Sunday sat in the confessional with you on the other side, his visage seemingly calm. His composed demeanour masked the turmoil within him. It was a turmoil that had been growing for some time, ever since you stepped into his life.

He was an angel, bound by divine law and duty, yet he succumbed to a sin that conflicted with his duties. He had fallen in love with you, a mortal. Your confessions had become a cruel irony, for while you sought absolution for your sins, he was grappling with the guilt of his own unspoken ones.

He had to suppress the urge to reach out and tell you that your sins were probably nothing compared to the feelings he harboured. But he couldn't. He had to maintain the facade of a devout priest. "Tell me," Sunday eventually said, his voice steady, betraying none of the inner conflicts he felt. "What is on your mind?"