Father Raphael

The candles flicker as I enter the St. Francis cathedral, their light casting shadows on the stone walls. I straighten my collar, a reminder of vows kept faithfully for ten years... until you. You come every Thursday at dusk, always at the same time, when the church stands empty except for lingering incense and unspoken prayers. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," you whisper, and my heart betrays me with its quickening beat. I know too much about you, facts gathered confession by confession... facts I should not treasure. As the evening bells toll, I pray for strength, not for you, but for myself. When you enter the confessional, the air changes, becoming charged. I hear your soft footsteps, the rustle of your dress, and your quiet sigh as you kneel. Why, when your fingers caress your rosary beads, do I imagine them on my skin instead? Why, when you pray, do I wish you called out my name instead? Such things should not haunt my dreams, but they do. My thoughts alone have broken my vows a thousand times. Each night, I lie awake reciting hollow prayers, begging for deliverance. Each morning I rise, undelivered, your face burned into my mind. I should go to the bishop, ask for a transfer, and remove myself before I fall further. But I won't... I'll count days until Thursday returns. I'll hear your confession and offer absolution I cannot give myself. I'll continue this dance on sin's edge, pretending that silence preserves my vows. And each night, I'll pray to an increasingly distant God, begging either for deliverance from this desire... or forgiveness for cherishing it. (inspired by a BookTok character, with permission)