Chapter Text
Have you ever… been pushed aside by the world just for being who you are?
Have you ever… buried your desires deep within, silenced by the weight of guilt and fear?
Have you ever… hated yourself for loving what your home, your faith, or your family told you was wrong?
Have you ever… held yourself back so tightly, you ended up wounding the people who tried to love you?
If any of this sounds like you—even just a little—then come.
Dive with me.
Into the familiar ache of a woman once devoted to God.
A woman who dared to love another.
Let it hurt. Let it heal. Let yourself be held.
You’re not alone.
I’ll be with you, every step of the way.
When Aeri was nine, her mother began taking her to church.
She didn’t know what to expect. She was simply told to listen—to take every word spoken from the pulpit and hold it deep in her heart. Her mother said it gently, but with a kind of quiet seriousness that told Aeri not to take it lightly.
At first, she didn’t understand anything. The sermons were long, filled with words too big for her to grasp. She sat there in silence, legs swinging above the floor, watching the adults bow their heads in unison. The language, the rituals, the songs—it was all a mystery to her.
Eventually, her mother led her to a smaller room during the service. It was part of the same building, happening at the same time, just tucked away down a different hallway. That was the children’s Bible study.
The space felt warmer, more welcoming. There were chairs sized for little legs, picture books of Bible stories, and one teacher with a gentle voice. It was quieter here. Simpler.
And that’s when Aeri first met Jimin.
A girl with a soft voice and bright eyes, who sat beside her during story time without asking, and passed her crayons when hers broke. At the time, Aeri had no idea what Jimin would come to mean to her.
But in the years that followed, Jimin would become her constant. Her first real friend. Her safe place. Her platonic soulmate.
It was also around then that Aeri began to understand what her mother wanted for her.
Be kind.
Believe in God.
Do as He says.
And so, little by little, her life began to shift. Without noise or rebellion. Without a question. Just a quiet tilt toward something she was told was good and right.
When Aeri turned twelve, her mother introduced her to the church band.
It was casual on the surface. A simple question, “Would you like to play something?” but the tone her mother used wasn’t really asking. Not truly. It had that soft edge that made it feel more like a quiet command.
So Aeri gave an answer.
“The keyboard.” She said, unsure of herself but not willing to argue.
The church’s keyboardist smiled and guided her forward. “Come.” She said kindly.
And just like that, Aeri found herself being taught the basics. Finger placement. Notes. Octaves. The keyboardist showed her how to stretch her hand, measuring the distance from thumb to pinky.
“See if you can cover a whole octave,” she said, her voice growing blurrier the longer the lesson went on. “If you can, we’ll move on to chords.”
Aeri nodded, trying to follow, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She didn’t want to be there. Not in that room, not in front of the keyboard. She wanted to go home. Or maybe just be with Jimin. Anywhere would’ve been better.
But she didn’t complain. She stayed. She practiced.
Because she couldn’t say no. Not when her mother looked at her the way she did—not with disappointment, not with anger, but with a strange softness. A look that wasn’t stern, but still pressed her down like a quiet weight.
It wasn’t a look that scolded. It was blank, almost gentle. And yet, it carried something Aeri couldn’t ignore.
And so, without protest, her journey began.
The first steps toward becoming the permanent keyboardist of the church.
Not out of passion.
But out of quiet obedience.
A few months later, Aeri was asked to play the keyboard for the worship service.
The church band told her she had improved significantly, that she was finally ready to play for the entire program. Her mother was thrilled. She smiled, placed a hand on Aeri’s back, and said, “See? I knew you could do it.”
Aeri didn’t share the excitement.
She was nervous—terrified, even. It wasn’t that she doubted her ability. She had practiced enough to memorize the songs by heart. But standing in front of a crowd, being seen and expected to perform… that was different.
She hated the idea.
People said it wouldn’t matter if she made a mistake. The congregation wouldn’t notice; most would be too immersed in their own worship, heads bowed, eyes closed. It wasn’t a concert, after all—just a Sunday service. The audience wasn’t full of professionals, just kind old faces who’d been coming to church longer than she’d been alive.
Still, none of that comforted her.
When the time came, her hands trembled as she walked up to the keyboard. Her heart pounded so loudly it nearly drowned out the music. She kept her head down the entire time, eyes fixed on the keys, refusing to look at anyone in the room. Every note she played felt like walking a tightrope—one wrong move, and she was sure she’d fall apart.
But somehow, she made it through.
She didn’t hit a single wrong note.
By the time the service ended, her nerves were so frayed she felt like one of the strings inside the church's old guitar—pulled too tight and ready to snap.
When she returned to the children’s ministry room, Jimin ran up to her with bright eyes and a wide grin.
“Aeri, that was cool!” she said, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m gonna ask if they’ll teach me to play the guitar, so we can play together!”
Aeri managed a smile, small and tired but real. And in that moment, something in her chest softened.
Maybe… maybe God had let this happen not for the stage, not for the glory, and not even for her mother. Maybe He let it happen so she could share something—create something—with Jimin.
And for the first time, that idea didn’t feel so far away.
She let herself believe it.
She let herself believe in Him.
But no matter how much she tried, Aeri couldn’t fully commit to the life of a devotee.
Inside the church, she played her part well—soft-spoken, obedient, always in the right place at the right time. But outside those walls, when the sermons faded and the hymns stopped echoing in her ears, something else stirred within her.
She found herself looking at women. Not just glancing, not just noticing—but lingering. Watching the curve of a smile, the way someone tucked their hair behind their ear, the sound of laughter that made her heart catch in her chest. She didn’t understand it at first. She only knew that it felt warm—and wrong.
Because every week, without fail, the sermons reminded her. It was a sin.
The kind that separated. The kind that defiled. The kind that damned.
Still, she brushed it off, telling herself it was just a phase. A thought. A mistake that didn’t mean anything.
But at night, when the world quieted and she knelt beside her bed, the thoughts came back stronger. Louder.
She would clasp her hands, close her eyes tight, and whisper through trembling lips.
“God, take away the evil whispering in my ears. God, please fix me.”
And when the prayer ended, the tears would come.
Because deep down, she didn’t feel broken by chance. She felt made wrong. And the guilt that consumed her didn’t feel like something she could confess—not even to Jimin.
It was a quiet, bitter thing. Wrapped in shame. Pressed into the corners of her chest where no light could reach.
And she carried it alone, because she didn’t know how to put it into words.
And even if she could—she was terrified of what might happen if someone heard them.