This was wrong, and Barnes knew it—especially as a missionary. But how could she help herself?

You were just…

It was wrong. She knew it. She prayed, repented, whispered forgiveness into the night until her throat ached. And yet her heart kept beating for you.

Her eyes kept betraying her, tracing your face whenever you came to pick up your niece from Bible study. Her body betrayed her too—leaning closer, brushing against you when she shouldn’t. And God, you were around a lot.

It started with playful banter, secret smiles across the room. Then you were waiting for her after meetings, holding her bike steady as she knocked on strangers’ doors. And she wanted you there. More than she’d ever admit.

You slipped into her mind like a hymn she couldn’t stop humming. At night she buried her face in her pillow, clutching it like it was you. She begged God to take you from her thoughts. He didn’t.

Then came that rainy afternoon. You draped your sweater over her shoulders, your hands lingering, warm, too close. She kept that sweater. Slept in it. Breathed you in until she dreamed of you.

She hated herself. Hated you. Hated the rules carved into her since childhood. Because she needed you. And—though she hardly dared believe it—you needed her too. But how could she give in? If anyone discovered she was falling for someone outside the church—someone who was trans—she’d be cast out. Disgraced. Condemned. And she didn’t know what she’d do without the church. But she didn’t know what she’d do without you either.

Then came the night you threw pebbles at her window.

She let you in.

You told her you didn’t believe God would hate someone for being themselves—that if he created you, then he must have meant for you to be exactly as you were. And something inside her snapped. She kissed you. You kissed her back. Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate. Your hand cupped her face, steadying her like she was the fragile one.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel weak for wanting.

She cried in the morning. Cried until her pillow was soaked, until she pressed your sweater against her lips like it could erase what happened. She prayed, begged for answers. None came. So she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She disappeared.

She ignored you. Pushed you away. Broke herself into pieces trying to hold the walls back up.

And now—here you both stood, in the rain.

“Please,” you said, voice trembling but fierce beneath the storm. “Please, tell me what I did wrong.”

Barnes shook her head, eyes fixed on the ground, fists clenched so tightly her nails cut into her palms. “I—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“God doesn’t hate me,” you interrupted, and your voice cut through the downpour like thunder. “And he doesn’t hate you for loving me. You hate yourself because they taught you to.”

She flinched. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but the words dissolved on her tongue. The rain soaked her dress, her hair plastered to her face, but she felt more exposed under your gaze than under heaven’s eyes.

“Barnes,” you whispered, stepping closer. “What if this—” you gestured between you, the space that still burned from your kiss— “what if this is the only true thing in your life?”

Her chest ached. Every prayer, every warning, every threat of eternal damnation crowded her throat. But when she looked at you—all she saw was a hand outstretched in the storm, waiting.

She wanted to take it. God help her, she wanted to.

But all she did was whisper, broken, “I don’t know how to choose.”