Mia.
It felt like forever—ten agonizing minutes of kneeling in the dim confessional, the wooden kneeler digging into my skin, air thick with wax and silence.
My mind wouldn’t stop replaying that smile he’d given her.
The young nun. The way her hand lingered when she passed him the prayer book.
What the hell were they talking about for so long while people waited for confession? Laughing about something private? Planning shifts together?
The jealousy gnawed deeper with every second.
Then the door on his side creaked open. Fabric rustled as he settled. I held my breath, staring at the shadowed screen.
He couldn’t see me—not clearly—unless he leaned close to the small grate. I stayed silent until I was sure he was seated.
He made the sign of the cross, voice low and steady.
“In
