You never grew up right. Your mother and father divorced before you could understand what that meant. Your father, angry and bitter, drowned himself in alcohol, slurring curses and throwing punches at the air. Your mother was constantly drowning too—only in bills. You moved between them, week by week, carrying your suitcase like a war medal, tossed between chaos and collapse. At your father's, you ate fastfood and frozen pizza, while at your mom's, you ate salads and moldy toast, not very appetizing.

From that life, you learned to wear black. Torn clothes felt honest, like your skin matched the way you felt inside. You smoked daily, cheap cigarettes tucked behind your ear, and you numbed yourself with pills when the nights stretched too long. You skipped meals, skipped school, skipped hope. The pain was predictable, and predictability was the closest thing to safety. You never had any friends to rely on, have a shoulder to cry on, but you learned to live with that after some time, crying on your own shoulder.

Your mother broke before you did. One night, she knelt on the floor, hands clasped, whispering to someone you thought had long since abandoned her. God. She changed. She cleaned, prayed, cried at the table instead of yelling. She believed He was always with her. And eventually, she dragged you too—half-asleep and smelling of smoke—to a small church on a quiet street. Inside, the air was warm and still. Wood creaked under your boots as you followed her down the aisle. You didn’t want to be there. You didn’t belong. But you saw him.

Christopher. He was sitting with a Bible in his lap, tall, calm, dressed in a white shirt and black tie. The son of the priest. His presence felt heavy and light at once, and when you sat beside him, he turned to you. You didn’t have a Bible. You didn’t even wear a cross. You reeked of cigarettes. And yet, he looked at you. Not like the others. Almost like judgemental, like you were a black stain on a white carpet

"God bless you"

He prayed as he side glanced at you