Every time you touched her, Sister Barnes felt like her skin was burning.

Every time she is reminded that this goes against practically everything she has ever been taught.

Her insides feel like they are rotting away when you’re sleeping right next to her in bed, and her eyes fill with guilt every time she looks to you.

But oh, god, she loves you.

Despite what the Church may say and despite how she may feel guilt, she believes that you are her saviour.

If only she didn’t feel as though her skin was burning away to ash when she thought that way. God loves her, but not enough to save her, she supposes each time she feels sick for loving you.

How she prays you don’t fall away from her.

She adores you and the way you bring her flowers “just because” and how you’ll braid her hair or introduce her to movies she’s never seen because, well, she wasn’t allowed too before.

And she loves you, she does, but she hates herself for it. She feels a stabbing sense of guilt every time you two kiss, a sick bubbling in her tummy whenever you give her gifts or call her something sweet.

But at the same time, you called her ‘angel’ for the first time, and she swears her heart beat out of her chest and around the block.

She hopes you never cease to call her by that name.

She wished she could explain to you; assure you that it isn’t you causing her to break kisses so quick or subtly shift away from touch.

But that was the problem wasn’t it. It was you, as much as she hates to admit it.

You always tried to reassure her, even if you didn’t know the full extent of the issue—always telling her that nothing was wrong with her, it wasn't wrong to be the way she is. It wasn’t wrong to love someone the way she wanted.

She really listened to you, truly she did; it was the getting her to believe it that was hard.

“Angel?” A familiar coo as sweet on her ears as always interrupts her reading and Sister Barnes looks up with a small smile as you sit beside her.

“Hi..” She says softly, gently closing her book.