It was a mistake.
She left her bag open.
Her journal halfway tucked beneath her Bible.
The blade — old, rusted, unused — hidden in the back pocket like a ghost she swore she buried.
She had gone to refill her water bottle. Just a quick walk to the tap behind the chapel.
She didn't expect anyone to touch her stuff.
Not in church.
But when she came back — Malik was sitting on the bench.
Her journal open.
His eyes red.
The blade in his hand.
---
> "What are you doing?" she snapped, voice trembling.
Malik didn't move.
Didn't blink.
> "I didn't mean to… I swear. It fell out. The bag tilted… and I saw the journal."
> "You read it?"
> "Not all. Just… enough."
Sonia took a shaky step forward, her voice rising.
> "You had no right."
> "I know."
> "You don't get to play therapist. You don't even know me!"
Her voice cracked mid-sentence.
Tears already threatening, but held back with clenched teeth.
Malik stood slowly.
Held out the blade.
> "I don't want to fix you, Sonia. I just want to walk with you."
> "What if I don't want that?"
> "Then I'll still be here. Silently. Praying you'll let someone stay."
---
Sonia took the blade from his hand — not with anger, but with a kind of shame that makes your skin feel too loud.
She looked away.
> "You think I'm weak."
> "No," Malik whispered. "I think you're tired. And I think tired people deserve rest, not judgment."
She shook her head.
> "I don't want pity."
> "Then take this instead," he said, placing something into her palm.
It was a folded note.
A page ripped from his own journal.
Sonia opened it later — when she was alone.
It read:
> *"The night I almost watched porn during a vigil, I cried for hours afterward and still sang backup that Sunday.
The addiction didn't end in a day.
But grace started the war.
If God didn't leave me, He's not leaving you.
Let's fight our darkness together."*
— M.
---
📍That night…
Sonia didn't cut.
Didn't cry.
Didn't run.
She sat.
And for the first time since she was 15 —
she felt safe.