Forbidden Devotion

Chapter 1: The Altar of the Past ​ St. Ann’s Catholic Church hadn't changed a bit. The same chipped paint on the statues of the saints, the same creak in the floorboards of the center aisle. Elena took her seat toward the middle, her heart thumping in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the Sunday morning. ​She was there for Mass, but her mind was years away—back when she used to chase a skinny, mischievous boy through these very pews before the choir started practicing. ​Then, the entrance hymn began. ​As the procession moved toward the altar, her breath hitched. There was a young man in a white alb, walking with a solemnity that felt heavy for his age. His face was sharper now, defined by a jawline that hadn't been there when they were ten, but the way he tilted his head was hauntingly familiar. ​"No," she thought, her fingers gripping her missal. " It couldn't be Julian. Julian moved away years ago." ​Throughout the Liturgy of the Word, she felt a weight on her. Every time she looked up, the seminarian was already looking at her from his seat near the priest. His eyes were intense, searching her face as if he were trying to solve a puzzle. She quickly looked down at her lap, her face flushing. "It’s just a coincidence, she told herself. I’m just seeing ghosts." ​When Mass ended, the congregation began to spill out into the bright morning air, but Elena stayed behind. She moved toward the sacristy door, her feet moving almost against her will. ​"Excuse me," she said softly as a group of servers walked past. ​The young man she had noticed stepped out last. He stopped dead when he saw her. Up close, the resemblance was undeniable—the same deep-set eyes, the same slight curve of his mouth. ​"Elena?" he breathed. His voice was deeper than she remembered, but it carried the same warmth. ​"Julian?" She let out a shaky breath, a smile breaking through her confusion. "I thought... I thought I was imagining things. You’re a seminarian now?" ​He gave a small, modest nod, though his eyes never left hers. "Third year. I’m back at St. Ann's for my apostolic work. I saw you from the altar. I almost couldn't believe it was you." ​"I can't believe it either," she said, stepping closer. "You look so..." ​"Different?" he finished for her, a hint of the old Julian peeking through the black and white of his clerical clothing. ​"Older," she laughed. ​They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with a decade of unspoken words. There was so much to ask—why he left, why he chose this path, if he remembered the day by the creek. But the bells for the second Mass began to chime, a loud, metallic reminder of the world they were now in. ​"I have to go," Julian said, his expression turning regretful. "I have to help Father Thomas prepare for the 10:30 Mass." ​"Right. Of course." Elena felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment. ​"Wait," Julian reached into the pocket of his trousers beneath his alb and pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen. He quickly scribbled a number. "Give me yours? I don't want to lose you again, El." ​She quickly traded numbers with him, her fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second. The contact felt like a spark of electricity. ​"I'll text you," he promised, his voice low as he backed toward the sacristy. ​Elena walked out into the sunlight, her head spinning. She had her childhood crush's number in her pocket. But he wasn't just a boy anymore; he was a man belonging to the Church. And she? She had a life, a university degree to finish, and a boyfriend waiting for her at home. ​ The air in St. Ann’s had been thick with incense and unspoken history, but back in the quiet of her bedroom, the silence felt even heavier. She sat on the edge of her bed, her phone resting on the nightstand like a live wire. Ten years. A decade had passed since they were just teenagers with shared secrets, long before Julian had traded his civilian clothes for the black uniform of a man belonging to God. ​He was back home for the December break, staying with his parents just a few blocks away. The dry, dusty harmattan air of the season hung still outside, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions inside. His only real obligation during the holiday was assisting the parish priest with daily Mass, a temporary bridge between his life at the seminary and the world he had left behind. ​When the phone finally vibrated at 11:15 PM, the sudden noise made her heart lurch. She answered on the second ring, her voice a mere whisper. "Hello?" ​"I wasn't sure if you’d still be awake," Julian’s voice came through, deeper than it had been in their youth, carrying a melodic gravity. There was a brief, charged pause. "Or if you’d regretted taking my number." ​"I don't make a habit of it," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I figured you’d be tucked in early, getting ready for the morning service." ​"Being back in my old room makes it hard to sleep," he said, and she could almost hear the rustle of his sheets as he settled into the bed he’d grown up in. "My mind wouldn't settle. Seeing you today... it was like a part of my life I’d tucked away in a drawer suddenly flew open." ​The conversation started like a slow-flowing river, cautious and polite. They navigated the safe shallows first—how his studies were going, her career, and how the neighborhood had changed while he was away. But as the clock ticked toward midnight, the formal "Brother Julian" persona began to dissolve, replaced by the boy she used to know. ​Before long, the weight of his vocation gave way to the ease of their old rhythm. Julian told a story about a clumsy altar server earlier that day that had her stifling a laugh into her pillow, and he let out a genuine, chesty laugh in return—a sound that felt far too vibrant for a man destined for a life of solemnity. ​"You haven't changed a bit," he teased, his voice warm with a familiarity that bypassed the last ten years entirely. "Still as sharp as ever. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to talk to someone who doesn't treat me like I'm already wearing the collar." ​"And you're still trying to be the most serious person in the room," she countered, laughing. "Even when you're clearly failing." ​"It's the training," he admitted, his tone turning playful. "They try to beat the jokes out of us, but I think I’m a lost cause tonight." ​They spoke for hours, filling the ten-year void with jokes and memories that had nothing to do with theology. She told him about her triumphs and her clumsy mistakes; he spoke about the strange feeling of being back in his parents' house as a man who was technically no longer his own. ​"You aren't a ghost, Julian," she whispered as the conversation finally slowed. "You’re right here." ​"Am I?" He let out a breath that sounded like a confession in itself. "Sometimes I feel like I’m already gone. Like I’m watching the world through a glass partition. But tonight, talking to you... I feel like I finally stepped out from behind it." ​By the time they hung up, the December sky was beginning to turn a bruised purple. She realized then that the "Altar of the Past" wasn't just a memory—it was a foundation, and for a seminarian like Julian, it was starting to feel like a very dangerous place to stand. The days slipped by with a newfound lightness, anchored by the buzzing of her phone in the quiet December nights. During their long conversations, Julian had started teasing her, his voice mock-stern as he complained that she was always sliding into the back pew just as the opening hymn was ending. ​"You're a distraction when you're late, Elena," he had told her over the phone, though the smile in his voice was unmistakable. "Try to show the Sanctuary a little more punctuality this Sunday." ​"Fine," Elena had promised, laughing. "I’ll be there before the first candle is lit. Just you wait."