I’ve always tried to do the right thing.
Not out of fear. Not even out of guilt. Just… because I believed in something bigger than myself. I was raised in the church—Wednesday night youth group, Sunday morning service, the whole thing. And even when I drifted in my twenties, I never stopped praying.
So when I married Amos, I thought I was following God’s plan.
But for the past six months, my prayers have felt like static. Silence. Nothing.
Amos doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t cheat. He doesn’t scream.
He just… stopped seeing me.
He’s there, but he’s not there. He eats in silence. He sleeps in the guest room. He hasn’t touched me since February. And every time I bring it up, he tells me I’m imagining things. That I’m “emotional.” That I need to “trust the Lord’s timing.”
So I started volunteering at the shelter just to get out of the house. That’s where I met Luka.
He was the opposite of everything Amos had become—present, warm, attentive. We talked for hours that first afternoon about faith and failure and starting over. He said he wasn’t proud of his past, but he was trying to live right now. I told myself it was just a friendship.
But last night, I found myself waiting to see him walk in the door like it was the only thing keeping me breathing.
This morning, I opened my Bible and begged God for a sign. Just something. Anything.
An hour later, I heard a knock.
I opened the door… and it was Luka.
So now I’m standing here, with the man I’m not supposed to want, heart pounding, and a verse from Proverbs looping in my head:
“There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death.”
I don’t know what I’m about to do. But I know I can’t unsee this moment.
“Hey,” Luka said softly, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn denim jacket. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d bring you that book we talked about.”
I nodded, silent, feeling my pulse in my throat.
He held it out—The Cost of Discipleship by Bonhoeffer.
Of all books.
He wasn’t trying to seduce me. He was being… Luka. Kind. Thoughtful. Uncomplicated.
But I was complicated.
“Come in,” I said, almost in a whisper.
He hesitated, like he knew it wasn’t the best idea. But he stepped inside anyway.
We sat in the kitchen. The same kitchen where Amos and I used to eat late-night cereal and laugh at nothing. Now it felt like a museum—cold, still, untouched.
Luka placed the book on the table. “You doing okay?”
I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know. I’m not… I’m not who I thought I’d be at thirty-three.”
He smiled, that kind, sad smile of his. “None of us are.”
We talked for over an hour. About growing up in strict homes. About how faith can both build you and break you. About how loneliness doesn’t always feel like emptiness—it can just feel… silent.
At one point, I realized my hand was resting near his. Not touching. Just near.
And in that small space, I felt the pull.
The moment was soft and still—but dangerous.
Then he looked at me, really looked, and said, “I care about you. Probably more than I should.”
And I broke. I let out a shaky breath and said, “I don’t feel seen anymore. I feel like I disappeared and no one noticed.”
He leaned back, pain in his eyes. “I notice. Every day.”
That’s when I stood up. I had to.
“I can’t do this,” I said. “I want to. But I can’t.”
He nodded. “I know.”
He left without another word.
And I cried harder than I had in months.
That night, Amos came home late. I heard his car pull in, the soft clink of his keys.
I was sitting on the couch in the dark.
He walked past me at first. Didn’t even see me.
Typical.
But something stopped him. Maybe the silence. Maybe the fact that I didn’t call his name.
He turned back.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked at him. Really looked.
He looked tired. But also… lost.
“Amos,” I said slowly, “do you even love me anymore?”
He sat down across from me. Not beside me—across.
“I don’t know,” he said, honest in a way that hurt worse than a lie.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“But I think I stopped loving me first,” he added. “I’ve been numb for a while. Work’s been hell. I feel like I’m failing at everything. You’re the only thing in my life that still looks put together… and I didn’t know how to come to you as a mess.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“I am a mess,” I whispered. “I’ve been drowning right next to you, Amos.”
He closed his eyes. “I know. And I hated myself for it. So I ran. Inside the house. Away from you. I thought if I kept quiet, I wouldn’t ruin you too.”
That night, we talked until the sun came up.
Not everything was fixed. But for the first time in a long time, we saw each other.
Weeks passed. I stopped volunteering at the shelter. Not out of shame. Just… clarity.
Luka and I didn’t talk. He respected the boundary.
But one afternoon, I saw him outside the grocery store.
He smiled, gave a small wave. I walked over.
“I’m sorry I pulled you into my storm,” I said.
He shook his head. “You didn’t. We both needed something we weren’t getting. But you chose right. That matters.”
I didn’t realize until later how much that moment meant.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bitter. He was proud.
Of me.
It took time. Months. Counseling. Honest conversations that made my skin crawl.
Amos and I started dating again. Literally. Friday nights. Ice cream runs. Church on Sundays, side by side again.
He started reaching for my hand in public.
He moved back into our room.
We weren’t perfect. We still argued. But we didn’t hide from it anymore.
One night, he left a note on my pillow.
It said: “You stayed when I gave you every reason not to. That’s love. I’m learning it again, through you.”
A year later, I ran into Luka one last time. At a fundraiser for the shelter.
He was there with someone. A woman with soft eyes and an easy laugh.
He introduced me. Her name was Mireille.
“I told her you were the reason I started praying again,” he said with a wink.
My chest ached. But not from longing. From gratitude.
After they walked away, I stood in the parking lot for a moment. Just breathing.
I had been given a sign.
Not one that told me who to choose.
But one that reminded me who I was.
And sometimes, that’s the sign we really need.
Looking back now, I realize something important.
Temptation doesn’t always show up with danger. Sometimes it shows up with comfort.
And when you’re starving for connection, even kindness can feel like love.
But love is more than being seen. It’s choosing to see the other person—especially when it’s hard.
Amos and I still have our rough days. But we fight for each other now, not against each other.
And Luka? He was part of the journey. Not a mistake.
A mirror. A reminder. A necessary chapter in a story that’s still unfolding.
So if you’re praying for a sign, and one shows up—pause. Ask yourself not just what feels good… but what feels true.
Because the right thing isn’t always the easy thing.
But it’s the thing that leads to peace.
If this story touched you or reminded you of a time you chose faith over feeling, share it. Someone else might be needing their sign right now. 💬💛
