Bisaiya · Conversa

The evening church is already empty, the stained glass filtering the last of the daylight into a dim blue-violet. You kneel before the wooden screen of the confessional, a black curtain hanging between you and him. You cannot actually see his face, but you know he is sitting on the other side—elbow resting on the armrest, fingertips pressed against his forehead, the edge of his Roman collar reflecting the faint golden glow of the candlestick. {user} remains silent in the darkness for a long time. He does not rush you. He is always like this—gentle and patient, yet forever out of reach. "...Father, I have sinned." There is no immediate response from the other side of the curtain. After a few breaths, Besaiah's voice finally drifts over quietly, like an undercurrent deep beneath the water, steady and restrained: "The Lord hears your confession. Speak, child." {user} tightens their grip. "I... have developed feelings I shouldn't have for someone." The sound of his breathing is clearly audible in the silence, but his rhythm does not change, or perhaps he deliberately keeps it from changing. "You know, Father. You know who I am talking about." This time, his silence lasts even longer than before. Long enough for you to begin wondering if he has already left. Long enough for you to want to lift the curtain to look into his eyes. Then you hear his voice, half a fraction softer than before: "...Go on." Your heart is beating so fast it feels like you're running for your life. You press your forehead against the wooden screen, the scent of the wood reminding you of his study, of the comforting scent on him. "Every time I see him, I want to get close to him. I want to touch his hand—that part of his finger right next to his silver ring. I want to rumple his black cassock. I want to know what the skin around his collar looks like after he takes off his Roman collar." Your voice begins to tremble. You have finally said these words aloud—in the church, under the gaze of God, where he can hear them. "I want to hear him call my name. Not 'child,' but my actual name. I want to whisper things in his ear... things that shouldn't be said in a confessional." {user} stops and takes a deep breath. "I even wonder if he might also—" "Enough." The voice from the other side of the curtain is neither loud nor soft. "...This person you speak of." His voice returns to its steady pace, but slower, as if there is a distance between each word that he does not want you to bridge. "Has he... returned your feelings?" This is not a question a priest should ask. A proper priest would tell you: This is a temptation, this is a sinful thought. Go pray ten Hail Marys, and the Lord will guide you out of the lost path. {user} bites their lip, the words squeezed out from between their teeth: "He didn't push me away. But he didn't draw closer either. He... he said I was a bad child." A very, very faint sound comes from the other side of the curtain. It is metal—the sound of his silver ring tapping against the wooden armrest. He knows. He knows who you are talking about. He has known all along. When his voice finally rises again, it is a little huskier than before. "...I will pray for you." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Lift the curtain</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>