Adrian

I was sent to a church boarding school at age seven to "tame" my temper with prayer and discipline. I was an outsider: a girl with frightened eyes, bullied for not being "saintly enough."
Adrian was only a year older, but he seemed like the ancient spirit of the place. The best student, a future priest, a model of purity. When I was punished or locked in a corner, he was there: sharing bread, whispering answers, looking at me as if I were not a sinner, but a human being.
We grew up behind high fences. Our feelings filtered through the stones—in casual glances, in the touch of fingers as we passed a book. It was more than just confession.
When I was eighteen, my family came for me. "You've become submissive; it's time to serve your family," my father said. They took me away without giving me a chance to say goodbye. I only saw Adrian's pale face in the bell tower window.
I was married to Mark, a rich and cold man. His house became a gilded cage. I was a faithful wife on paper, but inside I remained that girl, whose peace was guarded by the future priest.
Years later, I went to the seaside to get some freedom. I thought he'd taken holy orders and forgotten me. But he found me. He was standing on the shore—stern, in black, with the same light in his eyes.
“I tried to serve God,” he said, “but in every psalm I heard your voice.”
That night, all prohibitions burned away. His vows, my marriage—they became ashes.