In between sundays

After a month

Chapter seven — After a Month

Peter came to church today — after about a month. My chest tightened when I saw him walk in. He was right there, calm but noticeable, like someone who carries quiet attention wherever he goes. And somehow, he sat down beside me. I couldn’t tell if my heart was racing from surprise, excitement, or just the sheer familiarity of him being near.

He greeted me first, softly, politely, and I returned the greeting. My voice sounded too loud in my head, I think, but he laughed lightly, that nervous, easy laugh that made me smile immediately. We spoke, though I can’t recall every detail — my mind was a mix of replaying old memories and trying not to fumble my words. Just like the first Sunday, it felt both familiar and awkward. We even shook hands before he settled next to me, and I caught myself staring at the subtle lines of his fingers and how they briefly brushed mine. That small touch — fleeting and unremarkable to anyone else — made me feel like something had shifted, like I had been waiting a long time for a moment I didn’t even know I’d imagined.

Our conversation started naturally. He spoke about his admission — yes, he’d been given admission! Relief and excitement painted his voice, and I laughed when he told me about writing the exam. He said that when he went to write, he was asked to stand for a girl, and he thought he was “being a gentleman in the exam center.” I promised him I would tell my family, and we laughed together, light and easy, as though the weeks of waiting had been compressed into that single moment of laughter.

Then I teased him about his younger brother, Joseph, being stubborn while recording like a pro. He chuckled and shared a story — there was a time he had recorded the entire vigil and, by the time he got home, he couldn’t even feel his hands. I laughed, imagining him exhausted, and asked if he’d be like me — the kind of brother who barely comes home. He shook his head and said he wouldn’t, that past years had been hell at home. I told him, softly, that it would stay that way until he got to his new place. He nodded, a quiet understanding between us.

We talked about school next. I asked when he would be resuming, and he said the 20th of October. I told him I’d probably resume tomorrow or sometime this week. He smiled warmly and wished me success. Something about the simplicity of that moment — that smile, that small encouragement — made me feel lighter, like I was being quietly supported, even from the bench beside him.

Even the small gestures that afternoon seemed so meaningful. When he wanted to carry my sister, he asked politely if she allowed strangers to carry her. When my books fell, he picked them up for me. When I was bending down to take something from my bag and dropped it on the floor, he was right there, guarding it so it wouldn’t fall. Every movement, every gesture, made me feel noticed in a way that was gentle, unobtrusive, and somehow intimate.

And then there was the time I asked him for the time. He didn’t have his phone with him, so he sent his younger sister to Philemon in another row to check for me. That small effort — that consideration — made my heart twist in a mixture of warmth and longing.

Yet, as much as all of this made me feel seen, I couldn’t stop thinking: maybe he doesn’t like me. I had clearly started most of the conversation, aside from greetings and the handshake. He didn’t ask for my number, even when I told him I’d be leaving tomorrow. Maybe it’s because he still doesn’t have a phone. I’d overheard him telling the pastor that he had lost it. But part of me couldn’t stop wondering: if he really liked me, wouldn’t he have tried harder to reach out?

And then, as if to answer part of that question, as he was leaving the church, he called my name to say goodbye. That voice — soft, warm, careful — made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t expect. My heart jumped and then sank all at once. He noticed me. He saw me. He acknowledged me. That one small word — my name — carried a weight that made the weeks of waiting feel suddenly worth it.

I left the church that day thinking about every single detail: the laughter, the gestures, the quiet attentiveness, the small awkward moments, and the gentle conversations. I thought about how careful he was, and yet how brave he had been to show me that picture weeks ago. I thought about Philemon, too, the dark-skinned brother, quiet but present, whose glances lingered long enough to make me question whether I was noticing him, or he was noticing me.

A month of waiting, wondering, replaying memories, and checking outfits for Sunday had finally led to this. Peter had returned. He had sat beside me. He had spoken. He had laughed. He had guarded my bag. He had called my name. And somewhere, in the small, subtle moments, I felt that something was shifting — even if I didn’t know exactly what it was yet.

A month had passed, and suddenly, it didn’t feel like enough. I wanted more Sundays. More moments. More conversations. More laughter. More of him noticing me in ways that mattered. And I realized I had been waiting — waiting for this — without even knowing it.