**Diary Entry**
I still remember her under those church arches—how she couldn’t lie beneath them. Funny how life circles back to things you think you’ve outgrown.
Back in school, I was that lad—charming, clever, and reckless. Teachers praised my grades but scowled at my mischief. Girls clung to me, and I… well, I wasn’t exactly noble about it. Jessica—Jess—had been in my class since Year One. By secondary school, she was the one they called “Pudding,” and though she shrugged it off, the barbs cut deeper as we grew older. While the other girls giggled about lads tugging their hair or stealing glances, no one glanced Jess’s way. She’d cry at home, asking her mum, *Why am I like this?* Her mum would soothe her with, *You’ll grow into yourself, love,* but we all knew the truth: Jess was different.
Me? I was worse than the rest. By sixth form, I’d latched onto Emily—pretty, cruel, the queen of our year. When she sneered at Jess, I laughed along. Maybe I wanted her approval. Maybe I was just a git.
Years passed. Jess went to university, Emily to college, me to a construction apprenticeship. We never crossed paths—until that evening by the lake in Hyde Park. I’d been celebrating a bonus with mates, ale-loud and grinning. Then I saw her—alone, feeding ducks. When she looked up, I drowned in those blue eyes. Smooth as ever, I sidled up: “Ryan. And you are, gorgeous? Fancy a stroll? Or skip to the wedding?” I handed her my card. She frowned but took it, then walked off. I chased after, slurring apologies: “Too many pints. Call me?”
She did. *Jessica.* My heart leapt. We met that evening—flowers in hand, nerves in my throat—and from then, I was smitten. She was kind, whip-smart, knitted jumpers, played tennis. At twenty-eight, I’d had flings, even a two-year shambles of cohabitation, but Jess? She was different. Only one thing unsettled me: her faith. Church twice a month, quiet about it. I never asked. Maybe she’d had demons. Maybe she was private—closed socials, no couple photos. Shy, I reckoned. Or just… her.
Six months in, I suggested moving in. She shook her head. “I’m old-fashioned, Ryan. Marriage first.” I admired that. Then, on a weekend trip to Brighton, I blurted, “Marry me. Let’s buy a ring now.”
Her face darkened. “I’ve told you—faith matters. Have you ever even stepped foot in a church? And my parents—you’ve not met them.”
I spotted a spire. “Then let’s go now.” Inside, I bulldozed ahead, asking the vicar about vows. He humoured me—*Slow down, lad*—but heard my rushed confession. Three minutes, half-hearted sins. Then, ringless but reckless, I proposed again.
Jess walked out.
“Why?” I demanded.
She turned. “I can’t lie under a steeple, Ryan. Don’t you recognise me? Jessica Sommers. From school. *Pudding.*” My stomach dropped. Memories flooded back—the taunts, her tears… and that time her father cornered me at fourteen, gripping my collar: *Hurt her again, and I’ll toss you down the stairs.*
“I lost five stone,” she said softly. “Found God. The vicar told me to forgive. I thought I had… until today.” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t even confess what you did to me.”
“Jess, I’m sorry—”
“Sorry doesn’t undo it. I loved you then. Now? I can’t.” She left.
I sat on the church steps until the vicar found me. Over tea, I confessed properly. Later, under the stars, I begged a God I’d never spoken to: *Let her forgive me.*
She didn’t answer my calls. Maybe some things—like grace—can’t be rushed. Or earned. All I have now is hope. And prayer, for what it’s worth.
