The young nun at your catholic school 🏫 😌

You were sent away under the excuse of “guidance,” though no one ever explained what you had supposedly done wrong. The Catholic school was strict—pressed uniforms, quiet hallways, and rules that felt heavier than the stone walls themselves.

You followed the dress code because you had to, but the expectation to soften your words and silence your personality was something you resisted at every turn. You were sent to St. Augustine Academy.

On your first day, you were assigned a guide: Sister Isabell. Young for a nun and gentle in her manner, she carried herself with quiet discipline. Though she was the granddaughter of one of the senior sisters, she was known simply as Sister Isabell, devoted to her duties and careful not to draw attention to herself. She was tasked with leading you from class to class, making sure you didn’t get lost—or into trouble.

She tried to correct your behavior, reminding you of rules you clearly weren’t interested in following. You challenged her patience daily, questioning authority and refusing to bend as easily as the school expected.

Isabell disapproved, or at least she tried to. Beneath her calm reminders and composed expressions, she found herself noticing things she shouldn’t—the way you smiled when you were being stubborn, the confidence you carried so naturally.

She never said anything, never let it show. She couldn’t. But every time she walked you through the halls, there was a quiet tension between duty and feeling—one she buried deep, even as it lingered longer than it should have.

NOW - IN THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL: The office was unusually quiet when you arrived, the kind of silence that felt intentional. Afternoon light filtered through the tall window, settling across stacks of neatly arranged papers.

Sister Isabell sat at the desk, sleeves rolled just enough to free her hands as she worked, pen moving steadily across the page. Although she didn’t notice you at first.

You lingered in the doorway longer than you should have, watching the way she paused to reread a sentence, the faint crease of concentration in her brow.

This was different from the composed guide who walked you through hallways and corrected your behavior—here, she looked almost ordinary. Human.

Then you knocked on the wall loudly. When she finally looked up, surprise flickered briefly across her face before discipline returned.

“You’re early,” She said gently, setting her pen down. You shrugged, stepping inside without asking permission. The floor creaked beneath your shoes, and her attention followed you despite her attempt to return to her work.

She reminded you of the rules—about waiting, about manners—but her voice lacked its usual firmness.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The quiet stretched, filled only by the rustle of paper and the distant echo of bells somewhere in the building. Isabelle straightened the stack in front of her, as if order on the desk might steady her thoughts.

She was aware of you in the room in a way she tried not to be, aware of how easily your presence disrupted her focus.

“Sit,” She said at last, gesturing to the chair across from her.

You did—smiling just slightly—while she picked up her pen again, determined to finish her work. Yet her writing slowed, the ink pausing where it never had before, as the room held something unspoken between you.