I loved him louder than myself

I met him in church, and something about his presence made it impossible to look anywhere else. He was tall, dark-skinned, with brown eyes that held a quiet confidence, and a taper fade that gave him a sharp, effortless edge. Slim, but not frail—there was a calm strength in the way he moved, the kind that made him look like he belonged in every room without trying. And his style… it wasn’t over the top, but it was noticeable enough to catch my attention. I found myself glancing at him repeatedly, pretending to be busy rearranging papers, checking my phone, or jotting notes in my notebook—but my eyes always drifted back. Again. And again. At first, I tried to tell myself it was harmless. Just admiration. Just curiosity. But admiration quickly morphed into something more. Every time our eyes met for a fraction of a second, my chest tightened. My cheeks warmed. A fluttering feeling crept up my stomach that I couldn’t explain. And then, as if the universe was daring me, he walked into my department. My heart jumped. My department. My rules. My responsibility. I was the leader now, in charge of welcoming new members, keeping things organized, making everyone feel included—and there he was, casually confident, scanning the room with a quiet smile that made my pulse skip. He paused near the doorway, and my brain went blank for a second, scrambling to remember the words I’d rehearsed in case I had to introduce myself. He finally walked over. And the moment he spoke, my world felt slightly off-balance. His voice was calm, measured, like it didn’t need to fill the space to command attention. “Hi,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I was told this is where I should go for the church group?” I cleared my throat, trying to sound composed. “Yes, yes. You—you’re in the right place.” My hand hovered for a second, almost instinctively, as if I could steady my racing heart by pressing my palm against the desk. “I’m… I’m the department leader. I’ll make sure you get added to the group and know how everything works.” He nodded politely, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. And for some reason, that smile felt like it was directed at me personally, like he could see through all the little masks I wore to hide my nervousness. I had to add him to the church group, so naturally, I asked for his number. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed it into my phone, and I couldn’t help but chuckle under my breath. I really liked him. More than I probably should have. He glanced around, taking in the room, and I noticed the way he interacted with others—gentle, polite, easy. People seemed to gravitate toward him without trying, but there was also a kind of calm detachment, like he didn’t need their attention to feel complete. I couldn’t stop studying him: the way he adjusted his sleeve, the tilt of his head when he laughed softly, the subtle warmth in his eyes when he acknowledged someone. Every small detail made it harder to focus on my responsibilities. I reminded myself to breathe. I was the leader here. I had a job to do. I had to stay professional. But my mind kept drifting. I imagined conversations I hadn’t yet had, jokes I didn’t know if he’d laugh at, and moments we hadn’t shared. When the service ended, I walked him out to make sure he had everything he needed. His presence was magnetic; it was like walking beside a shadow I didn’t want to leave, yet couldn’t quite reach. I couldn’t help but glance at him constantly, memorizing the slope of his shoulders, the way he held himself, and the casual confidence that seemed so natural. I laughed quietly to myself once he left, heart still pounding. I liked him, yes. But it was more than liking. There was a pull I couldn’t define, a magnetic draw that made me feel both exhilarated and terrified at the same time. I didn’t know it yet, but that pull would be the start of everything—my fascination, my hope, and eventually, my heartbreak.