I walked to the church, just a few blocks away. I didn't bother with any vehicle—the roads were packed with Christmas traffic, and the church was close enough, only a mile or so. A short walk was the smarter choice.
By the time I got there, the event had already started. Some people were gathered, singing their hearts out in the choir, their voices soaring toward the heavens. I slid into one of the corner seats, leaning back against the cold wooden pew, and let the sound wash over me. The choristers stretched their voices, singing for Jesus—offering something I couldn't grasp.
I wasn't one for religion, but I couldn't help noticing the stark contrast between the fervor of the crowd and the emptiness I sometimes felt in my own life. They sang with conviction, their voices blending in harmony, while I sat in the corner, a passive observer of both the music and the world outside.
I looked at the chaos—kids running between the rows, some couples holding hands, others clutching bibles, their faces lit with a quiet reverence. It was a nice Christmas day, sunny, pleasant, the church alive with Christmas cheer. But amidst the laughter and joy, I felt the weight of my own solitude. I had always spent Christmas alone, getting drunk at home, buying cake from whatever bakery still had stock. Fresh cake was always in demand, especially during the holidays.
A small kid, no older than three, crawled toward my legs. His tiny palms were warm against my trousers, and for a moment, I wondered what it must be like to see the world with such innocent curiosity. I lifted him up, holding him briefly before he was scooped up by the woman sitting nearby.
"Don't disturb, Uncle," she said, pushing the child into her lap. Her eyes swept over me with a mixture of caution and judgment. I was clothed well, of course, but there was something about my presence that unsettled her.
"Never seen you here," she said, her voice laced with suspicion. "Not a regular churchgoer, are you?"
As if on cue, a high-pitched, dramatic note from the choir startled me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
"No," I replied, pressing my lips together. "But I do believe in God."
She snorted, clearly unimpressed. "Believe? Believe in Christmas and then screw off later?"
I didn't like her tone. It was sharp, dismissive. "What do you mean by that, stranger?"
Her gaze was cold, almost clinical. "I'm a maid," she said. "Strict Catholic. But I'm losing my faith, losing everything... I feel like I have nothing now."
The words hung in the air like an accusation, her pain leaking through the cracks of her bitterness. Suddenly, she broke into tears, catching me off guard.
I looked at her hands—red, cracked, and peeling from constant scrubbing. The strain of her life was written all over her skin. Her sorrow wasn't just in her eyes, but in the way she moved, the way her shoulders slumped as though the weight of her existence had crushed her spirit long ago.
"Young man, you're lucky," she said, her voice barely a whisper now, trembling. "You're still young. You have... time."
I said nothing at first. There were no words to ease the sting of what she said. She looked at me like I held all the answers, but the truth was, I didn't even know if I had the answers for myself.
I could tell she was trying to hold herself together, but it wasn't working. The frustration, the exhaustion from a life spent in service, was too much for her to bear. She had given so much, yet felt she had nothing left.
"Maybe," I said slowly, trying to make sense of her words, "maybe you still have more than you think. It's hard to see, I know. But sometimes, the faith you lose—" I stopped myself. What was I even saying? Sometimes, the faith you lose? Who was I kidding?
She wiped her face, her hands trembling. "Maybe, but I don't know anymore."
I nodded, understanding that nothing I said could change how she felt in that moment. She had been fighting an unseen battle for so long, it was no wonder she was on the edge.
I didn't offer empty comfort. I knew better than to tell her things would get better. But for a brief moment, I wondered if she was talking about more than just her faith. Maybe she was talking about something deeper, something harder to admit.
I sat on the last bench to avoid the crowd, but there I was, listening to the tortured tales of a strange woman. She must have been faithful once, but life hadn't served her as she had hoped.
I straightened my posture, partially avoiding her, letting her weep in the quiet corners of the church. I had my own set of miseries, though they were nothing in comparison to hers. I crossed my legs, trying to ignore the ache that seemed to ripple through the air between us.
After a few moments, she took out her rosary, her lips trembling as she recited something to herself. Her hands shook desperately, as though she was trying to summon some peace, or maybe something more—anything to end her torment.
I stood up from the pew, distancing myself as she fell deeper into her prayers. Her child disturbed her, pulling at her necklace, the innocent interruptions reminding me of the odd simplicity of life.
This world is filled with strange creature. I myself might be portrayed as strange. Strangeness everywhere. Masked stranger, the one who masks their strangeness and makes people believe they are perfect in every way possible. The miserable stranger, who wishes the God to end their suffering. The proud stranger, who knows they are strange but didn't wore any mask to cover it.. , the one who needs audience for their stage play.
The strangeness within a person is what makes them unique, untouched and well preserved. In my case, I was strange in a peculiar sense, I wasn't bothered much about the world. Most people found me strange. But I understood I was just borderline de-attached. The unbothered stranger.