Chapter Text
Almost no one remains inside the church except for a girl kneeling at the very front pew, facing the organ draped in cloth and the altar that looks as though it is waiting for a sacrifice. Her head is bowed low, buried in tightly clasped hands, like she is holding herself together more than she's praying.
Film does not say much out loud. As part of a personal act of devotion she has kept for years, her prayers are always quiet, almost inaudible. After all, she is speaking to God, not to people; sincerity matters more than volume. Besides, it feels as though even her confessions must remain small enough to go unseen, hidden carefully from the world.
Her lips move, but they seem stiff and restrained, like every grievance she wants to lay before God presses against her mouth and forces it shut, keeping her trapped in place, keeping her inside the suffering.
A few pews behind her, Namtan sits with her phone in hand, pretending to scroll while she watches quietly instead. She takes in the sight of Film as sunlight pours through the lancet windows, spilling gold across the sanctuary and softening every sharp edge inside it.
It is picturesque. Holy, even.
Under different circumstances, Namtan thinks she would have taken a photo already if not for her respect for the solemnity of the moment. So instead, she only watches, already certain of what Film is praying for.
It is one of those moments where their old joke—
Maybe if we pray hard enough, He’ll fix us.
—stops being funny and starts to ache, because only one of them still means it.
Film keeps praying to be normal; Namtan stopped doing so a month ago because it began to feel too much like asking God to erase her.
There’s something sacred about the way Film hums when she thinks no one’s listening.
It’s almost evening. Youth practice ended nearly half an hour ago, and most of the choir has already gone home, but Film remains near the front of the sanctuary beside the wooden cabinet where the music sheets are kept. She slips the remaining sheets into a plastic folder with careful hands.
Namtan stays perched on the edge of the church bench—a pew, technically, but it doesn’t feel sacred unless someone’s praying on itㅡlike she belongs there.
She does, actually, but Namtan isn’t part of the choir—never has been, never will be. She always says the choir is too obsessed with being prim and proper, always preaching obedience as if it's the highest virtue. It feels too much like wearing a leash, she once tells Film, so instead she settles for watching from afar. She likes that better than singing hymns of praise anyway.
Film still has not noticed her. She sways faintly where she stands, humming the same hymn the choir practiced earlier.
Namtan fondly smiles with an ache slowly blooming in her chest.
Film is like this—a little too devout.
Always organizing hymnals that are not hers to fix. Always straightening chairs that someone else leaves out of place. Always dusting the organ before anyone else can notice it needs cleaning.
Always the last person to leave.
It’s not a habit, it’s penanceㅡher way of paying for what she still can’t pray awayㅡbecause if God’s watching, maybe He’ll see her trying.
“Need help, princess?” Namtan asks eventually as she walks up behind her.
Film startles at the sudden voice, flinching hard enough that the folders of music sheets nearly slip from her hands. She turns too quickly, eyes darting anxiously across the sanctuary. Only when she finds the pews empty does her body loosen again. She exhales, though her face still pinches into a frown.
“Don’t call me that here,” Film whisper-yells, scandalized by the nickname alone.
Namtan doesn't look even slightly apologetic. If anything, the grin on her face only widens.
“Relax,” she says, crouching beside her to gather some of the scattered sheets. “I’ll help. Maybe if I clean too, God’ll be a little more considerate. What do you think?”
Film exhales sharply through her nose. It sounds partly like a laugh, but mostly like exasperation.
A part of her wants to send Namtan away, to tell her she is doing this for herself and that she does not want the work finished quickly—not when this has become its own form of repentance—but she already knows Namtan well enough to understand she'll stay regardless, so she lets her.
They sort the hymnals in comfortable silence. Film doesn't need to explain what goes where—Namtan has spent enough time around the church with her to know the routine already. Now, they've quickly fallen into a rhythm so familiar it almost feels domestic.
“Why are you still here?” Film asks after a while. “I thought you left with Milk.”
“You know she never passes by here during choir practice,” Namtan reminds her. “Too many officers around who might convince her to step into church. Plus, she said she's not in the mood to walk into a cult again. Typical Milk."
“She shouldn’t joke about that,” Film says immediately, her brows knitting together. There’s a sharpness in her tone now—a discomfort that comes from something being said too lightly about something she treats too seriously. “Even if Milk doesn’t mean it like that… she shouldn’t say things like that about church.”
Jokes like that never sit right with her because faith, to her, is not something meant to be reduced to something mocking or careless.
“I know, but you know how Milk is," Namtan says lightly. She doesn’t want to brush it off as a non-issue, but what else is she supposed to say? Her best friend treats religion like a punchline, and her girlfriend is one of the most religious people she knows.
It's still a surprise to Namtan that the two of them even became friends.
The conversation fades after that, leaving only the quiet shuffling of paper between them. There are fewer sheets left to organize now. Film smooths down the corners of a folded page before speaking again, voice softer this time.
“You know people will talk eventually, right? If they keep seeing us together after practice.”
“They already talk.” Namtan lets out a quiet laugh, sounding almost disbelieving. “They just don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s not funny,” Film scolds gently. “Love told me her mom and the other higher-ups had a meeting. They’re starting to talk about how some of us are being… influenced by the environment. She said they’re planning to watch everyone more closely.”
“If people think we’re gay just because we breathe in the same room, that sounds more like their problem,” Namtan scoffs. “And I honestly doubt anyone’s actually thinking that. They just see us as best friends.”
“I’m serious,” Film insists quietly. “What if we act differently without noticing? What if someone realizes there’s something else going on between us? I just…”
Namtan closes the last clearbook in front of her before gently taking Film’s hand.
“They won’t,” she says softly. “Trust me.”
There is something so certain in Namtan’s expression that Film feels part of the panic in her chest loosen, if only a little.
“And if they do somehow sense it, then that means they have gaydar too, right?" Namtan's eyes twinkled with mirth. "At that point, we’d have to send half the church to the pastor’s office, not just us.”
A real laugh finally escapes Film then. It's soft, but Namtan can't help smiling at the sound of it.
Once they step out of the church gates, the air feels different. It's somehow looser, like it no longer carries as many eyes. Film doesn't feel as suffocated out here—she always breathes better outside.
“I’ll walk you home,” Namtan offers.
They walk side by side slowly, letting the soft night breeze wrap around them as the distant hum of traffic fills the silence.
When the church is out of sight, Namtan lets her hand drift close, fingers brushing lightly against Film’s, testing the water the way she always does.
Film hesitates as usual, especially after being inside the church just now, but then she slips her hand into Namtan’s and holds on tightly, as if trying to memorize the feeling of being enclosed by it.
Namtan’s heart jumps, but she forces herself not to look at Film. Instead, she tightens her grip, just letting herself feel the warmth properly, afraid that Film might suddenly let go at any moment.
After all, between the two of them, Film is the careful one. The fragile one. The one still learning how to love herself in the face of everything that tells her not to. And Namtan will keep holding on not to rush Film, never to fix Film, but to stay until Film learns to stop letting go.
They’re nearing the edge of Film’s street when she suddenly stops walking. Namtan halts too, their joined hands gently swinging to stillness.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Film says weakly. Her eyes don’t meet Namtan’s, but her grip tightens more. “I never… I never wanted to make you feel like you’re the sin, or like being with you is.”
Namtan breathes in slowly. She’s always ready for this, always ready to catch her.
“It’s okay,” she assures her, no trace of blame. “I get it.”
Film opens her mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to explain—but Namtan continues before she can.
“If there’s anyone who understands you best, Film, it’s me,” she tells her. “We grew up in the same church. We heard the same sermons and carried the same shame.”
Namtan squeezes Film's hand once.
“The only difference is I’ve accepted it—my sin.” Namtan’s voice wavers slightly, but she keeps going. “I’ve made peace with the part of me they said shouldn’t exist. You haven’t. That’s okay.”
Film blinks hard, tears threatening.
“I don’t always know how to help you,” Namtan admits. “This is faith. It’s personal. It's yours to carry.” She pauses, then gently presses their foreheads together as she always does when words run out. “But I’ll carry you when it gets too heavy. I’ll stand by you. Always.”
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
As usual, the cafeteria is loud, packed with students trying to make the most of their lunch break. The air smells like lemon chicken, steamed rice, and freshly cooked rice cakes.
Namtan stabs at her rice but doesn’t eat. Across from her, Milk tears open a ketchup packet with her teeth and squeezes it onto a plate of fries, as if grace was never part of the plan—it never was with Milk.
“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” Milk says, swirling a fry through ketchup. “Problem with your girlfriend again?”
Namtan doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes stay on the plastic cup beside her plate, watching the ice bob up and down.
“You know she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Still exclusive.” Milk shrugs. “I bet she calls you her girlfriend in her head just like you do. The only thing stopping you two from putting an official label on it is the cult you’re in.”
That makes Namtan laugh through her nose. She doesn’t exactly find it funny, but she’s learned to stay amused by whatever Milk spews.
“Good thing we’re not at church right now, or the officers would’ve jumped at you,” Namtan says, shaking her head. It’s not like the officers would actually confront Milk directly—they all know people like her exist—but they’d definitely judge her behind closed doors.
“They’re scary sometimes,” Milk says, finally glancing at her. “I can’t imagine how you two deal with that all the time.”
“You would’ve known if you actually kept coming with us,” Namtan jokes lightly.
They invited Milk to join them at church over half a year ago. Namtan had never tried inviting Milk on her own despite their years of friendship because she already knew how Milk was, but Film’s faith had always been stronger than hers, so somehow, the two of them managed to convince Milk to come.
Milk humored them by attending one worship service. Safe to say that will never happen again.
“Hell nah! It was difficult as fuck not to make a face every single time your pastor talked about homosexuality being a sin,” Milk says with a grimace.
That earns a real laugh out of Namtan.
“Besides,” Milk continues, grabbing another fry, “I don't think that big guy up there is real anyway. You and Film can keep suffering under your church’s endless rules, though. Don't mind me.”
Somewhere deep down, Namtan wishes she had that same freedom—just existing, living with no rules to follow. Before the thought can settle too deeply, she shakes it off and finally takes a bite of her lunch.
Milk notices the shift immediately.
“So… Film? How is she?” she asks, concerned. “What? Is she still praying it away? Is that it?"
“Yeah, I…" Namtan sighs. "I feel useless sometimes,” she admits. “I can’t do anything to help her. I mean—I get it. Faith is personal. But it’s like she keeps trying to pray herself into someone else, like if she kneels hard enough, maybe God’ll take it all away.”
Milk only nods. She’s heard versions of this from Namtan for weeks now. Even she feels helpless sometimes, watching both of her friends struggle through something she can’t fix for them.
“You can always leave,” Milk says before she can stop herself. She doesn’t say it often. She knows how sensitive the subject is, knows pushing too hard might only make Namtan pull away, but if others believe that God exists beyond church walls, then why do they choose to stay trapped somewhere that only hurts them?
Namtan doesn’t get defensive. She rarely ever does, especially when she knows Milk means well. Her faith may be complicated, but it’s never fragile.
“You know I can’t.”
“You can,” Milk counters. “You just don’t want to, even when it keeps telling you there’s something wrong with you.”
Namtan leans back against her chair. “It’s true that I don’t agree with everything, but I still believe most of what they teach.”
“So you admit you pick and choose,” Milk teases lightly. “Following everything except the part where you’re apparently not supposed to like girls.”
“I mean…” Namtan huffs out a laugh. “At least it’s not drugs, right?” Her smile fades as quickly as it comes. “Deep down, I still believe God is kinder than what’s preached to us, kinder than the people who speak for Him.” She pauses before adding, “God is love—God has to be love—otherwise, what’s the point?”
Milk goes quiet.
Then leave the fucking cult, is what she wants to say again, but she already knows she won’t get anywhere with that today. She reaches for the last fry on her plate instead.
“I hope Film sees that too someday,” she says. “That your God can be more than whatever they teach you.”
Namtan doesn’t say how hard it is to wait, or how much it hurts watching someone you love ask God to fix something that was never broken, but she doesn’t have to. Milk understands enough already.
Suddenly, Film’s voice cuts through the air, slightly breathless from running.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
She approaches the table with her tray, and the moment she does, both Namtan and Milk look up a little too quickly, like they’ve been caught talking about something they shouldn’t have.
Film doesn’t mind, though. She knows Milk only brings her up out of concern, and that Namtan only ever talks about her out of love. She sets her tray down beside Namtan and slips into the seat—not too close, but close enough.
“Class ended late,” she murmurs before glancing at Milk. “Hi.”
“Hello.” Milk offers her a small smile.
Film then rolls up her sleeves, folds her hands together, and bows her head.
“Thank You for this meal,” she whispers under her breath. “And please, please purify me. Make me worthy to serve You.”
It’s a small prayer, one she recites during moments like this so often that it has already become instinct, yet every time it still twists something raw inside her chest. It feels like asking God to scrape her clean, begging to be rewritten into someone holier, someone easier to love.
When she opens her eyes, neither Namtan nor Milk says anything. Namtan only watches her with a softness that carries both concern and understanding. Film avoids her gaze, choosing to pick at the rice on her tray instead.
The appetite is there, but faint. Prayers drain more out of her than hunger ever could—an ache that lingers no matter where she goes, made up of guilt and devotion.
Milk has always noticed, and while part of her wants to ask Film if she’s alright, she knows better than to push. That restraint is something Film is quietly grateful for.
Out of everyone, Milk is the only person who knows, the only one Film has ever admitted it to—haltingly, on a rooftop just a month ago, after too many swallowed thoughts and one careless question that cracked everything open.
“I think I might be…” Film hadn’t even managed to finish the sentence.
“Yeah. Took you long enough.”
Milk had only shrugged then, careful not to make it feel bigger than Film could handle.
Now, Film forces herself to take another spoonful of rice, slowly gathering energy with every bite. She doesn’t realize how quiet she’s become until Namtan reaches for her hand beneath the table, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles.
Film fights the instinct to pull away, reminding herself they are not in church. The thought loosens something tight inside her chest. She exhales softly, allowing herself—for just a moment—to lean into the comfort of Namtan’s presence.
School is safer.
Here, she doesn’t have to pretend as much. She can sit close to Namtan, lean against her shoulder, whisper soft things during breaks and let everyone mistake it for just friendship.
Here, their affection is disguised in plain sight as just girls being close, no church officers watching from the corners.
Inside Film, there is only the lingering echo of prayer, and the girl beside her who makes it so hard to believe it’s supposed to be wrong to be loved like this.