God, do you see me trying )Short story

The grey predawn light offered no comfort, only a humid, suffocating stillness. Zekeil ran, his lungs burning with the effort of a man trying to outpace his own shadow. He wasn't on a track built for victory; he was on the cracked asphalt of a forgotten city park, and every stride was a declaration of war against the inertia of despair.

He stumbled on a root, his hands slamming down onto his knees, breath hitching in a harsh, ragged gasp. He wasn't running just for fitness; he was running the race the preachers talked about, and his muscles had failed him just as his willpower had failed him yesterday, and the day before.

He sank onto a concrete bench, the cool dampness seeping through his sweat-soaked clothes, and the silent, desperate monologue that was his constant companion finally broke the barrier of his throat, emerging as a raw whisper aimed at the bruised sky.

"God, do you see me trying?"

The words were not accusatory, only pleading. They were the sound of a committed soldier who keeps dropping his rifle.

"I am trying to stay and not fade away. The world is a whirlpool of noise, and every time I get a grip on the side, some tide pulls me back into the muck. I am trying to stay committed and I fail. I plan the quiet time, the steadfastness, the consistency—and the day ends, and I realize I’ve prioritized everything but the one thing that matters."

He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. His commitment felt like a wet sheet of paper—strong enough to write on, until the moment pressure was applied.

"I want to be truly close to you always. Not just Sunday closeness, not just crisis closeness. A constant, breathing proximity. This feeling of distance is a torture I inflict on myself, I know, but I don’t know how to stop building the walls."

The deepest ache surfaced then, the reason the spiritual struggle felt so physical, so foundational. It wasn't just theology; it was primal yearning.

"I want to finish this race. I want to stand at that final line without shame. I want to be in your arms. You are my father. I never had one before. I never knew what it was like to rely on a solid, unbreakable presence. I never knew stability. I never understood love, but I want it so bad. The messy, human kind, yes, but mostly the steady, eternal kind I hear about."

He looked at the sky, where the first hint of gold was finally wrestling free from the horizon.

"God, do you see me trying? I am trying to have all your characteristics, the patience, the kindness, the peace—but I fail daily. Every interaction is a test, and I lose my temper, I judge, I worry. I feel like I'm constantly fighting to stay afloat in this world that you created—this beautiful, terrifying place that seems designed to distract me from the true destination."

He pushed himself up, leaning against the back of the bench, heart still hammering a furious rhythm. He knew the goal. He knew the prize.

"God, do you see me trying to make it back home to you? I don't want a trophy or applause from men. I want you to say, 'Well done.' I want to know, unequivocally, that my name is written in the book. That’s the only validation that counts."

The thought of failing, of falling short forever, sent a cold spike of panic through his chest. He took a shaky, deep breath, tasting the dust and the dew.

"GOD, oh GOD, do you see me trying? I love you so much. I love the idea of you, the reality of you. I love the hope you offer. Please never give up on me. Please never let me go."

He stood there, exhausted, defeated by the morning, yet impossibly still standing. He hadn't finished the run yet, but he hadn't quit either. He opened his clenched hands, offering the exhaustion, the failures, the raw, demanding love, up to the rising light.

The world offered no thunderous response, no miraculous vision. But in the quiet aftermath of his plea, as the sunlight finally broke over the tree line and warmed the back of his neck, Elias felt a profound stillness. It wasn't the peace of victory; it was the quiet, steady assurance of acknowledged weakness.

It was the feeling of a heavy hand resting gently on his tired shoulder—a silent, non-verbal message cutting through the noise of his failure.

I know.

"God, I am really trying. Can you see?"

And in the sudden, golden warmth, Zekeil ran again. Slowly, awkwardly, but forward. He felt seen. And being seen was enough to take the next step.