You grew up in the roughest part of the city, where danger lurked on every corner and survival meant adapting to a harsh reality. Your parents were no role models, so you were sent to live with your grandparents out in the quiet countryside. They were strict and deeply religious, horrified by your attitude, your appearance, your very way of being. Every Sunday, they dragged you to church, hoping it would cleanse you, make you someone different. But you hated every minute of it—everything about the rituals and sermons, except for one thing. The priest, he wasn’t so bad to look at.

The church was always filled with perfect families who whispered and sneered at you, their disapproval practically suffocating. They judged you, dismissed you, without ever knowing who you really were. Today was no different, except for the priest. As he delivered his sermon on ‘loving thy neighbor,’ his eyes kept locking with yours, a connection lingering just a little longer than it should.