𓆦𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚝𓆦

Sunday morning crept in with an unforgiving brightness. Dakota squinted at the morning light slipping through his curtains, already feeling a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the day itself and everything to do with where he was going. Sundays always meant church. Church meant keeping up appearances, adhering to his family's expectations, and silencing that voice inside him that longed for something different.

Dakota padded over to his closet, eyeing the selection of clothes with a tightness in his throat. His mother had already chosen a floral dress for him, hanging it on his closet door with a pointed sense of purpose. He felt a dull pang of resentment, knowing exactly how the conversation would go if he asked to wear something else. He longed for slacks, a button-up—anything that would let him feel closer to the person he knew himself to be. But his parents wouldn't have it. Dresses, pastel cardigans, a pair of ballet flats—those were "God's expectations" for him.

"Manon!" His mother's voice echoed from the hallway, a gentle summons laced with urgency. "Are you getting ready? We need to leave soon."

"Yes, Mama," he replied, pulling on the dress reluctantly. It felt all wrong, its loose, flowing fabric clinging in all the wrong places, emphasizing a body he wanted to hide. He forced himself to take a breath and stared into the mirror, his fingers clenching at the dress's hem as he willed himself to let go of his reflection.

"God sees the heart, not the clothes," he reminded himself in a whisper. But even that reassurance felt hollow. It didn't matter if God saw his heart when everyone around him saw only the illusion his parents insisted he maintain.

Downstairs, his mother was waiting with a smile that looked like it had been rehearsed. She approached him, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his dress, adjusting the collar to sit just so. "You look lovely, Manon. Just like a young lady should." There was a glint of pride in her eyes, a satisfaction in her control over how he looked. Her hands lingered on his shoulders as she stepped back, admiring him.

"Thank you, Mama," he murmured, his voice steady, though inside he was screaming. He cast his gaze to the floor, desperate to keep his face from betraying the resentment bubbling beneath the surface.

"Remember," his father added, his voice a low rumble, "God gave you this body to honor Him. It's important to show that respect, even in how you dress."

Dakota nodded, numb to his father's words by now. His father's gaze was stern, expectant, watching him with an intensity that left no room for argument. Church attire was just one of the many non-negotiables in the household, an unspoken rule that Dakota had grown up learning to obey without question.

As they left the house and climbed into the car, Dakota tried to distract himself by focusing on the scenery as it passed by, counting the seconds until they arrived at church. Soon, the steeple came into view, its pointed spire looming above them like a reminder of every obligation he carried.

The congregation was already gathering by the time they arrived. Dakota followed his parents into the main hall, keeping his gaze lowered, hands clasped together tightly. But then, across the room, he caught sight of Rodrick, sitting beside his family in a row just a few pews over. Rodrick looked effortlessly out of place, his leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, his unruly hair refusing to stay neat even in this space of rigid conformity. He was fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve, looking bored but comfortable, unfazed by the disapproving glances he received from the older churchgoers.

Dakota's heart gave a little leap, a strange mix of embarrassment and admiration stirring within him. How did Rodrick manage to be so unapologetically himself, even in a place like this? As if sensing his gaze, Rodrick looked up and caught Dakota's eye. He gave a slight nod and a smirk, as if sharing a private joke, and Dakota felt his cheeks flush. He quickly looked away, hoping his parents hadn't noticed.

The service dragged on, the preacher's words blending into a monotone drone in Dakota's mind. Every now and then, he dared to glance in Rodrick's direction, catching little glimpses that made his heart race. And then, as if sensing his need for release, Dakota's thoughts drifted to memories of Rodrick from last night—the concert, his confidence, that fleeting moment when he'd called him "Baby." The nickname was so unlike anything his parents would have chosen, and yet it felt more real, more fitting, than "Manon" ever had.

At last, the service ended, and people began filtering out of the hall. Dakota's mother nudged him toward a group of other churchgoers, and he found himself smiling politely, nodding at the appropriate moments, all while feeling the press of expectation weighing down on him.

"Manon, I don't think I've seen you wear that dress before," an older woman commented, eyeing him approvingly. "You look just darling."

"Thank you," Dakota murmured, keeping his voice light. Inside, he wanted to scream.

As they finally left the church, his parents kept up a steady stream of conversation, his father offering critiques on the sermon, his mother nodding in agreement. Dakota trailed behind them, feeling as if he were fading into the background, a mere accessory to their ideals. But then, as they reached the car, he noticed Rodrick hanging back near the church doors, watching him with a curious expression.

"Hey, Manon," Rodrick called out, his voice a bit louder than necessary, as if he didn't care who heard. His tone was easy, laid-back, and Dakota felt his heart skip a beat.

Dakota's parents looked back, his father's gaze narrowing slightly as he took in Rodrick's disheveled appearance. "Do you know him, Manon?" he asked, his voice filled with thinly veiled disapproval.

Dakota's mouth opened, but no words came out. Rodrick saved him by taking a few steps closer, flashing a grin that seemed to defuse some of the tension. "We have a couple classes together," he said casually, offering a nod to Dakota's parents. "Just wanted to say hey."

Dakota forced a smile, nodding as his parents glanced between them. His mother's gaze softened slightly, though she still looked wary. "It's nice of you to be so friendly," she said, her voice polite but guarded.

Rodrick shrugged, his grin never faltering. "Guess I'll see you around, Manon," he said, giving a casual wave before sauntering off to join his family.

As they got into the car, Dakota's father's expression remained tense. "People will think we let you associate with boys like that," he muttered under his breath.

Dakota said nothing, pressing himself against the seat and closing his eyes. As the car pulled away, he could still feel the warmth of Rodrick's gaze lingering, like an ember sparking something deep inside him that his father's words could never extinguish.

---

As the car hummed along the road, Dakota found himself clenching his fists in his lap, trying to push away the tightness in his chest. The ride home was quiet, save for his father muttering occasionally about the sermon or his mother's soft sighs, but it felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of unspoken expectations.

Dakota stared out of the window, watching the world blur by as they neared their house. His mind was far away, tangled in thoughts of Rodrick and how his presence had seemed to fill up the church, despite his obvious discomfort there. Rodrick had been so carefree, so unafraid to simply be himself, and it made something inside of Dakota stir. But what disturbed him most was how he felt—how his heart had raced, how he'd caught himself thinking about Rodrick after he'd left the church.

As the car pulled into the driveway, Dakota's mother's voice broke through his reverie. "Manon, when we get inside, you need to help me prepare dinner."

"Yes, Mama," he muttered, the words automatic, as though he were on autopilot. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, his legs feeling like lead. The house loomed before him, an unwelcoming, familiar place. His chest tightened again as he followed his parents inside.

The smell of the roast they'd prepared earlier in the day hit him as soon as he stepped through the door. It should have been comforting, but it only made him feel more disconnected. Dakota had always associated the smell with forced smiles and strained family dinners, where everything was expected to be perfect, from the food to the way they behaved. It wasn't a place for questioning or truth. It was a place where everything had to be as it should be—just like his dress, just like the life his parents had planned for him.

As his mother moved to the kitchen, Dakota stood in the hallway, listening to the clink of plates and the bustle of her preparations. His father had already settled into his armchair, the TV flickering in front of him, a dull hum filling the room. Dakota's stomach twisted. There was no escape here, no room for him to breathe, to just be.

After a few moments, his mother called to him. "Manon, come set the table."

With a heavy sigh, Dakota moved to the dining room. He set the table quietly, taking care to follow every little instruction his mother had ever drilled into him. The knife and fork had to be precisely positioned, the glasses filled to the right level. Each movement felt mechanical, like he was walking through a script written by someone else, someone who had no regard for what he needed.

Dinner passed in almost complete silence. His parents spoke only to comment on the food or exchange pleasantries about the day's events. They were polite, but it was always clear that anything personal was off-limits. They didn't ask how he was doing at school, didn't inquire about his friends or his life outside the walls of the church and their expectations.

"Manon," his father said finally, breaking the silence. "You know, I've been hearing good things about you at church. People are starting to notice you. Your behavior—well, it's improved. But I can't help but think you need to focus more on what's important. What we're doing is for your salvation. It's for your own good."

Dakota's stomach dropped. The pressure of his father's words was suffocating. He had heard them all his life—about salvation, about how everything was a test of faith. His father's approval was as conditional as everything else in his life. But Dakota could never say what he really wanted to say, could never admit that he didn't believe any of it. His mind was always clouded with fear of the consequences.

"Yes, Papa," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard, trying not to let the tears well up. He wasn't allowed to cry. He wasn't allowed to break down. Not in front of them. So, he simply nodded, his gaze lowering to the food on his plate as if it held some sort of answer he couldn't find.

When dinner was over, his parents retired to the living room, leaving Dakota to clear the table in silence. His hands moved mechanically, the scrape of plates against the counter filling the otherwise quiet house. But as soon as he finished, he left the kitchen and retreated to his room, the need for space becoming unbearable. He locked the door behind him, threw himself onto his bed, and stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing.

Rodrick. He couldn't get Rodrick out of his head. He had to admit it to himself: he didn't just like the way Rodrick made him feel, he liked *Rodrick*. His easy confidence, the way he could care so little about people's expectations. There was a freedom in Rodrick that Dakota envied. It was the freedom to be who he was, without apology, without shame. And it terrified Dakota.

He rolled over onto his side, burying his face in his pillow, muffling a soft sob. He was so tired—tired of the weight of his family's expectations, tired of being someone he wasn't, tired of hiding.

He wanted to break free, to live his truth, to tell someone—anyone—who he really was. But every time he came close to doing so, he was reminded of the cost. His family's love, their approval, all of it was tied to his conformity. If he showed them who he really was, they would abandon him. He would lose everything he'd ever known.

The thought made him sick to his stomach. But what hurt more was the feeling of being stuck, of being trapped in a life that wasn't his. He didn't belong here, not in this dress, not with this family.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, interrupting his spiral. He wiped his eyes and glanced at the screen. A message from Aimee.

**Aimee:** *"How's your Sunday been? You holding up okay? I'm here if you need to talk."*

Dakota's fingers hovered over the screen, grateful for the small gesture of kindness. He typed back, his heart heavy but his mind comforted by her unwavering support.

Dakota: "It's been... rough. Church. Parents. Everything. I just want to be myself."

Aimee: "You will be, Kota. You just have to take it one step at a time. I believe in you."

Dakota smiled softly, the warmth from her words pushing back the coldness that had settled over him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make him feel seen, even if just for a moment.

As he lay back in bed, the weight of the day still pressing down on him, he whispered softly to himself, as though trying to convince his reflection in the mirror that he would make it out of this.

One step at a time..

And for the first time all day, Dakota felt as if he was a feather.

----

A/n: I hate mean Christians