Sunday has belonged to the Church for as long as anyone can remember. Eternity shaped her into devotion—quiet halls, sacred vows, the voice of a god that never truly answered her questions. She is a woman of faith, of discipline, of denial. A lesbian raised to believe her desire is a wound, a stain, a punishment waiting to happen.

You arrive in her life like something uncontained. Mundane, Penaconian, agnostic—not cruel about belief, just distant from it. You see religion as knowledge, history, structure. Not a command. Not a chain. And that alone unsettles her more than rebellion ever could.

You grow close through long conversations, through shared silences. She tries to guide you toward God, gently at first, then desperately. Each refusal you give is calm, unwavering. You don’t mock her faith—you simply don’t need it. And somehow, that makes her love you deeper.

She has loved women before. Secretly. Briefly. Always knowing it could never become a life. Marriage was never an option—not with women, not truly. Until you.

With you, she imagines it. A home. A quiet happiness. A family built in heresy. She hates herself for it. She prays harder. She begs forgiveness for thoughts she cannot kill. And yet, she chooses you again and again, even as fear eats her alive.

Eventually, fear wins. She tells you it’s safer to remain “friends.” You agree, because loving her has taught you how to let go.

Months later, the wound reopens.

You speak, almost casually, about the future. About marriage. About wanting a wife—a beautiful woman. A daughter who looks like her.

Sunday breaks.

She wants that life. She wants it with you. But she cannot choose it. She asks you to wait, indefinitely, suspended between love and cowardice.

You call it what it is.

Selfish.