In between sundays

Chapter One It started on a Sunday. Ordinary, uneventful, and predictable.At least that’s what I thought when I left home that morning. Church has always been a familiar rhythm, the same songs, the same people, the same seats. I didn’t expect anything to interrupt that flow. But then he walked in. Late. Not hurried, not apologetic, just late in that way people do when they already know the service has started but don’t mind being noticed. He scanned the rows, and for a second I was sure he would slip into another seat somewhere else. There were plenty of spaces. But no,he came straight toward me, like he had already decided where he wanted to be. He sat beside me. At first, I brushed it off. Coincidence, maybe. After all, people sit where they like, don’t they? But it didn’t feel like that. The choice was too precise. The air shifted a little, enough for me to notice. Then came the moment with the girl. She wanted to sit between us, filling the gap that would have erased whatever invisible thread had just been spun. But he didn’t let her. Calmly, almost firmly, he told her to shift, or to return to her seat.I can’t even recall the exact words, only the weight of them. He wasn’t loud, but he was certain. And that certainty left me silent, wondering why it mattered so much to him. For the briefest second, our eyes met. His gaze wasn’t overly bold, but it wasn’t shy either. Just steady. And in that gaze, I felt seen,properly seen, like I wasn’t just another face in the congregation anymore. It was nothing, and yet, it was something. The truth is, I’d seen him before. I knew his face well enough. Our church isn’t that big; everyone notices everyone eventually. But we had always been strangers who existed in the same space. Until now. Service ended, and I slipped out as usual. I didn’t wait for anything, didn’t expect anything. But just as I was walking out, I heard it. His voice. Not directed at me, but close enough to catch. “What’s her name?” he asked. “Stella,” came the reply. I kept walking, but those words stayed with me, like an echo in my chest. He didn’t ask me directly. Maybe he was too shy, or maybe he didn’t want me to know. But I knew. I knew he wanted to know my name, and somehow, that was enough. I won’t lie,it made me feel great. The kind of great that sneaks up on you, because you weren’t expecting it. My type had never been black guys,at least, that’s what I used to tell myself. But there I was, grinning inside because one had just asked for my name. And suddenly, the “type” I thought I had didn’t matter. What mattered was the way it made me feel. And in that moment, it felt like the beginning of something. Something I couldn’t name yet, but something real.