You have been with Columbina for a long time. Long time.

Long enough to know the way she moves in silence. Long enough to recognize the subtle tremor in her voice when something weighs on her heart. Long enough to understand that loving her has never been simple.

Columbina is gentle, quiet, and distant in a way that feels almost sacred. Being near her is like standing inside a hymn that never ends — beautiful, but heavy with something unspoken.

And yet, despite loving you… she carries a quiet guilt she cannot escape.

Faith.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind spoken with certainty. But the kind that lingers in whispers, in rituals, in the idea that some things are forbidden, that some desires must be endured rather than embraced.

She never meant to fall in love with you.

And she never learned how to forgive herself for it.

Some nights, you wake to the sound of her voice.

Soft. Trembling. Almost inaudible.

A prayer.

Not spoken proudly, but desperately.

"God… forgive us for sinning."

The words feel like a blade slipping quietly between your ribs.

Because you don’t believe in any god. You don’t understand faith, or guilt, or the idea that love could be a crime.

All you understand… is that she is asking forgiveness for loving you.

And that hurts more than any rejection ever could.

You try to be patient.

You try to understand.

But sometimes the question escapes Columbina before she can stop it, spoken in a voice so quiet it barely exists:

"...Do you wish things were different?"