https://virgool.io/feed/@m_78469497 fa 2026-04-15 01:18:15 https://files.virgool.io/upload/users/4153503/avatar/D993Fb.jpg?height=120&width=120 https://virgool.io/@m_78469497 https://virgool.io/Letter/my-dear-victoria-what-is-a-sinner-nnxlebmtlz1s I should be studying instead of this, wish I could.Inner Monologue — Nicola Everhart, Oxford, 1976It feels like I’ve swallowed a storm.Every breath tastes of fear and sweetness, both at once. God, what is wrong with me? I used to know what was right and wrong, there were rules, lines drawn in white chalk by Father McLeary, by my mother’s stern prayers, by every Sunday morning when I’d kneel and beg for forgiveness for sins I hadn’t even committed yet.But now,Now I close my eyes and I see her.Victoria Whitmore.Her name feels like sunlight pressed against my ribs. I see her everywhere. In the library’s silence, in the shadow of the chapel spire, in the green glass of the quad when it rains. Every time she laughs, quietly, as if afraid the sound might break something sacred, I feel my chest ache in a way that no sermon ever taught me to understand.I dreamed of her again last night.I dreamed I kissed her.I woke up shaking, drenched, whispering prayers I didn’t believe in anymore.“Forgive me, Father… forgive me.”But my voice trembled, and somewhere deep inside, another voice whispered; why should you be forgiven for something so beautiful?And I hate myself for it.I hate that my heart is not obedient. That my soul bends toward her like ivy to the sun. I’ve tried to starve the thought, to wash it away with holy words, to bury it under study and scripture, but it grows, it keeps growing. She looked at me this morning in the lecture hall, just a glance, nothing more, and it felt like I’d been seen. As if for the first time in my life, someone looked past the face I wear for the world.And what does that make me?A sinner.A fool.A girl too weak to love the “right” way.But if this is sin, why does it feel so pure?When I think of her, I don’t think of filth or desire the way Father spoke of it. I think of quiet things. her hands, trembling slightly when she writes. The way her lips move when she reads to herself. How she looks when the wind lifts her hair near the river. There’s nothing wicked in that, is there? Only beauty. Only tenderness.And yet… I feel damned.Because I know what they would say, what my mother would say, her voice trembling with disappointment, as if she could already smell the smoke of hell in my hair.“You mustn’t let the Devil whisper in your heart, Nicola.”But what if the Devil’s voice sounds like hers? Soft, kind, gentle, so unlike the fury I was warned of. What if the Devil is not fire, but warmth?Sometimes I want to run to her. To tell her everything. To say that she is the most beautiful thing God ever made, and that I think He must have made her only to test me. To see how far I can break before I stop calling His name.I want to protect her.I want to hold her hands, the hands she thinks are ugly, and tell her they’re perfect, that I could spend a lifetime tracing every line of them like scripture.I want to tell her that she deserves to be loved gently, wholly, endlessly.But I can’t.Because if I do, the world will eat me alive. They’ll call me unnatural, corrupt, lost. And maybe they’ll be right. Maybe I am lost.There are moments when I kneel to pray and nothing comes out. I just stay there, silent, feeling the cold of the stone under my knees, wondering if God has already turned His face away from me.And yet, when I see Victoria smile, I almost believe in something holy again. Not the God I was raised to fear, but a quieter one—one that hides in beauty, in art, in the curve of a laugh, in the trembling space between two people who dare not touch.I think love must be both heaven and hell at once.And I’m caught between them; burning and blessed.Oh, Victoria.What am I to do with you?What am I to do with me?I wish I could tear this feeling out before it destroys me, but every attempt just buries me deeper. I’ve tried ignoring her. I’ve tried avoiding her path, sitting on the far side of the hall, keeping my eyes on my books. But then she appears again, walking through the courtyard, sunlight on her hair.and I’m undone.There is something cruel about beauty.It demands worship, even from those who don’t believe.I keep thinking, if she knew. If she could see what I see when I look at her.Would she hate me?Would she flinch?Or would she understand?No, no, she wouldn’t. She’s good, gentle, pure. The kind of girl heaven has a place ready for. Not like me.And yet… when she looks at me, there’s something in her eyes. Something quiet. Almost frightened. Almost the same.But I mustn’t hope. Hope is the cruelest sin of all.I wonder, sometimes, if God made me wrong.Or if the world did.All I know is that I am tired of running from what feels so achingly human.I am tired of hating myself for wanting to love something good.And stillwhen night falls, and the chapel bells toll, and everyone sleepsI whisper her name into the dark,and it feels like prayer. Maxine(max) Maxine(max) Wed, 22 Oct 2025 10:44:05 +0330 https://virgool.io/Letter/%D9%86%D8%A7%D9%85%D9%87-%D8%B3%D9%88%D9%85%DA%A9%D9%87-%D9%87%D8%B1%DA%AF%D8%B2-%D9%86%D8%AE%D9%88%D8%A7%D9%87%DB%8C-%D8%AE%D9%88%D8%A7%D9%86%D8%AF-zdfvztmfgwap I was always too drowned in the sky.too far from everything that had a name, too close to nothingness.The blue above wasn’t just air to me; it was an endless ocean waiting to swallow me whole.Silence was my companion, whispering promises of vanishing,of becoming one with the weightless dark.I used to think falling was freedom.I used to think gravity was a curse.My feet never belonged to the ground.They trembled at the touch of soil,yearning to drift, to escape the heavy pull that kept me here.The earth felt foreign, too alive, too loud,a beating heart I couldn’t bear to echo.So I dreamt instead of dissolving,of surrendering myself to the sky’s cold mouth.I wanted to be consumed by something infinite.And then... it was you.You appeared like a phantom stitched out of dawn and dust.Your eyes carried the weight of storms,your voice, gentle, but it burned through the silence like candlelight through fog.You reached out, so effortlessly,as if you had always known where I would fall.You held my hand.And suddenly, everything I believed about falling changed.Because for the first time, I didn’t want to disappear.I didn’t want to belong to the sky anymore.You didn’t pull me down, you anchored me.Your voice was softer than gravity, but stronger too.You said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”And I didn’t.I felt the world breathe beneath me again.the earth that once rejected me now kissed the soles of my feet,and I wondered, was it the ground, or was it you?Maybe it was your lips hidden in the wind,your warmth threading through the air,your pulse that replaced the weight of gravity itself.Because now, when I walk, the world feels different.It no longer drags me down, it holds me close,like a creature afraid to lose what it revived.Every step I take feels like a quiet confession from the universe:You are meant to stay.But sometimes, the sky still calls me,its hollow voice echoing through my bones,sweet as sin, cruel as longing.It tempts me with the promise of weightlessness,of peace dressed in oblivion.And I almost answer.Until I remember your hand,warm and human and real,pulling me back from the edge of that pale, endless hunger.You made the sky look less lonely.You made falling look like flying.You painted halos around my shadows and turned my ruin into prayer.And maybe I am still a slave,but this time, to something holy.To you.If gravity is what keeps the stars from drifting apart,then you are the reason I haven’t vanished into the blue.You are my gravity,my weight, my warmth, my home.And every time the wind calls me to disappear again,I hear your voice echo through the silence,a promise, a spell, a soft curse of love:Stay.And I do.Even when the night opens its mouth to swallow me,I stay.because your name has become the ground beneath my feet,and I can’t remember the last time I truly wanted to fly. Maxine(max) Maxine(max) Tue, 21 Oct 2025 08:45:19 +0330 https://virgool.io/Letter/%D9%86%D8%A7%D9%85%D9%87-%D8%A7%D9%88%D9%84-djbczstasaqd My dearest,I’ve been sitting here for hours, watching the moon crawl through the window, trying to write something that doesn’t sound like love. But everything that spills from my hands ends up shaped like you. Every word bends toward your name. Every sentence trembles with your breath.I told myself I’d stop. That I’d stop turning you into metaphors, stop translating you into poetry you never asked to be.But I can’t.Because somewhere between your laughter and the way you looked at me that one time, you stopped being just a person and became something divine.And I hate that.I hate that I did that to you.I wish you were still just a human to me.I don’t want to look at you and see poetry.But I do.And I think I always will.You exist in me like a quiet song that won’t end.Even when I try to forget, even when I fill my head with noise, your melody lingers. soft, persistent, unforgiving.You’ve become the ghost that moves between my ribs, the ache that feels too gentle to exorcise.I keep trying to tell myself you are only a girl - flesh and blood and flaws - but my heart refuses to listen. It insists you are something eternal. The kind of beauty that ruins a person for anything else.And I hate myself for loving you this way — not gently, not sanely — but with that burning devotion that eats everything it touches.I’m sorry.I’m sorry that my love feels like a prayer.I’m sorry that I look at you and forget how to speak in plain language.I’m sorry that I’ve turned you into my favorite tragedy.You didn’t ask to be worshipped, and yet every time you walk away, I feel like I’m being abandoned by a god I never believed in until you.You’ve become a religion I never wanted to follow, and I keep kneeling at your altar, whispering your name like a confession.I wish I could unlearn the way my soul leans toward you.I wish I could scrub your voice out of my memories, your smile from my skin.But even when I close my eyes, you’re there, in the spaces between my thoughts, in the places where light refuses to reach.And still, somehow, I don’t regret it.Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me.Because loving you feels like being alive for the first time, and dying for it, all at once.Maybe that’s the curse of love like thisYou can’t touch it without being consumed. You can’t look at her without seeing something that shouldn’t exist. You can’t walk away without bleeding.I think if you ever loved me, even a little, you’d understand what I mean when I say:you’re not just a person anymore. you’re the ache that built a home inside my bones.And I’m sorry.I’m sorry that I can’t stop writing about you, even though you’ll never read this.I’m sorry that you’ve become the only truth that feels real.I’m sorry that I keep finding you in every sunset, every quiet song, every breath that hurts too much to take.I don’t want to love you.But I do.And I think I always will.I wish you were still just a human to me.I don’t want to look at you and see poetry.But I do.And I think I always will.-‌ Yours, in every verse I never meant to write Maxine(max) Maxine(max) Wed, 08 Oct 2025 13:25:02 +0330