Chapter Text
Film doesn’t think about death every day, but lately, it has been harder to escape.
Sometimes, it happens while riding the tuk-tuk home, when the driver swerves carelessly between lanes and her heart lurches into her throat. Other times, it's in the middle of ordinary conversations, when news of another sudden death slips so casually into the world.
It's a neighbor back in her province who went to sleep and never woke up, someone who she's known her whole life;
It's a student killed in an accident on the way home, a hit-and-run incident that the news covers;
It's also a man clutching his chest in the middle of the market before collapsing to the ground, the medical staff announcing dead on arrival once they reach the hospice.
Life disappears so quickly. One second people are laughing, making plans for tomorrow, and the next, they’re gone.
Everyone at church says there is nothing to fear if one belongs to God. Love says the same thing sometimes—that this life is only temporary, that their bodies are merely borrowed vessels waiting to return to their Creator.
Film wants to believe that.
She wants to believe she would be welcomed into God's arms if her life ended today, but every time she thinks about dying, fear crawls beneath her skin all the same.
Because what if she dies before she can become someone worthy of being saved?
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The days blur together, and before Film knows it, it’s Saturday again. She expects rehearsal to go the usual way, only with the added task of reviewing new hymns for Thanksgiving. The pastor also occasionally drops by during choir practice to speak with the choir head or check on preparations, so when he enters the sanctuary that afternoon, Film barely thinks anything of it, especially not with such a major church occasion approaching.
The choir head steps forward with a smile. “Before we begin, we’re blessed to have our pastor join us today. He’d like to share a short message before rehearsal.”
Around her, everyone straightens up. Film does the same, smoothing her skirt over her knees as she settles into attentive silence.
“Good afternoon,” the pastor begins. “I won’t take much of your time, but I believe worship becomes more meaningful when we fully understand who we are singing for and why we sing at all. That is especially important as Thanksgiving approaches.”
He lets the words settle before continuing.
“Thanksgiving is not simply another church event. It is sacred—a day devoted entirely to honoring God, not through requests or desires, but through gratitude. And so I ask you all now—what are we thanking Him for?”
“Everything,” a few choir members answer.
The pastor nods approvingly. “Exactly. Everything. Yet sometimes, we forget just how much He has already given us. We become so focused on what we still want that we fail to reflect on what we already have. Gratitude disappears, and entitlement quietly takes its place.”
Film lowers her gaze to the hymnal resting on her lap.
“There are many ways to thank the Lord,” the pastor continues. “But true gratitude is not found only in songs or prayers. Gratitude is obedience. It is choosing to live according to His will even when it is difficult. It is loving Him enough to follow where He leads.”
He opens his Bible, flipping to a passage he’s already marked. “Isaiah 59:2 says—
“But your iniquities have made a separation between you and your God, and your sins have hidden His face from you so that He does not hear.”
For a second, all Film can hear is the sound of her own breathing. She suddenly thinks of all the prayers she’s whispered through broken sobs, begged quietly into the dark while everyone else in the house slept, and apologies she already knows she’ll repeat again tomorrow.
What if none of them ever reached Him?
Film has always imagined God as gentle, but now she can’t stop picturing Him looking away.
The pastor proceeds. “It’s easy to sing when life feels light, but holiness isn’t measured when things are easy. It’s revealed when they’re not, and when temptation knocks louder than usual. You have to understand that when something holy draws near, the Enemy tries harder to pull you away. The Enemy does not waste his efforts on those already far from God—He fights the ones trying to draw near. The closer you are to God, the more the Devil tries to shake you.
“That’s why the whispers get louder, and why the temptations feel heavier."
His eyes land on Film.
"Because you are the target.”
Something inside Film goes still, and for one horrible second, it feels as though the entire sanctuary has turned toward her—that everyone can suddenly see every thought she has tried so desperately to bury.
Her fingers tighten around the hymnal on her lap.
He can’t possibly know, and yet shame rises inside her anyway. All she has done is love someone—someone she was never supposed to love.
Film has tried so hard to make it sound harmless in her head, something human, but the pastor’s words keep echoing inside her chest, because if this truly is a sin, then what does that make Namtan? What does that make every moment that felt like being whole?
Wrong is still wrong even when it feels like comfort, even when it feels like love.
Film suddenly wonders if fear counts as faith, or if it’s only cowardice dressed as devotion.
Beside her, she can feel Love shifting slightly, probably reaching for her hymnal, and Film prays she doesn’t notice the way her breathing has started to shake.
The pastor finally breaks eye contact and looks toward the rest of the choir.
“And why do we tell you this?” he asks. “Because Thanksgiving is near.” He gestures toward them with open palms. “You lead the congregation in worship. Through your hymns, people come closer to God. But worship is more than music—it is the life behind it. How can we ask others to feel His presence if we continue living in ways that pull us away from Him?”
He opens his Bible one last time, reading aloud. “Ephesians 5:1-2 says—
“Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
“No one is without sin,” the pastor says after closing the Bible. “That is why we pray and repent. We should keep trying to reflect Him—not only in the way we sing, but in the way we live.”
With one final smile, he thanks the choir and quietly leaves the sanctuary. The choir head immediately resumes rehearsal, asking everyone to open their hymnals to the new Thanksgiving piece.
Love flips through the hymnal with the others, but Film doesn’t move. For the first time in a long while, she finds herself wishing rehearsals would end sooner. She feels every note drag longer and every hymn feel heavier, and by the final song, Film is no longer singing as loudly as before.
She keeps wondering if God can hear the guilt beneath her voice anyway.
When rehearsal finally ends, relief slips through her so suddenly it almost feels shameful. One by one, the choir members leave until only the usuals remain—Film and Love.
“Hey.”
Love approaches Film before she can leave to do her usual rounds. “I’m sorry if the sermon earlier felt heavy.”
Film shrugs without looking at her. “The topic was timely. He explained it well.” She tries to act like it didn’t affect her, but she has never been a good liar to begin with.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with me,” Love tells her. “I know now, and I respect that. I respect you.”
Love sighs when Film stays quiet. She turns toward the organ, toward where Film’s gaze is fixed. “I can’t imagine what it feels like. It must be hard.”
Film barely nods. “I guess.”
“But you’re good, Film. You’re okay. You’re still one of the most devoted people I know. That won’t change.”
Film manages a small, tired smile. She appreciates it. It’s a relief hearing someone say she’s not completely ruined.
They sit in silence for a while. Film still feels awkward around Love, especially after outing herself. Meanwhile, the gears in Love’s mind work overtime trying to think of something that might help.
Love speaks again after a while, genuinely believing she’s helping. This is her calling, isn’t it? She’s supposed to help people like Film.
“Have you ever thought about letting her see this part of your life?”
It takes Film a second to realize what Love means, but she still keeps quiet. She can’t let Love know about Namtan.
Thinking Film doesn’t understand, Love quickly clarifies, “I mean your… your girlfriend,” she says, fumbling for the right word. “You are with someone, right?”
Film nods wordlessly, still refusing to look at her.
Love nods too, almost as if reassuring herself. “If she’s important to you, maybe she’d want to understand. Maybe she’d feel what you feel when you’re here.”
She hesitates before continuing. “If she could see how you worship, how much you love God, maybe she’d… see Him through you.”
Film almost smiles not out of amusement, but disbelief. The suggestion feels innocent on the surface, but underneath it lies that same hope she’s heard her whole lifeㅡthat exposure to holiness can cure what’s unholy.
“See Him through me?” Film echoes quietly.
Maybe Love is oblivious, or maybe her heart is pounding too loudly for her mouth to stop moving.
“Maybe it could help both of you, Film. Maybe God could reach her through you.”
Film finally turns to face her. “And what if He doesn’t?”
Love blinks. “What do you mean?”
“What if it doesn’t save us?” Film asks, tears beginning to gather in her eyes again, her voice rising in defense. “What if it ruins us instead? Love—”
“Film, I didn’t mean—”
Film exhales shakily, hurt cracking through her voice. “I know what you’re trying to say. I’m sorry, but I’m not stupid.” She wipes at the tears falling down her cheeks, frustrated with herself. “You think if I bring her here, maybe she’ll change, or maybe I will, or maybe we’ll come to our senses and end what we have before it damns us both.”
Film doesn’t mean to sound angry, nor does she want to be angry at Love, but frustration still bleeds into her voice. She wipes the tears from her cheeks with irritation.
"You think I haven’t thought about that? That I haven’t tried? I want to save her, Love. I really do. I want to save both of us. I want to believe there’s still a way for us to love God and each other without being condemned for it, but how do I do that if the only way to be saved is to let her go?”
Love reaches for her hand, but Film barely feels it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I don’t want you to feel lost," she says, a little regretful.
Film lets out a small, broken laugh. “I already am.” Her voice cracks as she goes on. “Every day, I wake up and pray. Every day, I know I’m continuously slipping further away from Him, because no matter what I do, I know it’ll never be enough unless I leave her.
“I know what the Bible says, Love." Film lowers her gaze. "I know who I am, and I know what that means for where I’m going.”
The thought makes her sick.
Film imagines herself dying before she ever gets the chance to repent, standing before God with this sinful love still inside her chest. The thought of Hell clings to her like smoke in her lungs.
Love’s eyes begin filling with tears too. “Film…”
“I’m not like you,” Film says in defeat. “No matter how hard I pray, I can’t be like you.”
Love squeezes her hand tighter. “It’s not too late. You love her, and… and she loves you too, but if you really want to save your souls, then please… turn back to Him.”
Film pulls her hand away from Love’s grasp, suddenly feeling like she can’t breathe.
“I told you, I am trying!” her voice echoes through the empty sanctuary.
Suddenly, they hear footsteps echoing through the sanctuary, growing louder and louder. Film doesn’t bother looking up—she feels too weak already—but Love does.
And then Film hears her name.
Namtan is suddenly beside her, dropping to her knees in front of Film without hesitation. Her hand reaches out immediately, fingers curling gently around Film’s wrist.
“What happened?” Namtan asks anxiously.
Film is about to say that it's nothing, but Namtan isn’t even looking at her. Instead, her eyes flick sharply toward Love.
“What did you do!?” Namtan doesn't hide the accusation.
“I… I was just trying to help!” Love says quickly, guilt creeping into her voice. “She’s been struggling, and you—you said you wanted her to be okay.”
“Help?” Namtan repeats in disbelief. “Can’t you see what this is doing to her? She’s crying, Love. She’s breaking.”
“Namtan—” Film tries to stop them.
Love flinches, but her voice rises too. “I only said what I thought she needed to hear!” She stands abruptly, pointing at Namtan. “You agreed you’d help me!”
“Stop," Film croaks weakly, but they don’t hear her.
Namtan slowly rises from where she’s been kneeling beside Film. She doesn’t let go of Film’s hand as she reaches down to grab Film's hymnal from the pew.
“We’re leaving.” She gently tugs Film up with her.
Love steps forward, her words tumbling out before she can stop them. “If you really care about her, then why are you making it harder for her to do what’s right?”
Namtan freezes mid-step.
Film sniffles. "Namtan… let's just go."
But Namtan doesn’t listen. She turns her head toward Love with a glare. “You think I’m making it harder?”
A chill runs through Love. She never thought Namtan would look at her with this much hatred, but she forces herself not to back down.
“You’re—you’re enabling her.”
Namtan finally turns to face her fully. “I’m her girlfriend, Love.”
“Namtan!” Film snaps immediately. Fear, shock, and frustration are written all over her face.
Love unconsciously takes a step back, her eyes widening.
“You… you’re what?”
Namtan doesn’t look away. “I’m not going to repeat myself.”
Love’s chest rises sharply. Her eyes dart toward Film, searching for denial, for an explanation, but Film only cries harder, looking at Love with shame—not because she’s ashamed of Namtan, but because she was supposed to keep this a secret for Namtan’s sake.
“I… I didn’t know,” Love whispers. She takes another step back. “What…”
“Love—” Film reaches out desperately, but Love only retreats further.
“I just—I need a moment,” Love says, almost to herself. “I need—” She shakes her head as tears spill down her cheeks. “I can’t— God, what even is happening?”
Before either of them can stop her, Love turns and runs out of the sanctuary.
Film’s knees weaken, and a choked sob leaves her.
“Namtan…” Film trembles. “She’s going to tell, Namtan. She’s going to tell.”
Namtan immediately pulls her close, arms wrapping around her trembling shoulders. “No, she won’t,” she says softly, though her own voice trembles too. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Y-You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Namtan insists gently, even if she doesn’t. “I know she wouldn’t.”
Film slowly pulls away from her embrace, lowering her gaze to the floor. “Why did you even tell her?”
“Princess…”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” Film continues. “You could’ve just stayed quiet. You should’ve let me handle it. I had it under control.”
“No, you didn’t,” Namtan says, her chest aching at the sight of Film falling apart in front of her.
“I did,” Film insists. “I was fine.”
“You were breaking down back there.”
“I was managing it,” Film snaps, looking up to meet Namtan’s eyes. “She didn’t need to know. We could’ve kept it between us.”
Namtan frowns. “What? Us?”
“Yes!” Film says desperately. “If that’s what it takes to keep us safe.”
“Film…” Namtan shakes her head, frustration beginning to rise in her chest. “You’re always so ready to throw yourself under the bus just so I don’t get hurt—”
“Because I can take it!” Film cries. “I can handle the guilt and the judgment, but if something happens to you because of me…” her words die in her throat. She presses a trembling hand over her mouth.
“Do you really think I’m that fragile?” Namtan asks, disappointed.
“No, I just…” Film swallows hard. “I’m scared. I’m scared of what happens next—if she tells, if everyone finds out. I’m scared of what they’ll do to you.”
“And what about what they’ll do to you?” Namtan asks in disbelief. “Why is it always you carrying everything alone? Why am I never allowed to carry any of that weight with you?”
“Because if you get hurt, I won’t survive it,” Film whispers. “If they take everything from me, I’ll live, but if they take you—”
Namtan’s hands curl into fists at her sides. “You think I don’t feel the same way?”
Film shakes her head weakly, almost pleading. “It’s different.”
“No, it’s not!” The words tear out of Namtan. “Stop acting like I’m some bystander to your suffering. I’m in this with you, Film. I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect—I’m your girlfriend!”
The last word echoes faintly against the high ceilings, and Film flinches.
Namtan freezes immediately, the anger draining from her face just as quickly as it came. “I…” Her breath catches. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
Film says nothing. Tears continue slipping silently down her cheeks.
“I just…” Namtan’s voice softens. “I hate that you always think you have to protect me.”
Carefully, Namtan reaches for her again. When Film doesn’t pull away, Namtan steps closer and wraps her arms around her once more, pulling her gently against her chest.
Film melts into her embrace, finally letting herself cry freely into Namtan’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Namtan whispers again, fingers brushing softly through Film’s hair. “I love you.”
Film doesn’t say it back, but she doesn’t pull away either.
At times like this, that’s enough for both of them.
Love rushes out of the gate, barely knowing where she’s going.
She didn’t even get to help clean up the church, but that’s the last thing on her mind now. She can’t think straight. All she wants is to lock herself in her room and process what just happened.
Of all the girls at church, Namtan was the last person she ever expected to be Film’s girlfriend.
Or maybe, deep down, she already knew.
Looking back now—at all the times she’d seen them together—it wasn’t hard to notice. Maybe she had simply refused to.
Denial, she realizes.
Denial that this is her reality. That her own sisters in faith are going against everything they were taught.
Love feels like she’s failed them. She should’ve known. She should’ve done something—anything.
She’s drowning in her thoughts when a familiar voice cuts through them.
“Fancy seeing you again, little miss perfect.”
Love groans softly, quickly wiping at her eyes before any trace of tears can show. The last thing she needs right now is Milk seeing her like this.
Without looking back, she mutters, “I don’t want to deal with you right now.”
“C’mon,” Milk says, easily catching up beside her, jogging a little to match her pace. Love walks surprisingly fast for someone so small. “I just wanted to ask if my friends are still busy in there.”
“Go see for yourself,” Love answers curtly. She quickens her pace, hoping Milk gets the hint, but with her long strides, Milk keeps up easily.
“Where are you even stomping off to?” Milk calls after her. Love doesn’t answer. “Walk slower, damn it.”
Milk suddenly steps in front of her, forcing Love to stop, and finally, she gets a proper look at her face.
Sure, Milk’s seen Love annoyed before, but this is different. Her expression looks hollow somehow—drained of hope and tangled with frustration. It’s the same look she’s seen on Film right before she spirals into self-destruction.
Milk wonders what happened. Somehow, her mind immediately clings to one possibility.
“Hey…” The usual teasing tone fades from her voice, replaced with concern. “What happened? You look so… down.”
Love steps to the side, brushing past her. “What I feel is none of your business, Milk.” Her jaw tightens when Milk moves in front of her again.
“Good thing I like meddling in other people’s business, then, right?” Milk says with a grin, walking backward in front of her like she’s trying to earn a laugh.
It doesn’t work. Love’s frown only deepens.
“Okay. Not the time. Got it.” Milk's smile falters. “Seriously, though. What happened back there?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Cut the crap,” Milk says flatly. “You actually suck at lying. Is that a religious person thing?”
Love sighs tiredly. “Milk, please. I just need space.”
That finally makes Milk stop.
“Okay,” she says quietly after a moment. She doesn’t look offended, just resigned. Maybe she really should stop inserting herself into other people’s problems. She turns as if ready to leave without another fight. “See you around, then.”
Love watches her walk away, and for a second, she thinks she might finally feel some sense of relief. Instead, she only feels even more alone, because when she gets home… then what?
Is she just going to lock herself in her room? Let the guilt rot quietly inside her chest? Carry this weight alone—the pain of knowing both Film and Namtan are going against everything they were taught, and she couldn’t stop it?
She can’t tell her parents. She already knows exactly what they’d say and she did try to do what she was taught to do, but it didn’t work, did it?
Who else is she supposed to turn to but the Lord? But what is she even supposed to pray for this time? For Him to give Namtan and Film clarity? To open their eyes to their sin? To change their hearts?
The thoughts spiral endlessly, tangling together until her chest feels tight enough to crush her lungs. Maybe this is what Film meant when she said she didn’t want to be prayed over, because this—whatever this feeling is—tears at her from the inside, and she doesn't think any amount of prayer will be enough to quiet it.
It terrifies her. Love hates that it does.
Before she even realizes it—
“Milk,” Love suddenly calls out.
Milk stops and glances over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
Love’s throat tightens. She almost swallows the words back down, but she needs to talk to someone about this before she completely loses her mind.
“You asked if something happened.”
“I did.” Milk steps a little closer, though she still keeps a respectful distance. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though. I know I come off pushy sometimes, but I seriously don’t want you exploding on me or something—”
Love shakes her head. “It’s fine. It’s… it's about your friends.”
“Namtan and Film?” Milk still asks. “What about them?”
“Namtan…” Love hesitates before forcing the words out. “Namtan told me she’s Film’s girlfriend.” Even saying it aloud feels unreal.
Milk’s eyes widen briefly. She almost reacts, but stops herself midway. “And I’m guessing that fucked you up pretty bad?”
Love wants to tell Milk that she feels lost—that for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know how to pray about something, but then she remembers Milk isn’t her friend.
And she definitely isn’t God.
If Love can’t even bring this to God, what makes her think Milk could help carry it? Her walls snap back up almost instantly.
“You should probably check on them,” Love says instead. “Film’s probably still breaking down, and Namtan’s likely at her limit too.”
“Oh.” Milk nods once, surprisingly calm. “Well, that wouldn’t be the first time.” That catches Love off guard a little. “They’ll be fine. They have each other.
“You, on the other hand…" Milk's gaze softens. "You don’t look like someone who has anyone to talk to about this.” She offers her a small smile. “Lucky for you, I’m free for the rest of the day.” She gestures at herself. “Besides, they didn’t even know I was here. I’ll see them tomorrow after your worship service anyway.”
Milk hasn’t really done much, but there’s something strangely grounding about her presence—something steady enough to ease the tension in Love’s chest, even just a little.
Without thinking much more, Love says quietly, “Walk with me.”
They walk for a while with no real destination in mind.
“They didn’t tell me,” Love says eventually, her voice tight with lingering hurt. “Not that they owed me that information—I know they didn’t—but I thought Namtan was going to help.”
Milk stays quiet beside her.
“You were there, right?” Love continues. “You heard us talking. I asked her to help me bring Film back on track. She agreed.” Her expression twists painfully. “And then I find out she’s…”
Milk fills the blank in her mind. She asks gently, “What did that make you feel?”
Love lets out a shaky breath.
“Stupid, maybe. Betrayed.” She laughs weakly, though there’s no humor in it. “Guilty too. Selfish. And somehow I’m still thinking about their souls because I want them to be saved. I want them to inherit His Kingdom. I want all of us to. I just wanted to save them, but—”
“Save them from what?” Milk cuts her off. “From each other?”
There’s no mockery in her question, just genuine curiosity. Somehow, that makes Love think too.
Save them from each other? How would that even work? By tearing them apart? That sounds cruel.
“You can’t fix love." Milk sighs. “You can only decide what kind of person you want to be because of it. I don’t want to sound biased just because they’re my friends, but you’re not like them, and that’s not your fault. It just means it’s harder for you to understand.”
Love frowns slightly, defensive at first, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“You believe in rules, righteousness, obedience…” Milk shrugs lightly. “That’s expected from you, but people like Film and Namtan?” Her expression dims a little. “Every time they pray, sing worship songs, or walk into that church, they’re carrying the fear that everyone around them is praying for them to disappear.”
Love’s chest tightens.
“It’s hard to understand that kind of fear when you’ve never been the person people were praying against," Milk adds.
“Maybe I really don’t understand, but can you blame me?” Love helplessly admits. “I feel powerless, Milk. I want to help them the only way I know how, because if I don’t—if I try to understand them instead—then it feels like I’m betraying God. I… I don’t know which part of me I’m supposed to follow anymore.”
“Then maybe start with your own soul?” Milk says simply, humming thoughtfully. “Namtan and Film aren’t lost kids. They know exactly what they’re doing, even if it costs them their salvation. They’re still choosing each other anyway.”
“But—”
“You don’t have to force them into becoming people they’ve already decided not to be,” Milk says firmly. Love falls quiet at that. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Love,” Milk assures her. “It just makes you not God. It’s not your responsibility to save everyone’s soul. You’ve got your own to carry. That’s already heavy enough.”
Love stares at her, and slowly, something in her expression crumbles—as if part of the unbearable weight she’s been carrying has finally loosened around her chest. But even then, it still feels wrong to simply stand by and do nothing.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this,” Love confesses.
Milk looks at her for a moment before turning her gaze back toward the road ahead. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just sit with it for a while. Let it hurt.”
“And then what?” Love asks, now willingly surrendering to Milk.
"Then talk to me again.” Milk says with a small smile. “We're not close, and I'm definitely not some God, but I'm here if you need someone.”
Love falls silent after that, not bothering to give Milk a response. It feels strange confiding in someone who doesn't share her faith, and yet, talking to Milk made her feel like her burden no longer feels impossible to carry alone.