Time passed.

 

Not enough for things to feel settled—but enough for routines to start pretending they were. Church became something we did now. Not every Sunday like clockwork, but often enough for Stacey to feel encouraged and for me to feel like I was keeping my word. I learned when to stand.

 

When to sit. When to nod like something landed even if it didn’t fully sink in. From the outside, it probably looked like I was adjusting just fine.

Inside?


Something still felt… off.

 

Not wrong exactly. Just unfinished. Like a conversation that stopped mid-sentence and never picked back up.

 

I couldn’t put my finger on it, which annoyed me. I’m not the type to sit with confusion for long. I solve things. Address them. Move forward. But this wasn’t something I could name, and that made it harder to outrun. I wasn’t fighting God. Wasn’t resisting faith. I just felt like I was standing in a room I hadn’t fully unpacked yet—boxes stacked, labels faded, trying to live comfortably without knowing where everything belonged.

 

That feeling followed me into church the next Sunday too.

 

This time, it wasn’t just me noticing it.

 

“Duane, right?”

 

I turned as a hand reached out—firm grip, confident smile. Brother Marcus. Mid-forties. Salt-and-pepper beard. Suit pressed but not flashy. The kind of man who looked like he’d been through something and survived it without making it everyone’s business.

 

“I’ve seen you around,” he continued. “Figured I’d stop being rude and introduce myself.”

 

“Appreciate it,” I said, keeping it polite. Surface-level.

 

He nodded like he understood exactly where I was standing—even if I hadn’t said much. “You new to the church?”

 

“New-ish.”

 

He smiled. “That’s how it starts.”

 

Something about that made my shoulders tighten. Not because he was wrong—but because he sounded certain.

 

“We’ve got a men’s group on Thursdays,” he added casually. “Nothing heavy. Just space to talk. Build. Pray if that’s where you’re at.”

 

I nodded again, noncommittal. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Do that,” he said. “And don’t feel rushed. God got patience most of us don’t.”

 

That line lingered longer than I wanted it to.

 

Stacey, of course, noticed.

 

“You see?” she whispered as we sat down. “People are already connecting with you.”

 

“Yeah,” I said. “Seems like it.”

 

She smiled wide, like this was confirmation of something she’d already decided. Stacey had a way of moving forward emotionally before life caught up. Always saw potential before process. She leaned into me during worship, whispering about the wedding coordinator she spoke to that week, the premarital counseling schedule, how the pastor’s wife offered to help with planning.

 

“I really feel like this season is aligning,” she said softly. “Like God is putting everything in place.”

 

“Mmm,” I murmured, kissing her temple.

 

I meant it in the way people mean things when they don’t want to interrupt joy.

 

At home later that evening, she was glowing—phone in hand, swiping through inspiration photos, talking colors and venues and vows. I listened. Responded when appropriate. Agreed when necessary.

 

“That sounds beautiful, babe.”


“Yeah, counseling makes sense.”


“Whatever makes you feel secure.”

 

Placating wasn’t new to me—but this felt different. Heavier. Because I wasn’t lying… I just wasn’t fully present either.

 

She caught my hand at one point, eyes bright. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” I said quickly. “Long week.”

 

She nodded, accepting it, but I wondered how long those explanations would last before they started sounding thin.

 

Later that night, after she fell asleep, I lay there staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of peace people pray for.

 

But it didn’t feel like mine.

 

It felt borrowed.

 

I thought about Marcus. The men’s group. The way he looked at me like he recognized something I hadn’t admitted yet. Thought about the sermon from earlier—about alignment not being the same as agreement. About obedience requiring honesty, not performance.

 

I wasn’t performing for God.

 

I was performing for Stacey.

 

And that realization sat heavy.

 

Because loving her meant walking forward… but I wasn’t sure yet what parts of myself I was leaving behind—or why the idea of that made my chest tighten instead of open.

 

I rolled onto my side, listening to her breathe.

 

I wanted to be all in.

 

I just didn’t know how to get there without losing something I hadn’t fully named yet.

 

And that scared me more than church ever did.