The call came late.
Not loud.
Not frantic.
Just quiet enough to be dangerous.
Her name lit up my screen like a test I hadn't studied for.
I should've let it ring.
I didn't.
Her voice was steady—but something underneath it trembled.
"He's in the way," she said.
I didn't answer.
"You know what I mean," she continued. "If he's gone… everything changes."
That's when the word finally surfaced.
Unspoken—but clear.
Kill.
It hit me cold.
Not because I wanted to do it—
But because for a split second, I understood the depth of her desperation.
And that scared me more than anger ever could.
I saw it then—how desire, when unchecked, doesn't just blur lines.
It erases them.
This wasn't about love.
It wasn't even about us.
It was about escape.
And escape will ask you to burn the whole house down just to feel free.
I thought of faith.
Not the soft, comforting version—but the demanding one.
The kind that draws a line and dares you to cross it.
"This isn't who I am," I said finally.
Silence.
"You'd really choose him?" she asked.
"No," I answered.
"I'm choosing myself."
Because the moment you justify destruction for desire—
You stop being a victim of temptation
And become its weapon.
I told her I couldn't be part of this.
Not the words.
Not the thoughts.
Not the fantasy.
There are things you walk away from because they hurt you.
And there are things you walk away from because they would change you.
This was the second kind.
When the call ended, my hands were shaking.
Not from fear of her.
But from the realization of how close longing can pull you toward ruin if you don't anchor it in something stronger than feeling.
That night, I understood something with terrifying clarity:
Some temptations don't ask for your body.
They ask for your soul.
And the cost is never worth the wanting.