“I went. Three weeks later. Still hungover. Still angry. But I went. And for the first time, I didn’t feel invisible. I didn’t feel like I had to prove anything. The worship…the message…it cracked something open in me.”
I feel Ivy’s hand slide over mine now.
“I didn’t give my life to Jesus that day. Took a few more Sundays. A few more breakdowns. But when I finally said yes…it wasn’t because I had my life together. It was because I didn’t. And He still wanted me anyway.”
I close my eyes. “That wrecked me.”
Ivy squeezes my hand, and I look at her again.
She’s crying. Silent tears. No dramatics. Just emotion—real and raw.
“You’re not him anymore,” she whispers.
“No,” I say quietly. “But he still lives in my head sometimes. And I’m scared if I’m not careful, he could come back.”
Her thumb brushes mine, slow and grounding.
“He won’t,” she whispers. “Because you’re not fighting alone anymore. Not against your past. Not against the lies in your head. You have Him now. And you have me.” She swallows, her tears catching in her throat. “I know what it’s like to hear that voice that says you’ll never be enough. But I’ve seen what grace can do. And Gray, that grace is all over you.”
And I want to believe that.
I really do.
We’re still sitting close. Too close.
Her fingers are laced with mine, her other hand resting lightly against my leg. And maybe it’s the quiet. Or the safety. Or the way she looked at me when I told her everything. But suddenly the distancebetween us feels like it’s shrinking without either of us moving.
I glance at her lips.
Then away.
Then back again.
And I can feel it—that pull.
The one that starts in my chest and burns its way down.
She leans her head against my shoulder, and I exhale slowly, trying to steady my pulse. But the scent of her, the softness of her body tucked against mine—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
I swallow hard. “I missed you too.”
She turns just enough to look up at me, her hand still in mine. The space between us collapses inch by inch. One of my hands slides around her waist without thinking, pulling her just a little closer. Her hand rests against my chest now, over my heart. I know she feels it—how fast it’s pounding.
She tilts her face up.
I should move.
I don’t.
My nose brushes hers, and her breath catches.
“Ivy…” Her name is a warning. A prayer. A plea.
But I don’t pull back.
Neither does she.
