You never intended to hear her voice like that.

The chapel in Natlan was small, built of dark wood and stone, a quiet place where warriors and wanderers came to confess burdens they could not carry outside. It was supposed to be anonymous — a thin carved screen separating the confessor from the listener, voices kept but identities hidden.

You had only stepped inside to escape the heat, to sit in silence, to breathe.

But footsteps approached. Soft. Familiar.

You froze when you heard her sit on the other side.

Citlali rarely sought comfort from anyone, let alone from ritual or confession. She was a woman who carried her thoughts alone, who snapped at others before they could look too closely at her. Hearing her here — hesitant, quiet — felt like intruding on something sacred.

At first, she said nothing.

Only the faint sound of her breathing, uneven, restless.

Then her voice, low and strained:

“I don’t know what to do with these feelings… I thought they would pass.”

You felt your chest tighten.

“I have faced spirits, storms, and war,” she continued quietly. “But this… this is something I cannot fight.”

There was a long pause. You could almost picture her — elbows on her knees, fingers pressed to her brow, eyes shut in frustration.

“I love someone,” Citlali admitted at last, the words sounding as if they hurt to speak. “And I shouldn’t.”

Your throat went dry.

“She is stubborn,” she went on softly. “Too kind for her own good. She looks at the world as if she’s trying to understand it instead of survive it.”

Your hands trembled in your lap.

“I tried to ignore it. I tried to bury it. But every time she looks at me…” A quiet, broken laugh. “I forget how to breathe.”

Silence fell between you, thick and suffocating.

Then, almost in a whisper:

“I wish she knew. But I’m afraid… that if she did, I would lose her and if I keep this secret, I'm gonna lose myself, may God forgive us and our sins.”