He's My Pastor but I think I'm in Love with Him...

Unrequited Love Story

Feb 07, 2025

Dearest Person of my laive, Welcome back to our writing channel.

I know, I know—the title alone probably has you sitting up, ready for some serious gist. And yes, it’s been a while since I’ve written something this personal, this vulnerable. But here we are. So, read first, no judgment, okay? You know the rule—we listen, we don’t judge.

It’s a Friday night, and I’m writing this while having dinner. And knowing me, you already guessed it—I’m hitting publish as soon as I’m done. No edits, no second-guessing. Just raw, honest emotions.

The first time I saw him, I swear, it felt like God had taken His time—like He had carefully painted him into existence, stroke by stroke. It was at an event, and funny enough, we were both speakers that day. But when he walked into that room, something shifted. The air changed. And for a split second, everything—everything—felt possible.

He wasn’t just handsome—though trust me, he was. But not in an obvious, trying-too-hard kind of way. No, his was the kind of good looks that snuck up on you—effortless, clean, and understated, like he didn’t even realize the effect he had. And the way he carried himself? That’s what really got me. There was a quiet confidence about him, the kind that could make even the loudest storms grow still.

But it wasn’t just his face that drew me in. It was him—the way his kindness wasn’t some grand performance but a steady hum beneath everything he did. The way he was present—really, truly present. Like when he looked at you, he saw you. Not just your face, not just the version of you that the world claps for, but the you beneath all that. And in those moments, you couldn’t help but feel like, somehow, you were the only person in the world that mattered.

He was my pastor—young, brilliant, and just slightly older than me. I admired him immediately, and before long, that admiration deepened into something else. Something I couldn’t name without feeling like I was crossing an invisible line. I kept telling myself it was nothing—just admiration, just respect. But in the quiet spaces of my heart, I knew it was more. And it terrified me.

Maybe it was the way he spoke about faith, with a certainty that made my own doubts feel small. Maybe it was how he remembered the little things—how he once noticed when I was missing and sent me a text saying, “I thought about you, it’s been a while; haven’t seen you around. Are you alright?” Maybe it was the way his laughter was a balm, the kind of sound that could soften even the hardest hearts. Maybe it was the way he called my name; Rebirth!! He had a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds, a presence that made you believe that goodness wasn’t just an idea but something you could hold onto.

I liked him—really liked him. And in the quiet corners of my heart, I wondered if it was more. But how could it be? He was remarkable, and I… I felt painfully ordinary. Like a shadow in his light, a whisper in his symphony. Standing next to him felt like trying to measure up to the sky—vast, unreachable, breathtaking.

When I speak to him, I felt small. Insufficient. He had this pulpit, this presence, this conviction that made people sit up straighter, believe a little harder. And I... I was just trying to figure out who I was, still wondering if my prayers even made it past the ceiling. How could someone like me ever stand beside someone like him?

And maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. No one said it outright, but I saw it in their eyes—the fleeting glances, the knowing smirks, the subtle warnings disguised as concern. “He’s so focused on his calling,” they’d say, as if to remind me: You don’t belong in his world. And I believed them. I let their doubts sink into my skin, let their voices drown out the quiet, fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—I was enough.

So, I stayed quiet. I loved him in silence, carrying my feelings like a fragile, unspoken prayer—one I was too afraid to say out loud. But sometimes, in the stillness of my own longing, I wondered… Did he see me?

Did he notice the way my breath caught—just for a second—whenever he walked into the room? Did he hear the way my voice softened, how I spoke less but smiled more when we talked? Did he ever wonder why I stayed late at church functions, hovering in the background as he moved through the crowd, greeting everyone with that warm, disarming smile? And most of all, did he see the way I watched him—not just with admiration, but with that quiet, aching hope? The kind that longed for our eyes to meet, yet feared it just the same?

There were moments—brief, but unforgettable—when I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking what I was thinking. Like the time he followed up about an event I was going to attend and asked, “We’re getting there early, right?” Or when he looked at me and said, “Have you met you? Why wouldn’t they love your ideas?”

My heart raced in those moments, but I told myself it was nothing. Just kindness. That’s who he was.

Still, those moments lingered, replaying in my mind over and over like a song stuck on repeat—soft, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

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But what if? What if he did see me? What if he thought about me the way I thought about him? And what if he didn’t? What if I was just another person in his life, someone he cared for because it was his duty, not his desire? What if I was imagining things, building castles out of clouds?

The uncertainty gnawed at me. Some nights, I prayed for clarity. Other nights, I prayed for the feelings to go away. I felt trapped in a loop of hope and doubt, unable to move forward but too afraid to let go. The weight of it was exhausting, but I didn’t know how to put it down.

“God,” I whispered into the darkness, “if this is wrong, take it from me. But if it isn’t... if there’s a chance...” My voice broke, and I didn’t finish the prayer. I didn’t know how. How do you ask for something you’re not sure you deserve? How do you hope for something you’re afraid to even name?

This story, I’ve realized, isn’t just about him. It’s about me. About the quiet war I’ve waged against myself, against the voices that told me I wasn’t enough. The voices that said love had to be earned, that I had to measure up to stand beside someone like him. It’s about the battle to see myself through God’s eyes, to believe that I am fearfully and wonderfully made, even when I feel small and unworthy.

And maybe that’s the answer I’ve been searching for. Not whether he loves me back, but whether I can learn to see myself the way God sees me. Because love—real, lasting love—isn’t about who stands higher or shines brighter. It’s about seeing each other, truly seeing, and choosing to stand together. It’s about grace, the kind that says you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.

So, I don’t know if he loves me. I don’t know if he ever will.

This newsletter was written while having dinner and…

Listening to “Confidential by an Anendlessocean"