They move like the road already knows their names.
Footsteps certain, voices steady, palms rise: green, alive, triumphant.
And for a moment,
I move with them;
smile pressed into the noise,
breathing in the rhythm of certainty,
letting their joy carry me like wind lifting leaves.
For an instance,
I almost believe I belong.
But then, a question breaks through—
sharp, unwelcome, impossible to ignore:
Do I deserve to take part in this?
And something in me answers
not with words, but with a turning.
A Peter stirs within me—
faltering in the hollow of my chest,
caught between staying and leaving.
Not because faith is absent,
but because I am unsure if mine is enough to remain.
The truth settles in me like an unspoken confession: I am not a very devoted person.
My voice falters.
My steps lose their rhythm.
What felt certain a moment ago
begins to slip—
Until I am no longer walking with them,
but aware of the distance
growing between us.
Their light is steady. Mine flickers. Their faith moves forward. Mine looks back.
And I cannot help but ask again—
softer now, but heavier:
Do I deserve to take part in something
I cannot fully stay in?
I step back—
not all at once,
but enough to feel it.
Not because I do not want to remain,
but because something in me already has left.
Holy Week stretches before me—
palms lifted, voices rising, faith flowing—
a story of love that chose to stay
even when leaving was easier.
And I stand at its edge,
wondering why I cannot do the same.
So I remain,
not among them,
but near enough to see,
far enough to feel the absence.
A spectator of something
I almost belonged to.
Doubt in my hands.
Questions in my chest.
Faith—
still learning how not to disappear.
If love can choose the undeserving,
then maybe there is still space for me.
But even that thought feels borrowed.
So I stay where I am—
in between.
Not certain.
Not whole.
Not faithful enough to be sure.
Only this—
aware of the moment I almost stepped in,
and the quiet betrayal
That made me step away.
