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Giulia knows the prayers by heart.
She can recite the Act of Contrition without thinking. She knows when to kneel, when to stand, and when to bow her head so her hair falls forward and hides her face. She knows how to make herself small in a pew.
She also knows the exact shade of lipstick Maria wears on Fridays.
That’s the problem.
St. Agnes Academy smells faintly of cleaning spray and paper, like any school, but there’s always something else in the air. Incense from morning Mass. Old wood from the pews in the small chapel by the front office. The walls have framed images of saints. Some appear peaceful, even when holding palm branches or looking up at heaven with tired eyes. Giulia doesn’t know all their names. She only recognizes a few from the church bulletins at home.
The nuns walk through the halls quietly. Their skirts are long. Their blouses are buttoned high. They speak gently, but there’s a firmness to their words. Eyes forward. Posture straight. Giulia keeps her eyes forward too.
In theology class, Sister Bernadette speaks about purity.
She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds careful, like she’s explaining something fragile. She discusses temptation, guarding your heart, and desires that don't lead you toward God.
Giulia writes everything down in neat handwriting. Her pen presses so hard it leaves faint marks on the page beneath.
She doesn’t look at Maria when she laughs. She doesn’t look when Maria pushes her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t look when they share a locker and their shoulders brush. But she feels it anyway: the warmth and the awareness.
After school, choir practice takes place in the chapel. It’s small compared to the big church Giulia attends on Sundays, but the stained glass still catches the light, making everything feel softer. Reds and blues spill across the pews. Maria stands one row ahead.
When Maria sings, her voice is steady. Giulia misses her cue because she’s watching how Maria tilts her head slightly on the higher notes.
“Giulia?” Sister calls gently.
She startles. “Sorry, Sister.”
Sorry is easy. Sorry for whispering during study hall. Sorry for laughing too loud. Sorry for zoning out during the Rosary. Sorry for thoughts that don’t seem to have a place where she’s been told they should.
Confession feels different here than at her regular parish. The box is smaller and darker. The screen between her and the priest feels closer.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she begins, her voice steadier than she feels.
“What would you like to confess?” he asks.
She could mention impatience with her brother. She could say she didn’t finish her morning prayers once. She could mention rolling her skirt waistband up in the bathroom before feeling guilty and rolling it back down.
Instead, she swallows. “I’ve been having impure thoughts.”
There’s a pause.
“About a boy?” he asks gently, almost automatically.
Giulia closes her eyes. “No, Father.”
He clears his throat. “Sometimes the mind wanders in ways that don’t reflect God’s design. You must pray for strength. Ask the Lord to purify your heart.”
Purify.
She nods even though he can’t see her. She leaves with a penance of three Hail Marys and a weight in her chest that prayer doesn’t quite lift.
At lunch, the girls at her table talk about prom. They mention the brother school across town. They giggle about football players and who might ask whom first. Maria nudges Giulia’s knee under the table, playfully.
“Are you going to let someone ask you?” Maria asks, smiling.
Giulia forces a small shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Why not?”
“Just not really interested.”
Maria studies her for a moment. Not suspicious. Just curious. Giulia looks down at her tray.
That night, Giulia kneels beside her bed. The crucifix on her wall, the one her grandmother gave her, seems to watch in silence. She presses her palms together.
I’ll do better, she thinks. I’ll focus more in class. I’ll volunteer at church again. I’ll stop thinking about her like that.
She tries to imagine the feelings fading, dissolving, becoming harmless.
But the next day in the hallway, Maria grabs her hand, pulling her through a crowd of students rushing between classes. It’s quick and practical. Their fingers lace together for balance.
Giulia feels it in her throat, in her chest, in the quiet space behind her ribs.
Later, in the girls’ bathroom, she stares at herself in the mirror. Same uniform. Same face. Same girl who goes to church on Sundays and sings hymns without missing a note.
Nothing about her looks different. Nothing about her looks broken. She whispers anyway, “What’s wrong with me?” The bell rings. She wipes her eyes before anyone comes in.
On Friday, during Mass, Father talks about love – ones that sacrifices, ones that stays, the and one that reflects something holy.
The word love echoes through the chapel.
Giulia thinks about how Maria saved her a seat during assembly last week, how she passed her notes when Giulia forgot her homework planner, how she laughed at her dumb joke and squeezed her arm without thinking.
None of it feels twisted. None of it feels dark. It feels gentle. It feels protective. It feels like something she doesn’t want to lose.
When it’s time for the sign of peace, Maria turns around in the pew. “Peace be with you,” she says, holding out her hand.
Giulia hesitates, then takes it. “And with you.”
Her heart is still heavy. The guilt hasn’t disappeared. She knows what some people would say. She knows what certain verses might be quoted at her. She knows how words like disordered can echo louder than they’re meant to.
But standing there in the filtered light of stained glass, Maria’s hand warm in hers, Giulia feels something else too.
Just a quiet, stubborn hope that if God is love, then maybe what she feels isn’t something that needs to be scrubbed away. Maybe it isn’t a stain.
Maybe it’s just love.