How it started

In every story, it’s impossible to begin without there being a beginning.

FLASHBACK

Via’s POV

Ever since I was a child, it’s been our family tradition to attend church. Our church has always felt like home. It was warm, familiar, full of kind faces and comforting smiles. The kind of place where everyone knows your name, and the walls themselves seem to remember your footsteps. But there was always one person who made every Sunday feel different. He made it feel like something more than just routine.

He was always there, from as far back as I can remember. We were only born a year apart, but he somehow always felt older. Quieter. More composed. His name is Pablo, our pastor’s son.

Every Sunday, while the choir sang and my aunt and uncle whispered prayers beside me, I would find myself stealing glances at him. Pablo never talked much, only to a few people close to him. But that quietness wasn't empty. It was full of thought, calm, and something about it pulled me in.

He listened to his father’s sermons like every word mattered. There was this calm energy in him, like peace was something he carried in his pocket. I admired that. At first, it was simple admiration. But week after week, that admiration slowly grew into something deeper, something warmer.

I started noticing the way he always sat in the same pew. How he’d tilt his head slightly when something his father said struck a chord. The way his eyes softened when he smiled, though it was rare. We never talked, not once. Our only interactions were fleeting—a quick glance, shared silence in passing, the sound of my breath quickening if we got too close.

I remember one particular moment like it was yesterday.

I was on my way out of the restroom, not knowing he was coming in. The hallway was quiet, almost holy in its stillness. And then suddenly, there he was. Walking toward me.

Our eyes met.

Just for a moment. One second of mutual surprise and unspoken words. My heart froze.

Then, my handkerchief slipped from my fingers. It floated softly to the floor between us. He leaned forward to pick it up, but instinctively, I bent down faster and grabbed it. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I panicked. Maybe I was scared to let him see me blush.

He hesitated for a second, then gave a shy smile and walked away. I stood there, gripping the handkerchief tightly, completely frozen in place.

The entire walk back to the pews, I was mad at myself. Why didn’t I let him pick it up? It could’ve been our first real moment, the beginning of something. But all I had was a glance and a heartbeat too fast.

Still, that eye contact—the way his eyes held mine, warm and unsure—is embroidered in my memory like a quiet miracle. In that brief second, something passed between us. Something real.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him.

But to me?

It was everything.

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