Angela arrived at the chapel with a mix of anger and fear.
She didn't wear makeup. Didn't bother with perfume.
She didn't come to impress — she came for the truth.
Peter was already there.
Alone. No Eva.
Just him and a worn-out brown journal in his hands.
He stood as she walked in, but she signaled him to sit.
No hugs. No words.
Just silence.
Then Peter spoke.
> "I don't want to talk. Not like this. I want you to read."
He handed her the journal.
Angela hesitated, then opened it to the page bookmarked with a broken rubber band.
---
Monday, March 3rd — 2:18 a.m.
> "God, I'm failing. Not because I touched her. But because I want to."
"I see her in dreams. I hear her voice when I fast. Is this lust or love?"
"I know she's Your daughter, but my eyes — my flesh — they keep begging for her skin."
"Forgive me. Because I don't want to fall… but I'm slipping."
Angela's hands trembled.
She turned the page.
Tuesday, April 9th — 11:47 p.m.
> "Eva is free. Too free. I admire her, yes. But I don't crave her."
"She reminds me of what healing looks like, not what I desire."
"But Lord, Angela is different. Her weakness is loud. Her spirit cries in silence. I want to guard her, not devour her."
Angela's tears dropped onto the page.
---
Peter finally looked at her.
> "I messed up by not telling you sooner. About Eva. About my struggle."
Angela swallowed hard.
> "Why now? Why this journal?"
> "Because I've been trying to be your man, when I should've been God's son first."
Silence.
> "I don't want to lose you. But I also don't want you to hold on to me if God is no longer holding us together."
That line hit her harder than any rumor did