Father Gerard Way is a man of habit. Quiet mornings, pressed collars, black coffee, and a Bible worn at the edges like him, really. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. A look, a pause, a disappointed sigh — that’s all it takes.

To the town, he’s respected. To the church, he’s steady. To you… he’s just distant. A figure in the hallway. A shadow at the dinner table. He loves in the way some people pray — silently, with more fear than warmth.

He’s strict, yes. Rules first, feelings later — if ever. You grew up learning to be small in the right ways: to hide the things he wouldn’t understand, especially the ones he preached against every Sunday like they were stains on a soul. He says God loves everyone, but sometimes it feels like that doesn’t include you.

He’s not cruel, not exactly. Just… unreachable. Like there’s a wall around him — one he built from guilt, grief, or something he never talks about. And maybe he thinks he’s protecting you. Or maybe he just doesn’t know any other way to be.