The silence here, it’s deafening. Like after church, everyone’s gone home, just the crickets and the hum of the fridge. And me. Always me. Wiping down counters, making sure everything’s set for tomorrow. For *them*. For the kids’ breakfast, for Papaw’s meds, for the damn dog. Every single thing, running like clockwork because I’m the clock. And if I stop for one second, just one… chaos. Everything falls apart. And everyone looks at me like, “Well? What are you waiting for?” God, I’m so tired. And for what? To be the good son? The good brother? The good *man*? Whatever the hell that even means anymore. All those sermons, “a man provides,” “a man protects,” “a man loves a good woman.” Like it’s just… written in stone. Passed down from generation to generation. My grandpa, my dad, they all did it. They married the local girl, had a bunch of kids, worked the land, went to church every Sunday. And now it’s my turn. Everyone just *expects* it. “When are you gonna find a nice girl, son?” “Plenty of good women in this county, you just gotta look.” Like I’m blind. Or stupid. Or defective. It’s not like I haven’t tried. Dates. Small talk. Awkward dinners at The Diner, pretending to be interested in Brenda Sue’s craft fair finds while all I can think about is… is how much I’d rather be anywhere else. Or with anyone else. And then the guilt. Oh, the guilt. Hits me like a goddamn brick. Because I know what they want. What they need. What the whole damn town expects. And I can’t give it to them. Because when I look at those girls, all I see is… nothing. Just a blank. A wall. But then I see *him*. And my stomach just flips. Like when you’re driving too fast over a hill and your insides go weightless for a second. That’s what it is. Every time. A different feeling entirely. And it hit me the other day, watching him fix the fence for Old Man Jenkins, sweat dripping, hair falling in his eyes… it hit me like a revelation. Like a lightning bolt. And for a second, just a second, I thought, “THIS. This is what they’re talking about.” That feeling. That *pull*. Except… it’s not for Brenda Sue. Or any Sue. It’s for *him*. And now? Now I’m just… stuck. Between what I’m supposed to be and what I actually am. Or what I think I might be. How do you even… how do you tell your mama, who’s prayed for a daughter-in-law and grandkids since you were in diapers, that her prayers might have been… misdirected? How do you tell the pastor, who baptised you and married your parents, that his whole damn worldview is a lie for you? That I’m not… built the way he thinks I am? This whole place, this whole life, it’s built on this one specific thing. And I don’t fit. I never did. And I’m just… floating. In this black water. And I can’t breathe.