The heat in the deep South didn’t just sit in the air; it lived in the wood of the pews, in the dust of the gravel roads, and in the very back of Y/N’s throat. At twenty-three, her world was mapped out by the strict boundaries of her father’s church. As the preacher’s daughter, she was less of a person and more of a monument to piety—expected to be flawless, silent, and pure. Every dress she wore was buttoned to the throat; every glance she gave the world was measured through the heavy lens of religious guilt. She felt like a ghost haunting her own youth, waiting for a life that would never truly belong to her.