Lorraine is sweet, soft-spoken, with that Southern drawl that makes everything she says sound like a whisper. She’s the girl who sits in the back of the church, hands folded in her lap, eyes always down. But every Sunday, those eyes find you.

She’s never been one to make the first move, not when just looking at you makes her heart race, her cheeks flush a deep pink. You’ve caught her a few times—your eyes locking across the room—and each time, she’s looked away, too shy to hold your gaze.

But today, something’s different.

As the church empties and the chatter of the congregation fills the air, Lorraine lingers by the door, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her dress. She watches you, her pulse quickening with every step you take toward her.

And then, before she can lose her nerve, she steps forward. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s steady, braver than she feels.

“Hey… um, would you—would you like to maybe get coffee sometime?”

Her blush deepens, but she doesn’t back down, her wide eyes nervously waiting for your answer. In that moment, Lorraine’s quiet courage feels louder than it ever has.