Done bleeding

Sunday morning light spilled through the stained-glass windows, casting the pews in rose, green, and gold. The sanctuary wrapped around me like an old quilt—worn, warm, familiar. I slid into my usual seat just as the music started. The first strum of guitar, the hum of keys, the rise of voices—soft at first, then steady—filled the room like breath.

Lyrics lit up the overhead screens, but I barely glanced. My lips moved from memory. My body was present. My mind wasn’t.

I kept drifting back to Thursday night’s Bible study—everyone folding up and putting chairs away after it concluded, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Mia had leaned in, her voice low, careful. “Cole chose to attend St. Mark’s across town,” she said. “Said he wanted to give you space—from him.”

I nodded like it didn’t matter, but the words stuck. My history with Cole didn’t end clean—it was a splinter still lodged deep.

When I finally told Cole at the diner how much he’d broken me, it felt like surfacing after years underwater. My voice shook and my hands trembled, but I said it. And something inside me shifted. I stopped waiting to be rescued. I stopped explaining myself. I chose me and I didn’t look back.

The music swelled and the voices of the worship team crescendoed, tugging me back into the present—the rhythm of hands clapping in time and voices rising in unison. I blinked, staring at the screen. That same question crept in again: Did I do the right thing?

After the service, the congregation flowed into the foyer—chattering, hugging, laughing. I lingered by the coffee table, holding a cup I hadn’t touched. Mia found me again, her expression a little hesitant.

“If you ever want to talk to Cole—or want me to pass something along—I can. I just want peace between you two.”

I looked at her. Something prickled at the base of my neck.

“Mia,” I said, voice cold but firm, “would you go back to an ex who cheated on you? Would you want people pushing you to patch it up just because it used to be good?”

Her eyes widened. “No,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Exactly.” I exhaled. “I hope he finds what he’s looking for at St. Mark’s. But I’m done walking circles around the same pain, hoping it’ll hurt less next time.”

She nodded, squeezed my hand and slipped into the crowd. I stood there, watching people sip coffee, flip through bulletins, and make small talk. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something give. Not weightless—but lighter.

Maybe this was healing—not the kind you get from a sermon, but the kind that comes from hard truths and clear lines. I don’t come to church every week to chase God or faith. I come to be around people. To feel like I belong somewhere.

I finally took a sip. That’s when Pastor Dan and his wife, Linda, walked up.

“Hey,” Dan said warmly. “Noticed Cole wasn’t here today. He said he’d be when we spoke on the phone Tuesday—mentioned you two were close?”

I met his eyes—kind, sure, but searching. How much truth did I owe them?

“Cole and I go way back,” I said evenly. “He chose to practice his faith at St. Mark’s. Probably for the best—for both of us.”

Linda reached out, resting her hand gently on my arm. “We love seeing you every week.”

I nodded. They smiled and melted back into the crowd, but I stood still. The coffee in my cup was lukewarm. My heart was steady. Maybe healing isn’t about fixing every cracked edge. Maybe it’s about seeing things clearly, letting go of what’s not yours, and choosing to move forward anyway.

The sun had climbed higher. I stepped off the curb and into the light.

“Hey!” Dan called behind me. I turned.

He jogged up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually—one more thing. My younger brother’s visiting from out of town. He’s single. Ridiculously attractive—don’t tell him I said that—and just as allergic to small talk as you are.”

I blinked. “Your brother?”

Dan grinned. “Technically. Same parents. Same genes. God’s sense of humor.”

He gestured toward the steps. A man stood beside Linda—broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, in a navy Henley and jeans. Relaxed, casual. The mountain of curls, the jawline, the quiet confidence... very Italian. He turned like he felt eyes on him and smiled. Slow and warm.

Suddenly I saw it—the shared bone structure. Where Dan was pale like me, Marcus wore their Italian heritage more clearly, like my own cousins and siblings. It wasn’t hard to spot the mix.

I looked back at Dan. “You two don’t even look related.”

Dan laughed, already motioning me forward. “That’s genetics for you. And divine humor.”

Before I could say no, he was waving me toward the steps. “Come on. You’ve got to meet Marcus.”

As we walked up, Marcus turned fully to face me. That smile deepened.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and smooth. “So, you’re the reason Dan’s been pacing and muttering all morning.”

I raised an eyebrow, brushing fingers with his as we shook hands. “Oh really?”

Dan clapped Marcus’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

He vanished back inside, leaving us alone in the sun.

Marcus tilted his head. “You hungry?”

I hesitated, then smiled. “Always.”

“There’s a spot nearby. Best Italian food in town. My treat.”

“Sounds good.”

“We can walk or drive—your call.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Gotta swing home and let the dogs out. I’ll be five minutes behind you.”