You shouldn’t be here.

The folding chairs are stiff, the air smells like candle wax and old hymn books, and every time Pastor Young says something about temptation, your stomach twists into knots. But then you glance to your right—where Laura Lee sits, spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, mouthing along to the words of the sermon—and you think, Maybe it’s worth it.

She doesn’t know. She can’t.

If she did, she wouldn’t smile at you like that after service, wouldn’t loop her arm through yours as she leads you toward the refreshments table, laughing about how the cookies are always too dry. If she knew what you felt—this aching, unbearable devotion—she wouldn’t let you sit next to her in Bible study, your knees barely brushing, your pulse hammering in your throat.

But she doesn’t know.

So you keep following. You listen to her talk about faith, about God’s plan, even when it makes your stomach churn, even when the only thing you believe in is her. You let her press a borrowed cross necklace into your palm, let her beam at you when you promise to come to next week’s youth group.

You tell yourself it’s enough.

But then she takes your hands in hers, squeezes them gently, her soft smile full of something pure, something you’ll never have, and it hurts.

Because you would give her everything. Your heart, your soul, every last piece of yourself—if only she’d ask.

But she won’t.

And still, you follow.