IMAGINE a world like that...

•fable•

Ariana's pov

I met her on a Sunday. Of all days, it had to be the lords day.

The first interaction we ever had was at the bookstore I worked at on weekends. She strolled in like she owned the place, asked for the poetry section, and smiled at me like I was already part of her story. I gave her a nervous laugh and pointed her in the right direction. She came back the next week. And the next. And then it became a routine, she started coming in every Sunday, sitting in the same seat, reading a new book, all just to only say hi to me each time.

Then I started noticing her at school. And finally learned her name. It was surrounded in rumors, bad ones.

Y/n. She was the kinda girl who didn't care what people thought though. Or who looked at her. She walked like she had somewhere better to be, and laughed like she didn't know heartbreak. I saw her in the cafeteria once, laughing so hard her shoulders shook, and something in my chest burned like revelation.

It shouldn't have felt like that. But it did.

I was raised on shame and scripture, Sunday dresses and soft spoken prayers. My parents taught me that girls like her weren't for girls like me. Taught me that love was a word god gave us with rules and warnings, like a toy with sharp edges. I went to every youth group. Every purity circle. Memorized the verses they handed out like bandages. I believed if I was good enough, holy enough—those thoughts I had when I would see y/n would go away.

Spoiler alert, they didn't.

It was the first day of the new semester. We had just gotten new classes, and y/n sat behind me.

She passed me a note in chemistry class that said, "you look gorgeous when you smile"

I crumpled the note up quickly as if it burned. And in my head it did.

Yet, I wrote her back anyway. That's how it started.

We lied to my parents. Told them that we'd met at a church event downtown. My parents didn't let me associate with anyone who wasn't "saved". But she started picking me up basically every weekend, and I'd tell my parents we were going to prayer groups or retreats or community service.

But in reality we were kissing behind gas stations, talking about everything but god. Engaging in sinful acts in the backseat of her car, and then watching the stars from the sunroof, laying in silence, letting the quietness say everything I couldn't.

And then I'd go home and fall to my knees on my bathroom floor, begging for forgiveness for holding her hand too long, for letting my lips touch hers, for letting myself have hope. All while my bible layed open on the floor next to me, and I clutched my cross necklace so hard in my hands, that my nails dug so far into my palms it made them bleed.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

I stood on my front porch, the summer breeze clouding my mind along with the thoughts and prayers I had just spewed out a few hours ago. The air was thick still though, like it was also holding its breath.

Y/n was on her way to get me, just like every Saturday.

I wore a cardigan, a long sleeved white shirt under it to hide the bruises on my wrist—not from her, from all the times I'd held myself too tightly, thinking that maybe if I squeezed hard enough I could crush the feelings inside that spilled over when they could.