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Sancta et Damnata

Religious!reader x Ellie Williams

One-shot!

CW; mentions of suicidal thoughts, religious trauma, spiritual abuse, internalized homophobia, queer repression, references to hell and damnation, parental emotional abuse, grief and mourning, panic attacks, toxic family dynamics, religious fanaticism, sexual tension, loss and death, emotional neglect, consensual sexual activity, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving)

Summary; raised in a strict religious family, you secretly date Ellie Williams, a girl who challenges everything you believe. Torn between faith, family, and love, you face painful choices and the search for acceptance in a world that demands conformity.

Notes; this story deals with a very personal and heavy topic for me. I’m not trying to romanticize forbidden love. I want to portray its realness and complexity. I didn’t plan to turn this into a series, so I hope the story doesn’t feel rushed. Please approach it with care and sensitivity. Also the title means holy and damned. It’s Latin :)

Word count; around 11,9k

Taglist; @gogolsbf

You’ve always been someone people called holy. Not in passing, never in jest, but in the hushed, reverent way someone might speak of relics or miracles. “She’s one of God’s favorites,” they’d murmur. “A real angel.” You heard it often growing up, usually with a smile behind it, but always with weight. Sometimes it came from mothers at the church picnic, their eyes trailing your ironed blouse and the cross nestled neat against your collarbone. Other times it came from the girls at school, half in awe, half in warning, like if they stepped too close, they’d burst into flames.

Your father is a priest. Not the kind with a mild homily and a handshake at the end of service, no. He booms. When he speaks, the walls of the chapel breathe in and hold. When he raises his voice, it’s scripture and consequence. And your mother matches him in faith. She keeps her hair braided back and never wears jewelry save for her wedding band and a rosary knotted into her apron string. She prays in whispers, hands always damp from cleaning or clasped together. You remember walking in on her once, kneeling in the corner of the kitchen with tears dripping silently off her chin and onto the linoleum, whispering: “Break me, God, if I need breaking.”

You were raised in the image of all that. You learned to kneel before you could run. Learned how to pray with your spine straight and your mouth closed between verses. Your knees are calloused, the skin pale and thin, so much so that sometimes the bone outlines itself faintly beneath the white. You kneel every morning. Every night. Before meals. During storms. When your father comes home with something new to reflect on, you kneel then, too. The floor knows your weight like a second skin.

Your clothes have rules. Button-ups with collars that kiss your throat. Skirts that pass the knees and make sitting something deliberate. Stockings if you must wear them. No jeans. No bare shoulders. You’ve never owned a tank top. Your mother says the flesh tempts, even when you mean nothing by it. She says your body is the cup, but God is what fills it. Never let someone else drink from it before He does.

Your friend group is small. Tidy. You’re allowed to go to youth group, and sometimes, when your father permits, you’ll attend school events. But only with the approved ones. Mostly girls, a few boys. The boys are like softened bread: polite, sweet-eyed, always saying things like “Ma’am” to your mother and opening doors. The girls sometimes ask questions in hushed voices, behind the locked doors of sleepovers hosted at safe homes.

“Do you ever… think about kissing someone?” Maria once asked, her voice thin, more breath than sound. Her fingernail traced the hem of her pajama sleeve. “Like, not in a sinful way. Just. Wondering.”

You didn’t look at her. You were braiding your hair by the mirror, your fingers steady, your posture so upright it could’ve snapped in half. “Only my future husband,” you said.

She smiled nervously. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

And then she rolled onto her side, away from you, and didn’t speak again until morning.

None of them are exactly like you. They wear bracelets sometimes, or show up to chapel with eyeliner on their bottom lids, or hum Taylor Swift songs during quiet hours. They laugh too loud. They whisper about boys. Sometimes they ask what your family is really like, but they never ask twice. They know. Or at least they sense enough not to dig.

Once, one of the boys, Aaron, offered to walk you home after choir. It was snowing, and he gave you his coat without asking. You said “thank you” and handed it back when you reached your door. The porch light was on. You could see your father’s shadow through the curtain, standing.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked automatically, because hospitality is holy.

Aaron blinked. His cheeks were red. “Uh. No, I’m okay. Thanks. Your dad kinda…” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “Never mind.”

He left you there with the coat folded neatly over your arm.

You opened the door.

Your father was waiting. “You let him touch you?”

“No, Father.”

“He gave you his coat.”

“I was cold.”

He stared. The room behind him smelled like incense and candle smoke. Your mother was washing dishes in the background, humming a hymn so quietly it was barely more than a breath.

You placed the coat on the table like it might burn you.

He nodded. “Good girl.”

And that was it. But the next day you knelt longer than usual. Your knees went numb. When you stood, you wobbled. Your mother touched your arm, gently. “Pain is purification, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

You never have.

And then there was Ellie Williams.

Ellie, with her scribbled-on Converse and pants that never quite looked clean, always with a scuff or some oil-smudge like she’d knelt in a parking lot for fun. Ellie, with her sleeves pushed up to the elbows and pen marks on her wrists. Her hair was a mess. Always. Not messy like effortless movie-girl messy, but frizzy and dry at the ends like she didn’t know what conditioner was for. She had freckles like God had peppered her face out of boredom, and she didn’t cover them up with makeup or even seem to notice them. She’d pull a pencil from behind her ear and use it to scratch her cheek without thinking, then immediately forget where she put it.

And she never shut up. Ever.

“Did you know that when dinosaurs got sick, like really sick, some of them just sat down and waited to die? Like, like they knew. Isn’t that wild?” she’d say, grinning, flipping her pen between her fingers like a drummer. “I mean, imagine just sitting down one day and being like, Yep. That’s it. Lights out. I respect that.”

You’d blink at her. Bite your cheek. Say nothing.

And she’d laugh, not because you were funny, because you never tried to be, but because something about your silence made her flustered. She’d rub the back of her neck, smile all crooked and too wide. “Sorry, I do that thing where I talk and don’t… think. I should probably stop. You’re, like, super quiet. That’s cool. Mysterious. I like that.”

And you’d want to scream.

Because Ellie Williams is everything you are not.

She has one friend. Two, technically, but Jesse doesn’t count. He’s just attached to Dina, who really is her only friend. Dina with the biting sarcasm and the cool-girl earrings and the way she always rolls her eyes when Ellie launches into another paleontology rant. Sometimes you’d see them in the hall, Ellie bouncing beside her like an excited labrador, talking about “this fossil documentary I swear will change your life,” and Dina just going, “Ellie, no one wants to watch that but you.”

And Ellie would grin, shove her hands in her pockets, and say, “That’s fine. I’ll watch it twice and pretend it’s someone else’s first time.”

And your stomach would twist.

Because that girl, that girl, is the one you’re dating. Secretly. Sinfully. Quietly, like it’s a sickness you’re hiding from the Lord Himself. You haven’t told anyone. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t. You still flinch when your phone buzzes with her name. You still delete her texts after reading them. You still go to church the morning after she kisses you and sit there with your mouth shut and your heart knotted and your thighs pressed together, trying not to remember the way she touched your hand under the blanket while you watched a dinosaur movie in her attic.

You still beg for forgiveness when she leaves. Kneeling in your room, face to the floor, whispering “Please cleanse me, God. Please wash this from me.” Like it’s dirt. Like she’s dirt. She isn’t.

But she wears the same hoodie three times a week and makes bad puns about T-rexes and once told you you looked “like a Victorian ghost, but in a cute way,” and you wanted to die and kiss her at the same time.

You don’t even know how it started.

Maybe it was that one time she sat next to you during study hall because every other seat was full, and she dropped her textbook on your foot and said, “Crap! I mean… um.. dang, sorry! Shoot, you probably don’t swear, huh?” And then looked so genuinely panicked about offending you that you almost laughed.

Or maybe it was when you stayed behind in the science lab and she did too, hovering awkwardly at your elbow like she wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. “So, uh… what do you do? Like, for fun?” she asked, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve.

You blinked. “I read. I study.”

She’d nodded slowly. “Right. That tracks. You’ve got, like, book heroine energy. Mysterious and repressed. In a good way.”

You frowned. “Repressed?”

She bit her lip. “Not like, bad. Just. You know. Like a girl who’s secretly into something crazy but never tells anyone. Vampire novels or sword fighting or, I dunno, wrestling.”

You stared. “I’m not into wrestling.”

She smiled. “Yeah. No. I figured.”

And then she’d left, humming something off-key, and you stood there too long staring at the door after it shut.

The first kiss was an accident. At least, you told yourself that.

It was in the park. You were on the swings even though you hated swings, she’d dared you to, and you lost your balance getting off, stumbled forward, and she caught you. And she was laughing, right up until she looked at you, and the laughter sort of dropped into her throat like a swallowed marble.

“You okay?” she’d asked.

And you nodded, but your breath stuttered, and her lips were right there, and her eyes were so green and so confused and then—

You kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed you. You still can’t decide. You pulled away too fast. Your face was burning. She looked stunned. And then she said, quietly: “…That was really nice.”

You left. Just walked away. Didn’t say a word. You threw up in the bathroom when you got home and didn’t eat for two days.

But you saw her again. Of course you did.

She forgave you for running. She always forgives you. She doesn’t ask questions she knows you won’t answer. She just keeps showing up. Sitting beside you in libraries. Brushing her hand against yours. Laughing at her own jokes and smiling at you like she thinks she’s lucky to be near you.

And you hate it. You hate her. You hate yourself. You love her.

You pray harder now. Kneel longer. Recite verses like mantras. You count her freckles in your head when you’re trying to forget her, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds when she leans in too close.

She doesn’t even know she’s flirting. That’s the worst part. When she calls you “angel” in that teasing way, when she taps your foot under the table like she wants you to look at her instead of your notebook, when she says things like, “You make me nervous, you know that?” and then immediately blurts something about pterodactyls to cover it up.

You wish she’d stop. You wish she’d never started. You wish you never had to stop thinking about her.

But you will. You have to. Because girls like you don’t get to want girls like her. Girls like you get married in churches and wear white and smile and keep their sins buried deep and dry.

Girls like you don’t get to dream.

And still—

You do.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’ve been dating for five months now. Not that anyone would know. It doesn’t feel like dating most of the time. It feels like holding your breath underwater, counting seconds, testing how long before your chest caves in. You meet in the woods behind her place, or the storage hallway by the music room where no one ever goes, or the backseat of Jesse’s car when he’s not using it and she’s stolen the keys. You don’t do much. You kiss. Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don’t. She’ll hold your hand and crack some dumb joke and you’ll pretend it didn’t make your stomach lurch.

She touched your breasts once.

It was under your shirt, under your bra, and it lasted maybe two seconds. Her hands were so warm. They trembled like she didn’t know what she was doing, which she probably didn’t. And for one horrifying heartbeat, you liked it. Actually liked it.

You slapped her hand away like it burned. Didn’t say a word. Just pulled your shirt back down, picked up your bag, and left. She texted once. Then twice. Then gave up. You ignored her for a week.

The silence was heavy and deliberate. You fasted. You knelt until your legs shook. You cried into your pillow and asked God to cleanse you of whatever that was, of whatever you are, of whatever she made you feel. You waited for fire to rain down. It didn’t.

She didn’t bring it up again.

You still kiss her though. Softly, sometimes, like prayer. Sometimes more than that. Sometimes it gets too close to something bigger, something deeper, and your whole body goes rigid and she knows to stop. She’s learned your boundaries even if she doesn’t understand them. She never pushes.

But you still beg for mercy every night. Not in church. Never there. You can’t. You’ve thought about it, really, truly thought about kneeling in that wooden booth with the musty velvet curtain and telling the priest everything. But you imagine his silence. Imagine his breath slowing. Imagine him not saying you’re forgiven.

So instead you confess at home.

You wait until midnight, like God might be gentler when the world is quiet. You kneel by your bed, fingers clenched together so hard they go white, and whisper it like it’s a secret even He might flinch at.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to enjoy it. I didn’t mean to let her. I didn’t mean to love her.”

Sometimes you cry. Not sobbing. Just little gasps that get stuck in your throat. Like you’re drowning in something that’s not even wet.

You told her once, just once, that you think you’re going to hell. She was sitting beside you, chewing on a Twizzler, feet up on the dashboard of Jesse’s car.

She blinked. “You think you’re going to hell… because of me?”

You stared ahead. “Because of me. For letting it happen.”

She was quiet. Then: “Okay, but like, if we’re both going, can we at least sit next to each other?”

You looked at her. She grinned, stupid and crooked and sweet. And you hated how much that made your chest ache.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

She went to church with you once. That was your idea. You still don’t know why you invited her. Some kind of test, maybe. Some awful, subconscious attempt to prove something. That you could bring her into your world and it would all be okay. That maybe she’d hear the Word and run screaming. That maybe you would, too.

She didn’t have clothes. Not those clothes. So you picked them out yourself. One of your white blouses, buttoned to the throat. A long navy skirt, ironed flat. Tights with no holes. You brushed her hair yourself because you couldn’t stand how it looked when she did it, like she’d used a fork or maybe just her fingers.

She fidgeted while you buttoned her cuffs. “I feel like I’m about to take my fifth grade school picture,” she muttered.

“You look fine,” you said.

She looked at you in the mirror. “I look like I’m about to burst into flames.”

You forced a smile. “Just… sit still.”

And you lied to your father.

You told him she was from church summer camp. Visiting for the week. Her parents were missionaries. You watched his eyes narrow as he shook her hand. She didn’t know how to fake it. Called him sir instead of Father, said yeah instead of yes and smiled too wide.

“Do they do this every week?” she muttered after the second hymn. “My knees are gonna dislocate.”

You elbowed her. She grinned.

She sat through the whole service. Even the sermon, which was about purity. About sin and temptation and “unnatural urges.” You didn’t look at her once. Not when your palms started sweating. Not when your stomach rolled. Not when the priest said the flesh deceives and the Lord knows what lives in the dark corners of the heart.

She was silent beside you.

Afterwards, in the parking lot, she made it to the curb before vomiting behind a bush.

You rushed over. “Ellie—?”

She wiped her mouth, leaned against the tree, and said, “I think the sins just got baptized out of me.”

You stared.

She blinked up at you, then grinned. “Too soon?”

You didn’t want to laugh. But you did. Just a little. Your hand flew to your mouth, but the sound had already escaped. It felt wrong, too bright, like laughing in a funeral home, but she looked so pleased with herself. So you let it happen. Let the laugh stay. Let her think it was okay. Even if you knew it wasn’t. Even if you’d kneel longer than ever that night. Even if you’d stare at your hands and wonder if they’d ever feel clean again.

Because sometimes, when she makes you smile, that feels like the biggest sin of all.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’re back in Ellie’s room again. It’s a small, cluttered space. Posters peeling at the corners, clothes tossed over the chair and a faint smell of old sweat and something floral you can’t place. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the TV, fingers twitching over the controller as some dumb violent game blares out explosions and angry shouts.

You’re on the bed, knees tucked under a thin blanket, absorbed in one of your little books. The ones you hide away because they’re safer than a journal, but more private than any prayer. The words feel heavy tonight, like they’re sinking into your skin and sticking there, making you smaller. The pages smell like old paper and guilt.

Ellie keeps glancing over, biting her lip as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. After what feels like forever, the sound of her controller tapping stops. The game goes silent.

You look up just in time to see her crawling onto the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, hands brushing your book aside with a gentle thump. Your book lands open on the floor, pages fluttering.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, eyes wide and sheepish. “Didn’t mean to toss your book like that.”

You say nothing, heart already hammering. She scoots closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “Wanna kiss?”

Her voice is soft, hesitant, but she looks up at you with those earnest eyes, the kind that don’t lie. It’s almost like she’s asking permission but already knows the answer. Like she’s bracing herself, waiting for you to push her away, and daring you not to.

You nod.

She smiles, a little crooked and shy, then leans down. Her lips brush yours. Soft, tentative and unsure at first. But then she presses closer, like she’s pouring all her nervous energy and excitement into that kiss. Her hands find your waist, fingers curling gently.

Ellie straddles you on the bed, her knees pressing against your sides. You feel the weight of her. Solid, warm and real. And for a moment it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s only this small room, this shaky breath between you, this impossible thing that feels both wrong and so achingly right.

When you finally pull back, heart racing, you say, voice barely above a whisper, “My dad… he talked about them again.”

Ellie blinks, frowning. “Who?”

You swallow hard, words tasting like ash. “The monsters. Queers. Gays. Whatever they called it.”

She waits, silent.

“He said… they have to be exorcised. On the spot. If that doesn’t work… they get hanged.”

Your hands clutch the blanket, knuckles white. “Because that’s what they did back in the day. He said it like it was a story, but it’s not. It’s real. It’s his truth.”

Ellie’s fingers trace tiny circles on your arm, slow and steady. “That’s… fucked up.”

You bite your lip, ashamed. “I’m supposed to be holy. To be better. To never want this. But I do. I want you.”

She looks at you, eyes soft but firm. “Then you’re already braver than anyone who talks like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. The shame, the fear, the love, twisting into one unbearable knot.

Ellie’s voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. “I’m not some monster. And neither are you.”

Her hands squeeze yours. You want to believe her. You want to be free of the chains that bind you in darkness.

But tonight, the weight of his words still hangs heavy, like a noose tightening around your chest. And yet, here you are. With Ellie. Straddling your doubts and fears and sins. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.

Ellie’s lips pressed harder against yours, like she was trying to swallow every sound you could make, every breath you tried to catch. Your heart hammered, too fast and too loud as her fingers tangled clumsily in the hem of your skirt, tugging it up like she was afraid someone might walk in and ruin the moment. You wanted to pull back, to tell her to slow down, but the words tangled in your throat and she had that wild, desperate look in her eyes. Like she was trying to convince herself this was okay, too.

When her fingers brushed the delicate white lace of your panties, you froze. The soft gasp she made against your mouth was almost embarrassing in how raw it was.

“I thought you only wore those big granny panties,” she joked breathlessly, voice low and rough, but the teasing was laced with something softer, something that felt like awe. You wanted to slap her for it. The insult stung, but so did the heat pooling deep inside you. Instead, she laughed quietly, a little breathless, and her mouth found yours again, softer this time, but just as urgent.

Ellie didn’t wait for permission, not in the way most people did. She hovered, breath warm and uneven, eyes searching yours like she was waiting for you to flinch, to pull away, to say no. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. You only gripped the edge of the blanket tighter, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out. And that was enough for her.

She exhaled shakily, then leaned down and let a slow string of spit fall onto the damp lace stretched between your legs. The heat of it landed like a brand. You twitched, half reflex, half instinct, but you didn’t move away. Couldn’t move at all. Not when her lips pressed right against the soaked fabric, kissing through it like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. Her breath was hot, humid, and every slow stroke of her tongue made your thighs clench involuntarily.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed between kisses, her voice cracking like she was trying to hold something in. “I shouldn’t. I mean... I didn’t even ask—” Her lips trailed lower again, mouthing along the seam of your panties, nosing in gently where you were soaked. “Please don’t hate me. I just—God, you’re so beautiful.”

You opened your mouth to speak but all you could do was pant, shaky and too aware of the wetness she was licking through. Her tongue flattened against you, pressing the lace tight to your swollen clit. The friction made you jolt, one hand flying up to your chest where you gripped the small silver cross hanging there, knuckles white.

You didn’t know if you were grounding yourself or begging for forgiveness. Maybe both.

Ellie’s voice broke again, muffled against the fabric. “Tell me to stop if this feels wrong.” She looked up, lips slick, eyes wide and afraid, but never greedy. Never cruel. “I swear, I’ll stop.”

Your answer came out hoarse, nearly inaudible. “Don’t stop.”

She blinked, stunned for a second, like she hadn’t expected you to say it. Then her mouth returned with purpose, licking a long, slow stripe up your center, the lace warm and clinging now from your slick and her spit. She moaned quietly into it, a helpless sound, grinding her own hips softly into the mattress as if the taste of you through the fabric was too much to bear.

“Fuck,” she whispered, exhaling hard against you. “You smell so good. You’re so wet, I can feel it through everything.”

Her hands slipped under your thighs, lifting and pushing them apart a little further. Then her tongue pressed hard against your clit again, this time slow and dragging. You gasped, back arching slightly. The lace only made it worse, better, trapping the slickness against you, making every lick feel twice as intense.

Her hand slid up your side, cautious and reverent, until her palm cupped your breast through your top. She hesitated, then gave a soft squeeze, her thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. The dual sensation, her mouth below and her hand above, made your breath catch in your throat.

“I want to take these off,” she murmured, voice low, face still pressed to the heat between your thighs. “Only if you say yes.”

You nodded too quickly, breathless, voice cracked. “Yes. Please.”

Her fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging the lace down slowly, watching every inch of you like it was sacred. Once they were off, she settled back between your thighs with a look that was almost reverent. Then she licked you for real, no barrier, no hesitation, just slow, firm strokes from base to clit that made your legs shake.

Her arms wrapped around your thighs as if anchoring herself there, her mouth working you open with a kind of trembling hunger that didn’t feel greedy, just desperate. Needy. She moaned into you, lips wet, tongue flicking and curling until your fingers threaded into her hair, holding her there, not guiding, just needing.

“Ellie—” you gasped, hips twitching as she sucked your clit into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it gently before letting go. She looked up, lips shiny, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, voice thick. “Please. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest rose and fell with shallow, shaking breaths. “Just don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

She smiled then, shy, a little broken, but beautiful, and kissed the inside of your thigh. “Not a chance.”

And then she went back to licking you like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

You weren’t sure when you started whispering it. Maybe when her tongue circled your clit just right, when your hips lifted off the bed in slow, involuntary jerks. Maybe it was when your vision started to blur, when the pleasure hit too deep, too holy. But the words came anyway, half-breathed, half-prayed.

“Forgive me… oh God, forgive me…”

Your fingers gripped the cross around your neck like a lifeline, like if you held it tight enough, it would tether you to something pure. But Ellie’s tongue was still moving in slow, deliberate strokes, dragging from your entrance up to your clit and back again, licking like she was savoring every drop.

Ellie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through her mouth. Her grip around your thighs tightened like she needed to hold you there, to keep you from slipping out of her grasp. She pulled back only far enough to murmur, breathless and raw, “Can I use my fingers? Please. I want to feel you.”

You nodded hard, chest heaving. “Yes. Please.”

Your panties were already on the floor, forgotten. Ellie sat up just enough to watch your face as her hand slid between your legs. Her fingers found you easily. Everything slick, everything aching. She teased at your entrance first, rubbing slow circles, then slipping one finger inside with careful pressure.

The stretch made your jaw fall open. You gasped, thighs twitching around her wrist.

“Jesus,” she whispered, eyes locked on the place where her finger disappeared into you. “You’re so tight… fuck, you’re clenching so hard already.”

You whimpered, trying to breathe through it, your hand still fisted around the cross like it might save you. “I-I shouldn’t want this,” you choked. “I’m not—I can’t—”

But she kissed your inner thigh again, lips hot and soft and full of something too tender to be wrong. “You do,” she whispered. “You do want it. It’s okay.”

Then she pushed in deeper, curling her finger slow and sure, her thumb brushing against your clit like a benediction. You cried out, a soft, strangled sound, legs kicking weakly. The shame twisted deeper, but so did the need. You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even slow it down.

Another breathless prayer left your lips. “God, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Ellie pressed a second finger to your entrance, testing. “Can I?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, please, I want it.”

She slid it in beside the first, your body stretching around her, slick and desperate. The fullness made your eyes roll back. She fucked you slow at first, curling her fingers inside with gentle, precise pressure. Her thumb never left your clit, rubbing slow circles, syncing with every thrust until you were trembling apart under her.

You couldn’t stop the way your hips moved, chasing it. Couldn’t stop the way your voice broke again and again. “Forgive me,” you whispered. “God, forgive me, I can’t stop—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Ellie said, voice wrecked and sweet. “I want you like this.”

And you let her want you. Your legs shaking, your mouth open on gasped prayers and curses and her name. Her name. You said it like you needed it to survive.

“Ellie, please—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed, kissing your thigh, your hip, your stomach. “You’re doing so good. Let go for me. Just let go.”

Her fingers fucked you faster, deeper, the rhythm sweet and devastating, wet sounds filling the room as you clenched down hard around her. Her mouth returned to your clit. Licking, sucking and her tongue flicking with just enough pressure to tip you right over.

You came with a sob, body arching, hand fisted tight in her hair, the other still clutching your cross. It was too much, too good, too close to something divine. Your whole body pulsed around her fingers as she fucked you through it, never letting up, her tongue dragging you deeper into it.

When it finally slowed, when your legs fell open and your breath came in broken gasps, Ellie didn’t move right away. She rested her cheek against your thigh, lips brushing your skin like a thank-you. Her fingers slid out slow, your slick coating them, her hand trembling just like yours.

You looked down at her, skin flushed, pupils blown wide, and she looked up like she wasn’t sure if she’d done something wrong or holy.

You didn’t know either. But you reached for her with shaky arms, dragging her up into a kiss. She tasted like you, sweet and raw, and you kissed her like you were still falling, still asking to be saved. “Don’t leave,” you whispered.

Her hand found yours and squeezed “Never.” And for the first time, you stopped apologizing for how much you wanted her.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next morning, the car hummed steadily down the quiet road, the windows rolled up tight against the fading chill of evening. Ellie sat beside you in the backseat, tapping her fingers anxiously against her knee while Joel drove ahead with calm focus. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap, your thoughts swirling like a storm behind your eyes.

Then, without warning, Ellie’s voice broke the silence. “Hey, Dad,” she said, a hint of pride threading her words, “I ate her out for the first time last night.”

The sentence landed between you like a slap. Your breath caught. Your heart felt like it had suddenly tripled its beat rate, pounding so hard you were certain Joel could hear it, even from the front seat.

Joel’s hand gripped the steering wheel a moment longer, and then, to your utter disbelief, he let out a low, amused chuckle and said without missing a beat, “Good for you, kid.”

You blinked. You were caught somewhere between shock and bafflement. You’d expected anger. Disappointment. A sermon. But Joel just hummed softly to himself and kept driving like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Ellie gave you a sly grin, eyes shining with mischief. She didn’t look at you directly, but the subtle wink she shot your way said everything, this was exactly the kind of rebellion she loved.

You wanted to say something, maybe protest or explain, but the words jammed in your throat. You clenched your fists tight in your lap, the silence stretching out and filling every inch of the car.

When the car pulled up in front of your house, you were shaking. Not from cold, but from the weight of everything, the secrecy, the thrill, the guilt.

You stepped inside and made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a soft click.

The harsh bathroom light flickered on, unforgiving and clinical. You stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. Your face was pale, eyes wide and haunted.

Slowly, trembling, you peeled off your clothes. Each piece that dropped to the floor felt like shedding another layer of sin.

You turned on the cold water, splashing your face again and again, scrubbing your arms and shoulders with rough soap until your skin burned red, raw from the friction.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, “forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slid down your cheeks, mixing with the cold water.

Later that night, you knelt on the hardwood floor of your room, hands folded tightly in prayer. “God,” you begged into the silence, “please have mercy on me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared I’m going to lose everything.”

The moonlight filtered softly through your curtains, casting gentle shadows that flickered like spirits dancing on the walls.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you slipped out of your room and quietly made your way to the church. The stone walls towered above you, ancient and sacred. You breathed in the scent of incense and old wood, a bittersweet comfort. Inside the dim confession room, you knelt alone, clutching your rosary, the cold kneeler pressing into your knees.

The door creaked softly, and a voice, calm and steady, greeted you.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a day since my last confession.” You hesitated, then began to pour out everything; the secret relationship, the stolen kisses, the sinful touches.

You confessed the shame that wrapped around your heart like chains, the fear of your father’s judgment, the nights you spent scrubbing yourself raw, begging for mercy.

The priest listened silently, his presence steady and kind. After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and gentle. “You carry a heavy burden, child. But there is no sin too great to be forgiven. But you must learn to forgive yourself as well.”

Tears stung your eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” you whispered.

“Grace is not about never falling,” he said gently. “It is about rising again, each time you stumble.”

You stayed quiet, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a fragile shield.

“Go in peace,” he said finally, “and remember God’s love is wider than any fear or shame.”

You left the confession booth trembling, stepping back into the vast, silent church. Outside, the world felt both impossibly large and suffocatingly small, caught between the person you were and the person you wanted to be.

But somewhere deep inside, a small flicker of hope stirred. Fragile, uncertain, but alive.

When you came back home around 2 hours after your confession, you didn’t even make it past the threshold. The moment the front door creaked open, your father stood in the entryway, his silhouette stark against the hall light behind him. Your mother, pale and silent, stood just a few steps back, clutching her rosary like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

You’d barely muttered a soft “Hi” when your father’s hand slammed against the doorframe.

“Whore,” he said. Not a whisper. Not a yell. Just a cold, measured word spat like poison from between clenched teeth.

Your heart stopped. “What?” you asked, your voice suddenly small, the syllable catching in your throat.

“You think you can go crawling into bed with a girl—” he hissed the word like it burned his tongue, “—a dyke, and walk back into this house like nothing happened? Like we’re fools?”

Your mother looked away. She didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. She just gripped her rosary tighter until her knuckles turned white.

You tried to speak, tried to form the word no, or maybe I’m sorry, or maybe just please, but you didn’t get the chance. Your father’s hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you hard enough to make your knees buckle. Your shoes scuffed against the tile floor as he dragged you forward.

“Please,” you said breathlessly, stumbling after him, “I—Dad, please—”

“Don’t call me that,” he barked, spinning on you so fast you nearly crashed into him.

They didn’t let you go upstairs. Didn’t let you sit down. Didn’t let you breathe. You were shoved into the car. Not a word spoken on the drive. Your father’s hands white-knuckled around the wheel. Your mother quietly reciting a prayer under her breath. The same prayer she used when someone died.

The church was open when you arrived. Of course it was. The sanctuary glowed dimly with candlelight, the pews empty, cold, waiting. You knew then that this had been planned.

Your footsteps echoed loudly as they pulled you down the aisle, past the altar, past the statue of the Virgin Mary whose eyes seemed to follow you like she knew what you had done. You were taken into the back, the air thick with incense and something else. Oil, you realized. You could smell it. Holy water. Salt. Burnt herbs. A room with a wooden table and a white cloth spread out like something from a hospital. But it wasn’t mercy they had in store for you.

“Get on your knees,” your father ordered.

You obeyed.

He began the prayers. The priest stepped forward a few minutes later, his voice smooth and familiar. You looked up, only once, and felt your stomach drop. It was him. The one you had confessed to just this morning. The one whose voice had seemed kind behind that curtain.

“Do not look at me,” he said.

You stared back down at the floor.

The prayers began slowly. Latin. Holy water flicked over your face. Salt rubbed along your skin. Your mother clutching a crucifix and whispering tearfully, “She doesn’t mean it, Lord, she doesn’t mean it.”

And then the real part began. The shame. The pain.

The priest’s voice hardened. Words like demon, perversion, unclean, unnatural spat out between sacred verses. At one point they forced your mouth open to drip oil on your tongue, said it would cleanse the filth, make you pure again. You gagged. Coughed. Your chest heaving, eyes tearing.

The oil burned your throat.

Your wrists were held down when you tried to get up. Your father’s hands tight around your arms. Not bruising. But close.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please stop—please, I’ll change, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“You lied in the house of the Lord,” the priest snarled. “You let that girl touch you, defile you. You brought evil into your soul willingly.”

He knew everything. Every detail. Every touch. Every word you had whispered through tears in the confessional, believing you were safe. You had trusted him.

And he’d gone straight to your father.

You cried until your body shook. You whispered sorry a hundred times. You clawed at your own skin, your arms, your thighs, like you could dig the sin out with your nails. You wanted it gone. You wanted to be clean.

Your father finally let go. You collapsed onto the church floor, chest heaving, salt stinging your eyes.

“Don’t let her back into the house,” the priest said coldly. “Not until she’s ready to truly repent.”

And your father, your father, nodded.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t answered a single one of ellie’s messages. Not the “hey,” not the “are you mad at me,” not even the dumb meme she sent around midnight of some T-rex in sunglasses holding a Bible.

You sat in homeroom with your hands folded neatly on your desk, spine rigid, jaw clenched so tightly you were starting to taste blood. You didn’t look at her. Not once. Not when she passed you in the hall. Not when she slowed beside your locker like she wanted to say something but didn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t know what would happen if you did. Maybe you'd cry. Maybe you'd scream. Maybe you’d beg her to erase the memory of her mouth on your body, of your own voice moaning in a stranger’s house, in sin.

Ellie didn’t push. Not right away. She gave you the space you clearly wanted. She didn’t even try to sit next to you at lunch.

But you caught her looking.

Every time you dropped your gaze. You couldn’t hold her eyes without feeling the sting of oil burning your tongue again.

By last period, she snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just, Ellie. Quiet, clumsy, sincere. The way she always was.

She caught you by the side entrance, between the gym building and the old boiler room no one ever used. A blind spot. No one ever came back here. You froze when you heard her footsteps, but didn’t run.

“Hey,” she said, hands stuffed into her hoodie, thumb nervously flicking at a frayed seam near the cuff. “You’re, uh, ignoring me?”

You said nothing.

“I figured you’d be pissed,” she said, trying for lightness. “’Cause of the, you know… sex thing. I know I was kinda forward. I was kinda expecting the silent treatment, but—”

You choked. Literally choked on your own breath. She stopped talking.

You covered your face with your hands, but the sob came out anyway. Wretched and wet and humiliating. You turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m—I didn’t mean to ignore you, I just—”

“Woah, woah,” she stepped closer, alarm spreading over her face, “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, look at me. Hey, what happened?”

You turned to her. Your voice cracked around the words. “My father knows.”

Her expression shifted in a second, something like fear, or guilt, or realization flickered in her eyes. She stepped even closer, instinctively reaching out but stopping short of touching you. “How?”

You shook your head, tears spilling now, hot and angry. “The priest. The one I—I confessed to. He recognized my voice. He told my dad everything.”

Ellie blinked. Her mouth fell open like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

“They did—” You looked away, voice strangled. “They did something to me last night. Said it was an exorcism. Said I had to get the demon out.”

Ellie’s face went slack.

“They held me down, Ellie,” you whispered. “They poured oil in my mouth, they shoved salt in my skin. My own father told me I was possessed. He said I’m not welcome back in my own house until I stop loving you.”

Ellie’s breath caught. Her mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again. “Jesus.”

She reached for you again and this time you let her. Her hands cupped your face, thumbs wiping at the salt-streaks across your cheeks. Her voice trembled. “You should’ve called me.”

“I couldn’t.”

She pulled you forward and you collapsed into her like a dying thing. Your head against her shoulder, her hoodie damp from your tears, her hand stroking the back of your neck without thinking. You could feel her trembling too.

“I thought I could make it right,” you whispered. “I prayed so hard. I said sorry so many times. But nothing, nothing, fixed it.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, softly: “Come home with me.”

You pulled back. “I can’t skip school, I—”

“Fuck school.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud. It was just… final. “Come home with me.”

So you did.

You didn’t even hesitate. You let her take your hand and lead you around the back of the school building, through the side lot where no one would see, all the way down the street to where Joel’s truck was parked out front of their small house with the dented mailbox and the dog who barked at every goddamn thing that moved.

Joel wasn’t home for at least another three hours.

Ellie shut the door behind you gently, like she knew you were still too fragile to hear anything loud. Then she tugged off her hoodie and tossed it on the couch, motioning for you to sit.

You stood. “Do you think I’m sick?” you asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think they’re right about me?”

Ellie walked toward you, slow and careful, and looked you right in the eye. “No,” she said. “I think they’re sick. And I think if God’s real, he’s crying seeing what they did to you.”

You couldn’t help it. Your knees gave out.

She caught you before you hit the floor, arms around your waist, forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t care if we never have sex again,” she whispered. “I don’t care if you never wanna kiss me again. I just wanna be next to you. I wanna make you feel safe. You deserve that.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just leaned into her, skin still raw, heart still burning, but held. Finally held.

“C’mon,” she whispered, touching your wrist so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a grip. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You followed.

The hallway light flickered behind you as she led the way, steps creaking up the old wooden stairs, her hand trailing back once in a while to touch yours, to make sure you were still there. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating. Not like home.

Her room smelled like clean sheets and faint weed smoke and something warm and sharp that was just… her. The fan in the corner ticked quietly, pushing humid air in lazy circles, and a pile of laundry sat forgotten in a chair, half-folded. She hadn’t expected company, clearly. But it didn’t matter. It was safe. It was hers.

You stood there, stiff, arms folded around yourself like armor, and she reached for you slowly. Palms open. No pressure. Just an invitation.

You stepped into her.

And she wrapped her arms around you like she’d been waiting to. Not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. I’m here.

You melted into her without a word. Let her guide you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and she pulled you down with her, curling around you in that soft, yellow-lit cocoon of her room. The ceiling fan clicked above you, the curtains drawn tight against the world. And her arms came around your waist like a blanket, like a prayer.

You buried your face into her neck, your skin still humming from earlier, your chest still tight from home.

She hadn’t said anything in ten, maybe twenty minutes now. Just kept kissing your hair, one hand stroking the back of your head and the other wrapped protectively around your waist, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt in slow, quiet rhythms.

You couldn’t stop whispering. Couldn’t stop the soft, wet prayers that trembled out of you like blood. You didn’t even know who you were praying to anymore. Not really. Not after the way the cross around your neck had felt like it was burning. But you whispered anyway. Mouth trembling. Eyes shut. Repeating all the words you’d been taught to say since you were small, even if they didn’t hold meaning anymore. Even if they’d never held mercy.

“Forgive me,” you murmured again. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to be—”

Ellie didn’t interrupt. She didn’t shush you. Just held you tighter and pressed her mouth to your hair again and again, as if kissing could stitch something broken back together.

Her voice was so soft when she finally spoke. “You don’t have to say sorry for existing.”

That made you cry harder. Silently. Bitterly. The kind of cry that left your lungs shaking and your mouth clamped shut so tightly your jaw throbbed.

It was maybe ten minutes later when your fingers gripped the hem of her shirt.

You didn’t think about it. You weren’t even sure why you said it, just that it burst out of you with desperate heat, your voice hoarse and cracked and pleading: “Ellie. Please. Please fuck me.”

Her body stilled instantly. You felt it, how her breath hitched, how her hands froze against your back.

You lifted your head to look at her. Eyes swollen. Mouth raw. “I want to,” you whispered. “I want you to do it.”

Ellie stared at you like she didn’t know who you were for a second. Not because she was disgusted. Not because she didn’t want it. But because you’d never, ever, spoken to her like that. Your words were too deliberate, too raw, too broken. Your voice shook too much to sound flirtatious, and your eyes were too wet to mean it the way she knew you thought you did.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally said: “No.”

You blinked, dazed.

“No?” you echoed. “Why?”

“Because you’re not okay,” she said gently. “You think you want it, but this—” she motioned vaguely between you both, to your tear-drenched cheeks and trembling fingers “—this isn’t the part of you that wants me. It’s the part of you that’s hurting.”

You looked down. Embarrassed. Angry, maybe. But more than that, ashamed.

Ellie reached for your face and cupped it again with both hands, forcing you to look at her. “I want you,” she said, voice low and shaking. “You have no idea how much I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re gonna hate yourself for it after. Not when you’re still whispering prayers into my fucking shirt.”

A hiccuping sound escaped you. Something between a laugh and a sob. “Why are you always right?” you whispered.

Her forehead bumped yours. “Because you’re not.”

You both smiled, just for a second. Just barely. A thin little thread of something warm, even in the ache.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I know.”

“I think I ruined my whole life.”

“You didn’t.”

You looked away, tears brimming again. “You don’t know that.”

“I know I’m still here,” she said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried yourself in her arms again, dizzy and ashamed and safe.

And Ellie held you, quiet and close and warm, until your whispering stopped. Until your heartbeat slowed. Until you could breathe again.

The next morning you didn’t say much during the car ride back to your house. Ellie was curled beside you in the backseat, her arm lazily draped across your shoulders, her hoodie swallowing most of her body, the smell of her shampoo comforting in a way that made your eyes sting. Joel didn’t ask anything, didn’t make any comments. Just hummed quietly along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel. He gave you a small nod as you got out, his gaze warm but unreadable, like he knew more than he was letting on.

Inside, your house was too quiet. You could feel it before you even stepped through the front door.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace, but a silence that crouched in every corner, tense and waiting.

Your mother sat at the kitchen table, thumbing a rosary bead by bead. She didn’t look up. Your father was already in the living room, Bible open in his lap, murmuring something about “the demons not releasing fully” and “evil lingering in the air.”

They didn’t ask where you’d been. Didn’t raise their voices or press you with questions. That made it worse. The stillness. The calm that wasn’t calm at all.

You smiled when they spoke to you, bowed your head when you passed them. You cleaned the plates after dinner even though no one asked. Said “yes, sir” and “thank you, ma’am” and didn’t let your hands shake too much when your father rested his palm on your shoulder and said, “I scheduled you to meet with Pastor Elijah again this week. He’s found a young man who’s just returned from mission work. A real good influence, I think.”

You nodded. You even smiled. It hurt like something ripping.

Upstairs, your room was too tidy. You made your bed twice. Rearranged your bookshelf alphabetically. Scrubbed under your fingernails and checked the crucifix over your door to make sure it hadn’t tilted.

You were shaking. But not from fear. From how calm you felt.

The night folded in on itself. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak.

You knelt one final time, right beside the bed. Your knees found the spot they always did, soft in the carpet from years of prayer, and your hands folded automatically, trembling as you whispered your apology to God. Again. And again. And again.

When you rose, you sat at your desk. Opened your drawer and pulled out the nicest paper you owned. You didn’t rush. You took your time. Chose a pen that wouldn’t bleed through. Drew the little margins just like you’d been taught in school, and began to write.

Not fast. Not panicked. Just steady. Just quiet. Just careful. The room was too silent for anything else. And you kept writing.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You didn’t show up to school the next day.

You didn’t wait for Ellie like you always did, leaning against your locker with that quiet, half-sleepy smile and your hair still a little damp from your rushed morning shower. You didn’t wave when you saw her coming down the hall. You weren’t there at all.

And for once, the silence hit harder than anything else.

Ellie sat alone at her locker, her foot tapping restlessly against the tile, twisting her phone in her hands. She kept looking up, every few seconds, hoping to see you turn the corner, late but grinning, maybe mouthing “don’t ask” about some dumb excuse. But the hallway kept emptying out. First period was about to start. The bell rang. Still no sign of you.

She swallowed the rising tightness in her chest. Her thumb hovered over her screen again, nerves buzzing like static under her skin. She still hadn’t gotten a reply. And she kept rereading the last thing she’d sent. It was from early that morning.

“Good morning. i had a dream about you and now i’m mad you’re not here to finish it >:( please wear that dumb shirt i like. i’ll make fun of it but also stare at your tits the whole time. also ur coming over after, no excuses x”

It had been flirty, soft. Normal. She’d woken up smiling when she wrote it. But now? Now she just stared at that message, the little “delivered” tag mocking her. No response. No “typing…” bubble. Just silence.

Something wasn’t right. Ellie bit the inside of her cheek. Her knee bounced. She tried to brush it off, tried to tell herself maybe you were sick, maybe your phone died, but deep down, her gut twisted hard. This didn’t feel like nothing.

Finally, after hesitating too long, she typed another message.

“Hey… where are you? Didn’t see you this morning.”

No reply.

First period ended, and Ellie’s nerves spiked. Her stomach churned as she lingered by the lockers, phone clutched in her hand like it might suddenly light up with everything she needed to hear. She glanced down again, thumb hovering, then finally typed another message, her fingers trembling as she hit send.

“Okay, you’re not here. This isn’t like you. Are you okay?”

Still nothing.

Second period started, and Ellie’s heart felt heavier with every passing minute. She glanced at the classroom doorway, half expecting you to walk through. But you didn’t. The hallway was full of other students, but none of them were you. None of them were the person she cared about most.

Her texts began to pour out, a flood of worry and confusion.

“Please reply. I’m really worried.”

“Did something happen? Did I do something wrong?”

“If you’re upset or angry, please just tell me. I can handle it. Just don’t leave me in the dark.”

“I’m at school. Waiting for you. Please say something.”

Her voice, usually light and teasing, was gone, replaced by something raw and fragile.

She swallowed hard, blinking away tears that threatened to fall, then sent another desperate message.

“If you’re ignoring me, I’ll understand… but please don’t make me worry like this.”

The bell for third period rang, but Ellie barely noticed. The cafeteria, the noise, the people, it all blurred around her. She was consumed by the gnawing ache of your absence.

Her phone buzzed once more, this time, a message from a friend asking if she was okay. She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, waiting for a sign from you.

Finally, with trembling fingers, she typed again.

“Please. I just want to know you’re safe.”

The day stretched on, each moment heavier than the last. Homeroom started like any other day, but the atmosphere quickly shifted. The classroom door swung open, and the teacher stepped in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his usual composed demeanor shattered. His eyes darted around, avoiding contact. He cleared his throat, voice trembling as he spoke.

“Class… I have some very difficult news,” he said, struggling to keep steady. “Last night… one of your classmates… she hung herself.”

The words hit the room like a storm. A suffocating silence fell over the students. A few gasps, whispered prayers, and then it clicked. It was you. You.

Ellie’s world tilted and then crumbled. Her breath caught in her throat, chest tightening unbearably. She barely registered the chaos around her, only the raw, unbearable truth that you were gone. She felt her knees weaken, eyes blurring with tears. Dina was immediately by her side, wrapping strong arms around Ellie, shielding her from the shock that threatened to consume her completely.

“Ellie, breathe. I’m here,” Dina whispered, holding her close as her whole body shook.

The teacher’s voice cut through the haze. “Ellie, the principal needs to see you. It’s about… about a letter she left.”

With trembling hands, Ellie followed, every step feeling heavier, like walking underwater. At the principal’s office, the stern-faced principal handed her a thick envelope sealed with your neat handwriting.

“The police found these,” the principal said quietly, “Three letters in total. One addressed to her mother, one to her father, and… one for you.”

Ellie’s fingers trembled as she broke the seal. She pulled out the letter, hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

Her eyes scanned the words, and the tears fell uncontrollably as she read:

My dearest Ellie,

If you're holding this letter in your hands, then I’ve already gone where I hope there is no more fire. No more trembling. No more nights where I lie awake begging the heavens to make me whole. I’m sorry. I don’t even know where to begin, how to explain what this weight has done to me. All I know is that I tried, Ellie. I really tried. I prayed until my knees went numb, until my voice cracked and the salt from my tears soaked through my pillow and burned my skin.

But nothing came. No answer. No mercy. Just silence. And shame.

I want you to know, with every ounce of love that’s ever lived in me, that this was never your fault. You weren’t the reason I broke. You were the only reason I ever felt unbroken at all. You were my safe place, my breath of air after hours underwater. I think maybe you were the only truly holy thing I ever touched in this life.

But the world around us… it wasn’t kind. My parents looked at me like I was already halfway to Hell, and I started to believe them. I started to believe I was something that needed to be cleansed, fixed, sacrificed. They wrapped their love in fear and called it God. And I followed them, hoping that if I tried hard enough, if I just hurt enough, He’d see I was serious about being saved.

But I was so tired, Ellie. So unbelievably tired. Of the guilt. The fear. Of waking up every morning knowing that to survive meant lying to everyone, even to myself. I was tired of looking at the girl I loved and feeling like the whole sky would fall down on me if anyone knew. Tired of praying to be made different, to be washed clean, when the love I felt with you was the only thing in my life that ever felt clean.

I didn't want to be forced into that life they kept carving out for me. A life with a boy I didn’t love, a wedding dress I’d feel like a ghost inside, a family built on a foundation I couldn’t survive. I didn’t want to lie anymore. Not to God, not to them, not to you.

And I especially didn’t want to live in a world without you in it.

Ellie, I hope you remember how your laugh used to bounce off the walls when we watched those dumb cartoons. I hope you remember how you’d tap your fingers when you were nervous, and how I used to cover your hand with mine to steady you. I hope you remember the first time we kissed, how afraid I was, and how you just looked at me like I was the whole sky. Like I was something to be loved. I never felt closer to heaven than I did in that moment.

But heaven still felt locked to me. Closed. Like no matter how hard I knocked, I was too dirty to be let in.

Do you think He’ll let me in now? I don’t know. I hope He’s more merciful than His followers. I hope He sees that I only wanted to be good. That I only wanted to be loved without having to bleed for it.

They always said God is love, didn’t they? Then why did love feel like a curse in me? Why did it hurt so much to hold your hand, to dream of a life with you, to imagine growing old beside you in a world where we didn’t have to hide? I loved you with a heart that never stopped begging to be accepted, Ellie. And when it wasn’t, I just couldn’t keep walking around in a body that felt more like punishment than promise.

I hope someday you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll laugh again. I hope you’ll fall in love again, and I hope that love is loud and shameless and full of sunlight. I hope no one ever makes you feel like you have to earn your place on this earth. I hope you tell stories about us when you're ready. I hope you feel me with you when the stars come out and you find yourself still looking for me in the quiet.

Please live, Ellie. Live fiercely. Live with both hands open and your heart unhidden. I wasn’t strong enough. But you are. You always were.

And if there's a heaven, I’ll be waiting. Watching over you. Praying that somehow, somewhere, God lets me hold your hand again.

I love you. In this life, and whatever comes after.

Forever,

Me

Ellie’s sobs exploded, raw and desperate. The walls of the principal’s office seemed to close in, the weight of your pain crushing her spirit. She collapsed into a heap on the floor, clutching the letter like it was the last piece of you left in the world.

Joel, was quickly called to come pick his daughter up. He arrived quickly, worry etched into every line on his face. Without a word, he wrapped Ellie in a firm embrace, letting her cry into his chest as the world around them shattered.

Ellie didn’t set foot in school for weeks after. Joel had been surprisingly understanding. He knew how raw everything was for her, how impossible it felt to face those halls without you there. She barely left her room, hardly answered her phone, and the world felt like a dull, hollow place without you in it.

When the funeral was announced, Ellie had been ready. She had saved every penny she had, bought a suit that wasn’t perfect, but was decent enough. A black jacket, a crisp white shirt, the kind of thing she never imagined needing. She wanted to be there for you, to say goodbye one last time.

But your parents forbade it. “It’s not appropriate,” they said coldly, their eyes hard as stone. “She’s not family. This isn’t her place.” Ellie had begged, pleaded, even sent a note she never got a chance to read aloud. They shut the door on her, and the weight of that rejection shattered something inside her. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to your funeral, not knowing you were lying there, gone forever, while she was kept outside.

For months, Ellie avoided your cemetery like it was poison. Every time she thought of going, panic would coil in her stomach. She imagined your parents seeing her, judging her again, pushing her away. So she stayed away, the silence growing louder in her chest.

Then, one gray, chilly morning a couple months later, Ellie finally showed up.

She didn’t bring flowers. She didn’t have anything shiny or perfect. Instead, in her hands was a worn copy of that stupid PG-13 movie you’d been too scared to watch, the one you’d finally braved with her, half laughing, half hiding behind your hands as the cheesy love scenes played out.

She stood by your grave, eyes scanning the simple stone etched with your name. The wind tangled her hair, and for a long moment, she just stood there, the DVD case pressed tight against her chest.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice shaky, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I wanted to come earlier but... I was scared, okay? Your parents didn’t want me there. I guess I get it, but it still fucking hurts.” She took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that slipped down her cheek.

“I miss you so much. I’ve been trying to keep going, but it feels like a part of me went with you. I wish… I wish you could’ve run away with me. Just left it all behind, you and me, somewhere far from all this. But you’re not here, and I’m stuck with all this.” She crouched down, her fingers brushing the cool stone. “I’ve been talking to you every day. Like you can hear me.”

Her voice broke as she started telling you about everything she’d been through since you left. The nights she cried herself to sleep, the little victories she held onto, the way people didn’t laugh at her anymore. Hours passed unnoticed, the sun dipping low, the sky bleeding orange and purple. She didn’t want to leave, but the cold was creeping in, and the cemetery was quiet except for her soft voice.

When she came back the next time, the DVD was gone, probably taken by your parents, who maybe didn’t want you remembered like that. Ellie fell to her knees in front of your grave, the emptiness heavier now without that small piece of you. For almost an hour, she sobbed, letting the grief pour out until she had no tears left.

Then, wiping her face on her sleeve, she whispered again, “I’m still here, you know? I’m still trying to be brave. For you. For us.”

Her voice cracked but carried the fierce determination you’d always seen in her, the kind of stubborn love that refuses to fade.

“I love you, always.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Slowly, like the first fragile shoots of spring breaking through frozen earth, Ellie began to find her footing again. The world, once a dark and endless void without you, started to hold moments of light. Small and hesitant, but real. She kept talking to you, always, but the sharp edges of pain softened into a quiet tenderness, a bittersweet memory she could carry without being crushed by it.

One afternoon, months after her long visits to your grave had become less frequent but no less sacred, Ellie sat beside your grave and whispered, “Guess what? I got accepted into the college I wanted.”

Her voice trembled with the kind of hope that had once felt impossible to feel. She laughed softly, “You’d be proud. I’m going to do this. Live, learn, maybe even be happy.”

Then came another surprise. Ellie found love again. Not the reckless, desperate kind she’d clung to before, but something steady and kind. Her girlfriend understood the piece of you that Ellie carried deep inside her heart, the part that never faded or fully healed. Instead of jealousy, there was respect, an unspoken promise that you would always be a part of their lives.

When her girlfriend found out she was pregnant, the joy in Ellie’s eyes was like sunlight piercing through clouds. They decided to name their child after you. A way to keep your memory alive, to weave your name and spirit into the future. It wasn’t about obsession anymore; it was about honoring a love that shaped them, that refused to be erased.

Years passed. When the child was old enough to understand, Ellie took her hand and led her to your grave. She knelt down, brushing dirt from the stone as she spoke softly, telling stories of you. Your laughter, your kindness, your quiet strength. She made sure your story lived on, in gentle words and loving memories, a legacy of grace and heartbreak and unbreakable love.

“Here’s someone who loves you too,” Ellie would say, her voice thick with emotion. “She carries your name, your light. We won’t let her story end, not really.”

And in that sacred space, beneath open skies and whispered prayers, the past and present mingled, a bittersweet harmony of loss and hope, pain and healing, a love that transcended even the deepest darkness.

Thank you for reading! <3

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