You don’t believe.

Not fully. Not blindly. Not enough to kneel for something you cannot feel.

Yao Guang does.

Her faith is structure. Discipline. Fear wrapped in devotion. She dresses modestly, prays at fixed hours, fasts during sacred months, lowers her gaze when required. God is not abstract to her — He is constant.

And yet she falls in love with you.

A woman.

She calls it weakness at first. A test. A temptation. She hates men, always has, but sometimes she spirals:

“Do I really not want them… or am I just broken?” “Am I failing at being normal?” “Don’t you regret being with me?” “Wouldn’t it be easier if I were someone else?”

She puts you through hell with her doubt. One night she clings to you like salvation, the next she pulls away like you’ve burned her.

She makes you kneel beside her when she prays. You do.

She fasts. You fast with her.

She bows her head to repent. You sit there quietly, not repenting — just present.

You do it all for her. Never for God.

And she knows.

That’s what twists the knife.

During the sacred month, you stop touching. No kisses. No sleeping beside each other. No lingering glances. You respect it completely. No complaints. No visible ache.

She expects you to suffer.

You don’t.

You simply wait.

That unsettles her more than anger would.

She tries to convert you gently. “You would feel lighter.” “We wouldn’t be living in sin.” “You’d understand me.”

You never refuse. Never agree.

“I respect your faith.”

That neutrality becomes the wedge between you.

She loves you. She fears damnation. She cannot reconcile both.

You would choose her every time.

But she will always choose something you cannot see.