FAITH sits cross-legged on the rug, hands clasped tightly, eyes closed but restless. Shadows curl around the edges of the room; the air feels suspended, as if waiting for something to break. The night is neither stormy nor serene—just stretched thin with expectation.
"I have done everything I was taught. I have prayed, I have fasted, I have believed with discipline. Why does the quiet feel so final tonight?"
FAITH kneels, repeating words with precision, voice growing hoarse. No sign, no change. The diagnosis remains on the paper atop the desk; a phone sits silent, stubbornly refusing to ring. The absence of response feels heavier than any reply.
"If belief moves mountains, why does this mountain not tremble? Is my surrender insufficient, or am I the one who is unmoved?"
HOPE enters quietly, her presence gentle but insistent, like the first rays of dawn. She sits beside FAITH, offering no answers, only silent companionship. The effort to keep up appearances cracks at the edges.
"I stopped telling people what was happening because they speak too quickly. They offer meaning before there is room for pain. How can I pretend when every word feels like a demand to be grateful while I bleed?"
"Let the silence stay," HOPE whispers, her hand hovering but not quite touching.
FAITH lies curled under the covers, eyes open and unblinking. She does not reach for scripture or for comfort. The collapse is not dramatic—it is an unraveling, quiet but total. She allows herself to name her loss, to call it grief instead of growth, injustice instead of mystery.
"Coping did not arrive as a miracle. It arrived as collapse. I let anger exist without spiritual editing—I cried and did not apologize to God for it."
LOVE arrives, quiet and steady, sitting on the edge of the bed. She does not try to rescue FAITH, but she listens, offering presence rather than platitudes. FAITH finds herself trusting smaller things—the warmth of the mug, her own breath, the courage of getting up.
"Some pain does not want to be healed quickly," LOVE murmurs, "It wants to be witnessed honestly."
"When faith stopped working as a tool, I stopped using it to fix anything. I used it instead to stay."
FAITH[/@ch_1] sits upright, hands wrapped around the mug, gaze steady.]
FAITH breathes deeply, accepting the quiet. HOPE and LOVE remain beside her, not as saviors but as companions who understand the limits of belief. Faith does not promise rescue, nor does it negotiate outcomes—it simply stays.
"Coping is not about restoring faith to its former strength. It is about surviving the moment when faith does not save you—and choosing to live anyway. That, I realized, is its own kind of devotion."
