CONFLICTED LOYALTIES
1177 Words
Dawn arrives.
Matt hasn’t slept. The candle on his desk has long burned out, leaving only a thin curl of smoke and the faint scent of wax.
He dresses in silence. The street outside hums with the first murmurs of life, vendors rolling open their shutters, tram bells echoing through the East Quarter. Everything feels ordinary, and yet the weight inside him hasn’t lifted.
When he steps outside, the cold morning air hits like penance.
He takes the long route to Saint Barthelemy, hands deep in his coat pockets, collar turned up. The city feels distant today, as if it’s watching him.
He passes a bakery just as they light the ovens. The scent of fresh bread fills the air, and for one brief second, he thinks of Maya, the warmth of her smile, the faint sugar on her lips from the dessert she’d stolen off a tray last night, laughing as if the world couldn’t touch her.
He pushes the thought away.
The cathedral rises ahead through the fog. He pauses at the steps, eyes tracing the great wooden doors.
Every time he comes here after being with her, the doors seem heavier.
He crosses himself out of habit, not conviction, and whispers,
“One more day. Just one more, then I’ll find the courage to tell her.”
The doors creak open, spilling golden light across the cold stone steps.
The smell of incense and old hymns wraps around him.
Inside, he sees Father Batiste by the altar, moving like a man who’s lived inside these walls too long to ever leave.
Matt exhales, shoulders tightening.
He isn’t ready for confession, but Batiste will see right through him anyway.
He steps forward, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the church, and the morning silence gives way to the low hum of the priest’s voice.
“Matthew,” Father Batiste says softly. “You’re early.”
And just like that, the guilt returns in full.
“Habit,” Matt replies. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Batiste studies him for a long moment. “You’ve been coming earlier every day, yet you seem more burdened each time. Are you sure prayer is helping you, or are you just hiding in it?”
Matt forces a faint smile. “That’s a strange question from a priest.”
“It’s the right question from a friend,” Batiste answers.
There’s no escaping the man’s gaze; it’s the kind that sees through silence.
Matt drops his eyes. “I’ve been… distracted. Someone I know is lost. I’m trying to help.”
“Then you must remember,” Batiste says gently, “helping someone doesn’t mean saving them. You’re not their redeemer.”
The words hang heavy.
Matt feels his throat tighten. “What if I love them too much to let them drown?”
“Then you must ask yourself,” Batiste replies, “if it’s them you’re trying to save or yourself.”
For a moment, Matt almost confesses everything: Maya, the lies, the nights spent holding her instead of a rosary.
But the words never come.
He only nods and mutters, “I understand.”
“Do you?” Batiste asks quietly. “Because love, my boy, is holy when it frees you. It becomes sin when it binds you.”
The silence that follows is like a wound opening.
Batiste sighs softly, turning back to the altar. “You’re pale. Go walk by the river. Clear your mind before evening Mass. I’ll cover the confessional.”
Matt nods, grateful for the escape. But he knows he won’t find peace there either.
Outside, Saint Clarion hums with its usual rhythm, trams groaning, vendors shouting, church bells cutting through the noise.
Matt wanders aimlessly through the market district, coat collar turned up against the wind. His thoughts drift to Maya again, her laughter, her warmth, her easy confidence at the party.
And Eddie. Always Eddie.
Something underneath the charm, a kind of awareness. As if Eddie had seen straight through the polite disguise Matt wore and glimpsed the hypocrisy underneath.
He stops at a café window, watching his reflection blur against the glass.
He looks like any other man, tired, maybe, but ordinary.
That’s the lie he’s built so carefully, Matt Carver, quiet researcher, historian for hire.
The lie that lets him stand beside Maya without her seeing the collar underneath.
By late afternoon, he’s back in the church office, pretending to work.
Files open before him, donation ledgers, repair requests, but his mind drifts. The faint scent of incense clings to everything, mixing with dust and the memory of confession.
The door creaks open softly. Sister Corinne steps in, her hands folded.
A tall woman in simple gray robes, calm as winter light. She smiles gently. “You’re still here.”
“Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t leave,” Matt says, half joking.
“You should try one or the other,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Father Batiste worries about you.”
“He shouldn’t,” Matt murmurs. “I’m fine.”
Corinne tilts her head. “You’ve been fine for weeks now, haven’t you?”
He looks up, startled.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You’re restless, Matthew. I see it in your eyes. It’s the same look people wear before they confess something they can’t quite name.”
“And what would that be?” he asks.
“A secret,” she says simply. “Or a person.”
She doesn’t press further, just offers a quiet nod and leaves him to his silence.
When the door closes, he exhales shakily.
It’s as if everyone in this building can smell the truth on him.
That evening, rain begins to fall.
He walks home through the narrow lanes of the East Quarter, past shuttered bookstores and flickering streetlights. The rain makes the cobblestones shine, washing the city in silver.
He takes the long route, past the old theater district where neon lights bleed into puddles.
He imagines Maya out there somewhere, working, rehearsing, laughing under the same rain. The thought should comfort him, but it only deepens the ache.
When he reaches his apartment, the phone buzzes again.
Maya ‘Don’t forget, the shoot’s tomorrow. Eddie also said You’re welcome to drop by if you want to.’
Then, a second message, ‘I’d appreciate it if you come by’
He closes his eyes, leaning against the door.
Part of him wants to refuse, to protect himself, to avoid another temptation.
The other part, the man who can’t stop thinking of her, knows he’ll go.
He places the phone beside the candle on his desk and lights the wick.
The flame dances in the dimness, throwing soft gold across the room.
His gaze drifts to the crucifix above his bed, its shadow long against the wall.
“You said love was holy,” he whispers. “But what do I do when it hurts?”
He sits in silence until the candle burns low, until his thoughts twist into prayers he can’t finish.
- Writer
