Confession Booth: 2 Forgive Me, I Want to Watch

I told myself I wasn’t going back.

That I’d imagined it—that I’d taken something small and twisted it in my head until it became obscene. Surely no one would risk desecrating the church like that. Surely I had dreamed the way his growl shook the confessional walls, the way her moans had soaked into the velvet curtain like incense.

But when the clock struck eleven, I was there again.

Keys trembling in my hand. Pulse fluttering like a sinner before judgment.

The church swallowed me whole the moment I stepped inside.

Candlelight bled across the stone floor, faint and flickering. Shadows stretched long between the pews. The silence wasn’t gentle—it was sharp, as though it knew what I had come back for.

The confessional sat waiting. Still. Empty.

Curtains parted. Booth quiet.

No rustle of clothing. No whispered hunger.

I should have felt relief. I should have thanked heaven and gone back to my mop.

But disappointment coiled arou