I first met Father Peter at the church, two crosswalks from my home back in California, where I often went for my tri-monthly confession. For a week, he visited and served the confessional box.

At the time, I'd just finished my first year in art school. I’d be twenty-two. I came and went from home to school, driven by my dad, Tom. My days consisted of waking up at half an hour before six in the morning and it would last until around twelve hours after. At least a good eight hours was spent at school and the remainder was for homework and eating if I remember. Then, I’m off to sleep again for six hours, if possible. Sometimes, on a good day, I would end at three in the afternoon.

I never had enough time to fix my hair but I tried hard to brush it every day, otherwise, I’d be teased about it. This wouldn’t have been so bad had it been other kids my age.

But I didn’t have much interaction with other students in art school. Even when I did, they were in a similar livelihood. Bullying me would’ve been criticizing themselves.

The inconsiderate words were from people who opted to remain ignorant of me.

At art school, I made casual acquaintances. They admired my art and I admired theirs. I tried to fit in but all I had were memories. I wasn't like them.

I didn't spend my days with my eyes glued down on my art table. I didn't even have my art table set up until my third quarter. I wasn't traditionally trained. Everything I was... well it was pure talent. There was no hard work put into being me but those surrounding me talked of endless hours of practice and enjoying that time. They chose to work in lieu of sleep. My six hours of sleep was a luxury to their two or four.

I had three art classes in high school that I spent about five hours on including the hour of class time. I chose sleep, always.

When I had my studio art class in my senior high school year, none of it had been enjoyable.

Art school wasn't as fun as I had anticipated it to be.

The hype lasted two-quarters, maybe one. The novelty of being in a prestigious private academy disappeared in a mere four weeks. Instead, I was left with three and a half more empty years and a debt I'd later regret.

So, my confession to Father Peter started as thus…

"Father, forgive me for I have sinned." I took a deep nervous breath. "It has been more than six months since I've last confessed." What would he think of me?

I heard him hum in contemplation. "It's been a long time, then." His voice felt like air.

"Yes, it has. I've been very confused lately, father. I don't know what to believe."

We talked for a long time, each in our respective small boxes. My box was painted white with a red carpet. His might’ve been the same but with a chair rather than a kneeler. Together it made up the confessional box. A walnut brown screen separated us. I couldn't see his face and he thankfully couldn't see mine.

I'm not entirely sure what led me to tell him the entire truth but it's what led him to tell me all about the Maison. He let me cry and reassured me as a real father would.

Though our conversation was mostly one-sided, Father Peter had no idea of the extent of my confusion. I may have spoken too much but not enough of the right words.

a/n triple subchapter update next week! I think the subchapters need to be read right after each other. I hope you enjoy!