Wanting her didn't end when I walked away.
It followed me home.
It sat beside me in silence.
Laid down next to my prayers.
Waited patiently while I pretended I was at peace.
Distance doesn't kill desire.
It sharpens it.
The more I chose wisdom, the louder my body argued.
The more I said no, the more my mind replayed every almost.
Her laugh. Her confidence. The way she looked at me like I was something dangerous and rare.
I told myself I missed the feeling.
Not her.
That was another lie.
Because feelings don't have faces.
She did.
I wanted more of her—not in touch, not in words—but in the way she made the world feel louder, brighter, heavier. She reminded me of a version of myself that didn't hesitate. A version that acted first and prayed later.
That version scared me.
At night, I wondered if discipline was just desire with its hands tied.
If faith was courage—or simply fear dressed as obedience.
I didn't reach out.
But I didn't forget.
Wanting her became a quiet ache.
Not sharp enough to run from.
Not soft enough to ignore.
I realized something then:
Walking away saved me from destruction.
But it didn't free me from longing.
Longing is patient.
It doesn't demand.
It waits.
And the hardest part wasn't resisting her—
It was accepting that part of me would always want what I cannot afford to choose.
I wasn't craving sin.
I was craving intensity.
Connection.
To feel seen without effort.
She gave that easily.
Too easily.
That's why it cost so much.
So I sat with the wanting.
Didn't feed it.
Didn't fight it.
Just acknowledged it.
Because maturity isn't pretending you don't want.
It's knowing what you want—and refusing to let it own you.
I wanted more of her.
But I wanted my future more.
And for now, that had to be enough.