I told myself I was done.
That I was stronger now.
That the choice I made was permanent.
But strength isn't proven when temptation is gone—it's proven when it comes back dressed familiar.
Her presence returned slowly, like a memory you don't invite but can't stop replaying. A text here. A look across a room. A reminder of how easily she could undo me without ever touching me.
I hated how fast my body reacted before my mind could speak.
That was the part I didn't want to admit.
I wasn't weak to her words.
I wasn't weak to her lies.
I was weak to her.
The way she moved like she knew exactly what she was doing. The confidence. The control. The way she made me feel chosen, powerful, alive. Desire didn't knock—it assumed it still belonged there.
One evening, I ran into her unexpectedly.
She didn't rush me. Didn't corner me. She just stood there, calm, patient—like a hunter who knows the prey is already tired.
"You look different," she said.
"So do you," I replied.
She smiled. That same smile. The one that never asked—it invited.
"I never meant to ruin you," she said softly.
"I know," I answered.
That was the lie.
Because intention doesn't matter when destruction is the result.
She stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to remind.
For a moment, faith felt far away. Quiet. Desire, on the other hand, was loud—demanding, convincing, familiar. It told me I could control it this time. That I'd already proven myself.
That was the most dangerous thought of all.
I wanted to reach for her.
To forget the cost.
To choose the feeling over the future.
And for a second—I almost did.
That scared me more than anything else so far.
Because it showed me something I didn't want to face:
Walking away once doesn't mean you're healed.
It just means the wound hasn't reopened yet.
I stepped back.
Not because I didn't want her—but because I knew exactly where that road ended.
She studied my face, seeing the fight.
"You're still weak to me," she said—not proud, not cruel. Just honest.
"Yes," I admitted.
Then I turned and walked away anyway.
Weakness isn't failing.
Weakness is knowing your limits and choosing distance before desire turns into disaster.
That night, I prayed again—not for strength this time, but for wisdom.
Because strength runs out.
Wisdom knows when to leave.
And I was finally learning the difference.