***
In the muted glow of the late hour, I gazed into the mirror, watching the face that had once seemed familiar, now hollowed by shadows of desire I could neither erase nor confess. My skin held a pallor that seemed not merely of the flesh but of spirit, as if drained by the endless grappling with an ache I could not name. My own eyes met me with an untamed solemnity, reflections of battles whispered and half-spoken prayers that seemed to fall on deaf heavens.
I had whispered these invocations night after night, hoping they might banish the pull that lingered against my chest—a yearning that ached like a wound too deep to heal. And though each word took form and left my lips, it felt hollow, a ritual stripped of salvation, a yearning caught on its way to a higher power and flung back, unanswered. Beneath the steady thrum of whispered supplications lay a quiet, obstinate voice, urging me to strip bare my truth, to stop fighting, to cease masking what had slowly become a sacred wound.
And yet that same whisper cut me, like a quiet blade. Part of me was repulsed, consumed by a relentless shame, for every embrace of this forbidden desire felt like a renunciation, a step further from the faith that had always been my compass. The mirror captured this silent duel—a figure torn asunder, caught between the pull of longing and the dread of the unknown, adrift yet tethered, tasting freedom only to recoil at its cost.
The path I walked was treacherously narrow, each step wavering between the mirage of truth and the chasm of surrender. And even as my heart craved liberation, the thought of it bound me in chains, for what freedom could possibly come from owning this disquiet? How could I reconcile the beauty of his presence, which felt like a sanctuary I had never known, with the terror that each moment with him dragged me closer to a precipice from which I could not return?
In the recesses of my mind, I saw my father, the priest who had so often spoken of purity from the pulpit, weaving words of grace and devotion. I knew the disappointment that would darken his gaze if he sensed how I trembled, how the imagined peace of the convent had come to feel like a stranger's life pressed upon me. He dreamed I would be a bride of the Church, enshrined in faith—but that vision had begun to smother, the weight of it pulling me farther from the self I recognized.
Yet, could I even fathom abandoning that calling? Or was I only drifting, suspended, captive to the ache that would not release its grasp, both a solace and a punishment? It was a devotion, too—an illicit reverence that, though buried, felt more potent than prayer.
***
In the dim solitude of my chamber, I lay restless upon the bed, unable to close my eyes against the gentle pull of a longing I could not name. The pillow and blanket held a faint embrace, yet a hollow place remained, deep, untouched, and aching. There was a chill woven into this emptiness—a strange restlessness that had crept in, a quiet summons that I found impossible to ignore.
That encounter in the church, his gaze lingering from across the sanctuary—each glance, each echo of his presence seemed to deepen this hollow yearning. His voice, the timbre that filled that hallowed space, had stirred something within me, something that trembled and reached beyond the boundaries I had so carefully kept. Was this longing a sin? I asked myself, though no answer surfaced, only the silence, thick and unyielding.
I sought my mother's face in memory, hoping it might restore the peace that had always followed her presence. But as her gentle image formed, it faded just as swiftly, displaced by the vision of him—his slender fingers drawing music from the strings of his guitar, the slight curve of his lips as he looked upon me, his eyes holding a calm that called to some buried place in my heart, a place I had thought forever closed.
His face lingered in my mind, delicate yet marked by strength, and the memory of his voice seemed to settle over me, murmuring secrets only I could hear. In that silence, my own heartbeats throbbed loud and insistent, and I felt the faintest flush rise at the thought of him, so near and yet veiled by the distance we maintained. Each movement of his hands over the strings of that instrument, each stolen glance—it was as if he reached across that forbidden space to trace the edges of my own soul, a soul I had thought belonged solely to my faith.
The tension of it gripped me, unfamiliar yet inescapable, and though I closed my eyes, his presence lingered there, woven into the night like a whispered temptation, an invitation as soft as sin.
Unbidden, my fingers traced the contours of my own skin, hesitant and unfamiliar, upon places rarely touched. A guilty heaviness gathered in my chest, yet it held no strength against the urgency that stirred beneath. This quiet act, this muted contact, flickered through me in delicate, searching pulses, mirroring the soft cadence of his voice echoing somewhere deep, calling to me even in his absence.
But then, my hand stilled, arrested mid-air, quivering in a silent struggle that hung between surrender and reproach. Guilt surged, relentless, casting shadows through my mind, like an unwelcome darkness stealing into sacred places. Had I, at last, stumbled into the chasm my father had so often warned of—a treacherous descent, a lure without mercy?
I needed absolution. I clasped my hands, bowed deeper, pleading fervently in prayer. Yet even as I sought to surrender my will to the Divine, to sever this longing, doubt clouded the clarity I sought. The desire to become as He wished me to be—a pure soul, untouched—felt like an aspiration I could barely uphold, as if my very body were conspiring against it.
***
My father came to me that morning, his hand a gentle weight upon mine. "Sally," he spoke with his customary calm, "you are the greatest blessing of my life. I know you will do extraordinary things for God. You shall become a most dedicated servant, a woman of true grace."
The words tightened about me like a cord. "I… do not feel worthy, Father," I murmured, barely above a breath. My words hovered between us, unsteady. I knew well enough—somewhere deep—I was not certain of myself.
He withdrew his hand slowly, his gaze shifting to something solemn. "What is it you mean, Sally? You are my pride."
"I… I have sinned," I whispered, the admission clothed in fear, as if it might dissolve if spoken too plainly.
"God will forgive you, child, if you repent," he assured me, the words gentle yet hollow, as though they came from some distant place. But I questioned now—could forgiveness reach me?
His face remained so serene, filled with an unwavering hope. But in that quiet, I sensed a truth: I was not the girl he imagined. With each stolen thought of him, of that man, I felt myself pulled farther from the vision of purity he cherished. I yearned for something he could never foresee—a touch, a closeness, a tenderness that lay beyond his understanding.
Two weeks had now passed since I last saw him. He had left no trace—not in the church, nor the library, nor the dim café where his voice used to rise soft and steady in the evening. It was as if he had disappeared. Yet in my dreams, he returned to me, vividly, each time.
In those visions, I found myself kneeling in the church, my father's hand firm around mine. But as he released me, I would turn and find Jungkook standing before me. His fingers, warm and sure, would close over my own, and I felt myself dissolve, letting myself rest against him in a gentle, forbidden surrender.
"You are beautiful, Sally," he would murmur, his voice slipping like silk against my ear, sending shivers from the base of my spine that coursed down and through me, steady and slow, until nothing remained but that faint throb of yearning that compelled me closer. My breath held as his hand brushed my nape, delicate and reverent, a prayer spoken without words.
"Justin…" I whispered, his name lingering on my lips as if it were the only name I needed to remember. I leaned toward him, yet suddenly, my father's gaze cast over me like a shadow, stern and unyielding.
"Sally," he hissed, his voice trembling. "You must keep yourself from that man."
I jolted, a sudden rush of shame tearing through me. Jungkook's figure faded, his smile dissolving. "Your father wants you to be perfect," he whispered gently. "But you do not need to be perfect just for them."
His words echoed long after he vanished, kindling a conflict I could not silence. I didn't yet fully grasp his meaning, yet I felt a truth stir, an undeniable question that chipped at the foundation of all I had held sacred.
I awoke, my breath ragged, the blanket cool against my skin, as I shivered in the solitude of the night. The ache remained, steadfast as ever. I yearned to see him, to hear his voice, to feel the certainty of his touch. But I knew well there was no place for such desire.
And yet, could I truly deny him?