Archive of Our Own

The church grounds were already awake before the sun began to shine. Stone paths laid the earth into obedience, following the same measured structure, leading every step toward a single journey. The grass grew only a few inches high, trimmed biweekly so it would not obscure the intricate patterns left behind by priests who had walked here long before me.

The world felt silent, as if the sound itself had learned restraint. I stood at its center, my collar damp with sweat, the white no longer pristine. I wiped my forehead with my hand, the beads of a rosary pressing into my skin. Each breath came slowly. I tightened my grip as I walked the path, as though letting go—even for a moment—might allow something in me to wander. 

My steps were careful to not disturb the peace that this cathedral had created. My shoes pressed deeply on stones as the wind blew heavily on my skin. I felt the cold shudder it brought—its breeze dancing with the tears falling from my eyes. 

The doors creaked open loudly. I smelled the incense travelling in smoke as other seminarians prepared for the first mass of Easter. I walked quietly, looking for the confessional room. I passed by a few people—all passing through me like I was invisible.

I walked quietly in between the pews, my eyes fixated on the golden cross of God in the middle. My eyes wandered towards the tabernacle under it—closed and unwavering. It sparkled alongside the cross above. 

The statue of Jesus stood still beside the tabernacle. Even so, I could feel its immense stare as I walked. I tried to hide, raising my fists and holding the rosary up tight. I breathed heavily, my throat closing up as I turned right towards the confessionary. 

I caught up with my breath and my sweat dripped down to the wooden floor. I could hear the whispers of the priests outside, noticing my sudden presence in the confessional room. I stared, seeing only Father Greg whispering to Father Wonwoo. “Be his priest,” I heard him say. 

Father Wonwoo sighed, staring back at the confessional room directly at the crevice I was peering out—like he knew I was staring right back at him. His hands reached out for the door, creaking it open and entering. I could hear him sat down, his hands laid down loudly on his lap. 

I knew what I should do. 

I sat back down, my hands trembling on my lap and my teeth biting on my bottom lip. The rosary jingle on my thighs, its beads pressing deep on my palm as my grip was indescribably tight. I looked up, seeing only Father Wonwoo's mouth agape—like he's trying to formulate words.

“What is it you seek, my child?”

I hesitated, then lowered down my knees. The wood was cold, unforgiving. I adjusted my weight, as if my body knew better than my mouth knew of the truth. 

“F-Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—” I stammered, trying to formulate a thought. “—a week since my last confession,”

I took a deep breath—shaky, uneven—and looked up upon the towering figure behind the other side of the wall. My eyes started to swell, my hands holding the rosary tight in between my hands. 

“I told myself it started with blasphemy. But in truth, it started...with love,”

I remember the very first day we met. The classroom smelled faintly of whiteboard markers and sweat. The hum of the air conditioning unit fought against the warmth of the sun-tinted windows. I remember adjusting my uniform repeatedly, ironing the creases with my fingers. I scanned the rows of seats—most were empty, classmates laughing and playing on their separate corners. However, one figure caught my eye. 

It was you. 

You were sitting near the back, hunched over a notebook, pen moving in quick, fluid strokes. Your dark hair danced with the wind, falling enough to cover your eyes. Even then, I could still sense the meticulousness in your aura. There was carelessness in your presence—something that challenges the order I've held dear. 

My heart suddenly skipped, my cheeks started to warm, and I brushed it all off for nerves. Still, I found myself inching closer to you as if you're the Sun and I'm the Earth pulled by your gravity. I remember the first time you looked up to me—our eyes meeting for the first time. 

“Hi,” I greet, my voice soft and yet clear in the classroom. 

You tilted your head, confused as to why I approached you suddenly. “Hey,” you replied, with that gummy smile that could take anyone's heart. Your voice left a trail of mischief behind which made my chest tighten. 

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of the silence stretching between us. “I...uhhh...I'm Dohoon. I think we have the same class?” 

You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Suppose we have,” you smile. 

The exchange was brief, almost ordinary, and I liked that. It felt electric. There was something in your demeanor that shook the careful order I've worshipped for years—it left me fascinated, if not anxious. 

I sat beside you as the professor walked in. As he spoke, I would find myself stealing glances from you, noting the way you leaned in to take notes, how you occasionally paused to draw when the lecture got too out of touch. I would notice how your eyes wander to the windows, following the flapping wings of a red cardinal. My chest ached; as if my heart knew that your arrival would shake the very core of my being. 

Even when the lecture droned on, my attention remained half elsewhere, caught in your orbit—a boy impossibly near and yet, out of reach. 

By the time the sun dipped lower, the corridors returned to their usual quiet. The laughter from the corridors felt haunted now—like something borrowed and early returned. I bit my lip, leaving you asleep on your armchair. I grabbed my bag and left the classroom, looking back at you peacefully. I knew you were waiting for someone here.

The sky has softened into an orange hue, streaked with thin clouds that looked almost deliberate—as if even the heavens had been arranged by unseen hands. The bells rang behind me, low and measured, marking time I no longer felt part of. I let the heavy doors close behind me—its sound echoed longer than it should.

The path uphill to the seminary waited. 

It was a familiar climb, one I had taken countless times before—during novitiate mornings, during silent retreats, during nights when doubt felt easier to carry than prayer. The stones were uneven here, less manicured than the church grounds below. Grass grew freely between cracks, refusing the discipline imposed elsewhere. I focused on my footing, counting steps the way I had been taught to count Hail Marys.

But no matter how tightly I pressed those words together, you slipped through.

I thought of the way you leaned back in your chair, balance careless, as if falling had never frightened you. The way your pen paused mid-sentence—not out of confusion, but curiosity. I thought of how easily you existed in your body, how your laughter never checked the room before arriving. It unsettled me. It still did.

Even now, alone, I hesitated. Because even then, your name is still all I recall.

I looked back. From here, the school looked small.

Still imposing, still sacred—but smaller than it had been from within. I swallowed hard, unsettled by the thought. I had always believed holiness required closeness, submission, narrowing oneself until only obedience remained. Yet standing there, lungs burning, heart loud in my chest, I felt something else stirring. It wasn't rebellion, it was recognition. 

That what I felt for you was not hunger, nor lust, nor some careless impulse I could discipline away. It was attention. It was tender. It was the quiet desire to sit beside someone and remain. To be seen without explanation. To exist without rehearsal.

The seminary building emerged at the crest of the hill—tall, white, resolute. Its windows reflected the sun, unyielding. I had once felt proud walking toward it, certain that every step brought me closer to God. Now, each footfall felt heavier, like I was dragging something sacred behind me instead of carrying it forward.

I wondered, briefly, dangerously—

if God had been walking beside me all along,

and I had mistaken His voice for fear.

Somewhere below, in a quiet classroom with sun-tinted windows, you were still waiting.

And for the first time, I didn’t know whether entering this building meant moving closer to heaven—or further away from the truth I had just begun to name.

I walked into the cathedral, my bag hung loose on my back. The room was quiet, only lighting the altar in front of the hundred pews. The incense dwindled down as I walked—until I caught someone staring at the painting near the stairwell.

It was Father Wonwoo. His hands were folded behind his back as though he had been placed there. The corridor he stood on was narrow—lit only by a row of huge windows that let the afternoon sun spill in at an angle. Dust hurled in the wind, like it had nowhere else to be.

He stood in front of the painting—big enough that it was impossible to miss. It was tall, almost reaching the ceiling. A stretch of pale stone climbed upwards, winding into a sky of white with golden wings floating on it. Figures moved along it—some ascending, others descending—robes touching against one another, wings bruising and half-folded, faces indistinct. In the bottom, a single figure stood still, looking up, as if unsure whether to step forward or turn back. 

I approached Father Wonwoo, breathing heavily as I stood beside him. My eyes scanned the painting, tapping on the straps of my backpack. “You've seen this before,” he said. It wasn't accusatory nor curiousity, he was stating a fact.

“Yes, Father,” I replied. 

“But you never stopped to admire it,” 

I swallowed. He was right—no one did. 

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the faint echo of voices from elsewhere in the building—whispers of other seminarians, prayers of other priests. Life continued, unbothered.

“What do you see?” he asked.

I hesitated. It felt not a test but a trap I set for myself.

“A staircase going to heaven,” I said finally, picking the safest answer. 

“Is that all?” 

“Order,” I added, biting my lip. “The saints moved up, the sinners moved down—as what He intended,”

Father Wonwoo nodded. He pointed at the figure at the bottom. “What about him? Is he a sinner or a saint?”

I stammered. I didn't know. There was no safe answer, there was just the truth. “I-I don't know,” I stammered, forming my words.

“What is he doing?” he said, calm, passionate. 

“He's thinking—as if contemplating if he should be deemed a saint or a sinner,” I try to rationalize, hoping he'd like my answer.

Father Wonwoo hummed, as if that pleased him. He shifted his weight, the fabric of his robe brushed against the wooden floor.

“Do you know why this painting is placed here?” he asked. I shrugged.

“So that those who pass here will know that heaven is not only an ascent,” he started. “It's also the contemplation,”

I felt my hands curl into fists at my side. My lip bled from my biting. I gathered all my courage to utter a single word: “Father,”

Father Wonwoo shifted his body to face me. His eyes met my lowered head, looking at the ground, as if he's supposed to be unseen by my own eyes—something too holy to be perceived. He didn't intervene, he waited. 

“If someone likes boys as a boy, do they still have a place in heaven?”

Father Wonwoo did not respond. Instead, he stared back at the painting. I looked up at him, confused. I already knew the answer from the doctrine, the scriptures, the text they taught. 

I just want to hear something from him.

“If God didn't want us to love each other, then what's the point of having a God in this world?”

Father Wonwoo let the words linger in the air. I wanted to reach for them, to clutch them and make them mine, to believe that the warmth in his voice might bend doctrine itself. But the weight of his presence pressed down like the cathedral roof itself.

He straightened slowly, hands folding behind his back again, eyes now moving from the painting back to the altar. His voice was softer now, deliberate, measured:

“Dohoon… love is not a sin. Desire is not forbidden. But the path you have chosen is one of service—of discipline, of sacrifice. It is a calling not to indulgence, but to obedience, to God.”

I swallowed hard. I could feel the ache of longing in my chest, heavy and persistent, like the steps uphill to the seminary.

“The seminarians here,” he continued, “are not meant to chase what the world calls love. We are here to love differently—to love as God intended, through prayer, through study, through guidance of those who come to us. To fall into personal attachments now is to lose sight of the work we are given.”

I nodded, though my throat tightened. His words were not cruel; they were the careful hammer of truth, shaped to instruct and restrain.

“Your feelings,” he said finally, “do not make you less human, Dohoon. But they must be tempered, folded into obedience, not allowed to rule you. Heaven is built on sacrifice as much as on faith. Remember that.”

The next day, the classroom felt different—brighter, almost cruel in its normalcy. 

Morning light spilled through the windows in clean, unbothered streaks, illuminating dust motes that floated like they had all the time in the world. Chairs scraped. Voices overlapped. Life continued, effortlessly. I took my seat early, hands on my desk, spine straightened, and stared into nothingness. 

The day went on—each passing professor never knowing or caring about my blank stare on the wall in front of me. Still, the words from Father Wonwoo continued to bleed on my brain, each rhyme and syllable is a wreck in my bruised heart.

“To fall into personal attachments now is to lose sight of the work we are given,”

I was staring at nothing in particular until a shadow appeared in front of me.

“Hey,” I heard your voice. I snapped out of my thoughts and looked at you. Your eyes were lowered down, soft and comforting. Your face was illuminated by the afternoon sun as your fingers traveled to touch mine. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, I'm fine,” I tried to brush it off, scratching the back of my neck as I smile at you, awkwardly. You raised your lip, suspicious. “You don't...seem okay,” your voice laced with concern made my heart beat faster. 

“You know what...it's the end of class. Wanna go somewhere?”

My mouth opened—then closed again. 

“I can't,” I said finally, forcing the words out of my mouth before courage could betray me. I pulled my hand back, tucking it against my thigh as if it had burned me. “I have...obligations,”

You frowned, just slightly. Not offended—confused. “Obligations?” you echoed, tasting the word. “We're just going to a secret spot. Just a break. You look like you've been carrying something heavy all day,”

“I really can't,” I insisted, too quickly. My voice came out tighter than I meant. I straightened my back, the way I always did. “I have to...go back,”

You followed my gaze to the road uphill, up to the seminary. “That place again,” you said softly. Not judgemental, observant. 

I nodded. I slung my bag on my shoulder. “They expect me to be back everyday,”

“Well,” you said, shrugging, trying to sound casual. ”they don't own you every hour of the day,”

I flinched—not because it was true, but because I believe it did for years. 

“It's not like that,” I replied, though I wasn't sure if I was convincing enough. “There are rules,”

You tilted your head, studying my expression like you always did—like you were reading something between the lines. “Rules about what?” you asked. “Making friends?”

I swallowed—my throat felt dry. “About...attachments,”

The word hung between us, stiff and foreign. 

“Attachments,” you let out a short laugh—not mocking, just incredulous. “Is this what you think this is?”

I didn't answer, just stared at you. 

You stepped closer instead, closing the gap between us. “Dohoon,” you started, grabbing my palms and rubbing it in your hands. “I'm not asking you to run away. I just want to go somewhere with a friend I cherish. You disappear the moment the bell rings—like you're afraid someone might see you stay,” 

My fingers curled behind the straps of my bag. I thought back on Father Wonwoo's words—tempered, folded into obedience. I thought back to the painting, to the man frozen beneath the stairs.

This was a choice. 

“I don't have time,” I try to rationalize with you, even when my chest ached with the lie. 

You smiled—not triumphant nor defeated. Patient. “Then maybe ten minutes,” you said. “Just say there's a project that needs finishing so you stayed late,”

I hesitated. 

The room around us emptied. Chairs scraped back into place. Laughter drifted down the hall. The world, once again, did not wait for us. 

“You're persistent,” I murmured. “Only when something feels worth it,” you replied. 

That was the problem.

I exhaled slowly, like someone stepping into cold water. “Fine,” I said, voice low. “Just...a few minutes. Then, I'll go,”

Your grin widened, soft but undeniably victorious. “Deal,”

We followed the narrow path past the last building, where the campus thinned into something quieter and less supervised. The pool sat tucked behind a line of low trees, its surface catching the late afternoon light in broken shards of blue. It looked untouched—still, almost reverent—as if, too, had learned how to keep secrets.

You slowed first, hands lifting instinctively. “Okay,” you said, half-laughing, half-whispering. “I did not dress for this,”

I stopped beside you, shoulders tense. “I told you,” I said quickly, eyes scanning the trees, the fence, the empty benches. “I don't want to get wet,”

You turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Relax, no one's here.” You peered around dramatically, then leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Besides, we're just looking,”

I stayed a step back from the edge, hands gripping on the straps of my bag like they were anchors. The water shimmered, inviting and dangerous all at once. I could already imagine the consequences—wet clothes, questions, the weight of explanations pressing down on me later. “Just a few minutes,” I reminded you. “That's what you promised,”

“I know,” you reply, giggling. “Scout's honor,”

You edged closer to the pool, crouching to trail your fingers on the wet surface. “It's cold,” you added, as if that settled everything. “See? Totally harmless,”

“Youngjae,” I warned, though my voice had softened despite myself.

You glanced back at me, eyes bright with mischief. “What?”

“Don't—”

Your foot slipped. 

It happened too fast to stop—the sharp gasp, the sudden flail of your arms, the way your body pitched forward. Instinct took over before fear could. I lunged, grabbing your wrist.

Bad idea.

You yelped, fingers tightening around mine as gravity decided for both of us. For a split second, we hovered there—me off-balance, you halfway gone—eyes wide, breath caught—

Then we fell.

Cold swallowed us whole. 

I sank slowly, lungs still burning from the cold, the noise of the world dissolving to a muted hush. Light fractured above us, sunlight breaking into pale ribbons that trembled with every movement. Down here, everything softened. Sound. Gravity. Thought. 

You were already beneath the surface.

Your hair floated freely now, no longer disciplined by gravity, dark strands curling around your forehead like something untamed. Your eyes were open, searching—then they found me.

And you stilled.

For a moment, neither of us moved. We hovered in the blue, suspended between breath and surrender. I could see the small details I always pretended not to notice: the curve of your mouth when you weren’t smiling, the way your brows softened when you weren’t trying to be brave. Water clung to your lashes, turning them heavier, darker.

My chest tightened.

This was wrong, I thought immediately. The word came easily—trained, practiced, drilled into me like prayer. Wrong place. Wrong feeling. Wrong desire.

Yet my body did not listen.

The water pressed in around us, cool against my skin, dulling everything except the ache in my chest. My rosary was gone, my collar soaked and meaningless here. There were no walls underwater, no doctrine etched into stone. Just you. Just me. Just the space between us, thin and trembling.

I watched the way your lips parted as you exhaled slowly through your nose, bubbles escaping and floating past your cheek. I imagined—unbidden—what it would feel like to close that distance. The thought startled me with its gentleness. Not hunger. Not urgency.

Tenderness.

My hands hovered uselessly at my sides, fingers twitching as if they already knew what to do. I told myself to look away. I told myself to rise, to break the surface, to breathe. I told myself this was temptation, and temptation always demanded refusal.

But then you tilted your head, just slightly, curiosity softening your gaze.

The world above us felt impossibly far away.

I thought of the painting—the man frozen at the foot of the stairs, caught between ascent and retreat. I thought of Father Wonwoo’s voice, calm and careful, folding love into obedience until it barely resembled itself. I thought of all the moments I had spent rehearsing restraint, perfecting stillness.

And I wondered—terrified, aching—

if this was the moment where stillness became its own kind of lie.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure you could hear it, even underwater. I leaned closer without meaning to, the space between us shrinking, charged and fragile. Your eyes flicked briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes—waiting. 

Air burned in my lungs. Time stretched thin.

I hovered there, inches away, suspended between everything I had been taught and everything I felt, knowing that whatever I chose next would change the shape of me forever.

And underwater, where no one could hear confession or absolution, I stared at you—contemplating whether salvation looked like pulling away, or finally, finally closing the distance.

I closed the distance slowly, as if the water itself were deciding for me. My lips met yours—soft, hesitant, barely there at first—then steadier, warmer. A brief press. A shared breath held underwater. And in that quiet, weightless moment, everything I feared fell silent.

I opened my eyes, looking at your confused yet soft expression. You smiled at me, for the first time ever, I felt truly alive. We raised back to the surface, catching our breath and breaking through the water. “Uhhh...yeah,” I only murmured, pushing my body upward and sat on the edge of the pool. 

“I...I have an extra set of uniform in my bag. Use it in the meantime,” you reply. 

As the fun died down and the night began to dim, we stood on each side of a conjunction. Both roads lead to our homes—this is where we part ways. However, just like the statue behind us, we both stood still—neither wanting the other to leave just yet. 

But we knew we couldn't do it—so we did. 

By the time I reached the foot of the hill, the sun had begun its decent, light thinning into something pale and apologetic. The spare uniform clung into my skin, still faintly damp despite my efforts to wring it dry. It smelled like soap and something unfamiliar—something not mine. I kept tugging at the collar, as it might betray me, as if the fabric itself remembered what had happened.

The path felt longer than it had in the morning. 

Each step pressed the memory back into my chest—the weightlessness, the silence, the way your smile lingered as we pulled ourselves from the water. I tried to pray as I walked. The words came automatically at first, syllables shaped by years of repetition, but they dissolved before they reached meaning. The prayers felt hollow, like speaking on water. 

The seminary rose ahead of me, white and immovable, the windows catching the last of the afternoon light. From a distance, it looked unchanged—pure, orderly, waiting. I wondered briefly if it had noticed my absence. If it knew I was returning altered in a way no uniform could hide. 

I stepped inside. 

The doors closed behind me with a soft, final sound. The corridor stretched long and narrow, lit by high windows that let in the dying sun. Dust drifted lazily in the air. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, a bell rang once, then went silent. 

“Dohoon,”

The voice stopped me before I could take another step. 

Father Wonwoo stood near the stairwell, hands folded behind his back, just as he had the day before. It was as if he had been placed there, like any other day, in the same spot. His gaze moved over me—not unkindly, not suspicious, but attentively. It lingered a moment too long on my damp hair, the unfamiliar fabric of my uniform.

“You're late,” he said, not accusing. Observing. 

“Yes, Father,” I replied, lowering my head. My heart began to pound, sharp and immediate. I waited for the question that would expose me. 

But it didn't come.

Instead, he slightly turned, gesturing toward the corridor beside the stairwell. “Walk with me,”

I obeyed.

Our footsteps echoed together, measured, restrained. I was actually aware of my body,—how my skin still remembered the water, how my chest tightened each time his sleeve brushed mine. I wondered if he could hear my heart. If he sensed the disarray behind my practiced composure. 

“You look unsettled,” Father Wonwoo spoke at last. 

“I'm tired,” I exclaimed. It was the truth, not the whole of it, at least. 

He nodded, as if he expected no more. “Tiredness has a way of loosening what we work hard to keep in place,” he said. “It makes us careless,”

The word struck cleanly.

We stopped beneath one of the tall windows. Light fell across the floor in a pale rectangle, catching the dust between us. Father Wonwoo turned to face me fully now. His expression was unreadable—neither stern nor gentle. 

“That's not your uniform, is it?”

Father Wonwoo's eyes lingered on the fabric, then lifted back on my face. 

The question was quiet. Gentle. Far more dangerous than accusation. 

His eyes darted on the blue tag on the left breast pocket. My eyes followed, engraved was Youngjae's nametag that I didn't notice. 

“No, Father,” I said. 

The truth settled between us with a weight I could feel in my knees. 

“Who's Youngjae?” he asked, unaccusatory. His calm demeanor still echoing amongst the corridors while I tried to restrain my fear from showing. 

“A friend's,” I said finally. The word felt fragile in my mouth, like glass. 

Father Wonwoo nodded once, slowly, as if he had already known. “I see,”

We stood there in silence. Somewhere down the corridor, footsteps passed, then faded. The building breathed around us—ancient, patient. 

“You know,” he said at last. “It's not the borrowing that unsettles me,”

I stiffened. 

“It's the returning,” he continued. “We always come back carrying something we did not leave with,”

He turned to me again, and this time his gaze did not search my clothes. It searched me. 

“Tell me, Dohoon,” he said softly, “does it weigh on you?” 

I thought of the water closing over my head. Of the hush. Of the warmth I had not expected. Of the way my chest had felt—open, unguarded, alive. 

“Yes,” I said. 

He studied my face for a long moment. Then unexpectedly, he smiled—not kindly, not cruelly. Something tired, something knowing. 

“Then you must decide,” he said, stepping away. “whether that weight pulls you down...or helps you stand,”

He moved past me, his robe brushing the floor, leaving me alone beneath the window. 

I remained there, fingers curled into the unfamiliar fabric on my sides, heart still loud in my chest. 

For the first time, the silence did not feel like judgement. It felt like waiting. 

Easter rolled around again—the cathedral was alive before the sun fully claimed the sky. Candles flickered along the aisle, casting golden halos against the marble, while incense swirled upward, heavy and persistent. The organ hummed low, vibrating through the floor into my bones. I knelt, hands folded, head bowed—but my mind was elsewhere. 

I felt the first stirrings of unease as I heard a soft shuffle in the pews behind me. Someone unfamiliar, tentative. The quiet murmurs of seminarians and parishioners become a backdrop to a new rhythm—the way someone's heartbeat would feel in a room like this, unshielded, perceptible. 

Then I saw you. 

You were perched near the back, trying to mimic the posture of those around you. Kneeling awkwardly, head bowed, fingers curling over the edge of the pew. The sunlight caught your hair, revealing a mischief even in stillness. My chest clenched. Here you were—this world of ritual and reverence, and you were...you. Out of place. Not careless, exactly, but alive in a way that resists the order around you. 

I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the mass, and my eyes traced the line of your shoulders, the small movements of your hands adjusting the hymnbook, hesitating over a page. You glanced up briefly, catching my gaze, and your lips curved—almost a smile, restrained, quiet, like you were testing me. 

My hands tightened on the bench. I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat. Focus, Dohoon, focus on the mass. God. Discipline. The prayers slipped past my lips, automatic, hollow. My attention kept darting back to you, like the air had shifted and you moved along with it. 

Father Wonwoo's voice rose in a chant, a melody carrying across the high ceilings, but I heard only your breath, the rustle of your sleeves, the gentle shift of your body as you knelt. My heart betrayed me—quickened, uncertain, alive. 

You leaned forward slightly, tilting your head as if curious about the ritual, and I imagined reaching out—not to touch, not to hold, just to anchor myself in you. But the world demanded stillness. Silence. Reverence. 

The hymn swelled, and for a moment, our eyes met again. You didn't smile this time. You simply watched, and I felt it like a brush of warmth against my chest. A reminder that this world, so disciplined, could still hold someone unpredictable. Someone who made me forget my place, my rules. 

I knelt through the rest of the service, eyes forward, hands folded, repeating prayers with measured cadence. But in the back of my mind, you lingered—alive, untamed, entirely present. When the final bell rang and the sunlight spilled through the stained glass, casting colored light across the aisle, he was still there, still looking. 

And I knew: the world of God and order could not contain what I felt for him. Not here. Not ever, not entirely. 

After the mass, the cathedral had emptied slowly, the last echoes of organ notes fading into the quiet arches. I lingered near the front, as if the stained-glass light itself could anchor me to order, to routine. But I knew it wouldn't. My gaze kept drifting back to the far end of the nave, and there you were—standing in front of Father Wonwoo's favorite painting, the stairways leading to heaven curling upward in solemn gold and shadow. 

You tilted your head, examining the intricate brush strokes as though you could climb it with your eyes. I approached cautiously, my robes brushing the marble floor, heart thudding like a drum I had no right to play. 

“You like it?” I asked softly, not wanting to break the hushed awe of the space. 

You glanced at me, smiled faint and conspirational. “It's...serious, isn't it? Heavy, in a way that makes you hold your breath,”

I nodded, stepping closer. “It's meant to inspire contemplation. To remind us that the stairway to heaven is not just ascent—it's about choice,”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “I think my brother would love this place. He's always dreamed of a chapel wedding...something like this. Candles, high ceilings, music that makes your chest vibrate,”

I watched, noting the way your eyes softened, how your smile lingered in a corner of your lips. “Your brother?” I said carefully, testing the waters of conversation outside the doctrine. 

“Yeah,” you replied, voice low. “Kyungmin is...serious about it. He wants a life full of certainty. Something stable. That's not me, though,” your gaze lifted on the stairways again. “Maybe that's why I'm drawn to you. Or why it feels like I just can't leave,”

Something in me ached. The world above water, the world of order, pressed against the pulse he carried with him—light, untamed, alive. My fingers itched to reach out, but I didn't. Not yet. 

“Do you think there's a place for us up there?” you ask, out of the blue, breaking the silence. I looked at you with a confused look. “Hmm?”

“In heaven, do you think there's a place for us?” you continued to stare at the painting, your words hanging low on my mind. I stared back, gathering any thoughts I have on the issue. “Of course, God loves everyone—even those who love for the sake of loving,”

Your fingers intertwined on mine. I stared, it felt like it was just a usual thing for you, but for me, it was different—it was the culmination of my feelings for you, summarized in one single touch. 

And maybe, that was enough. 

“Dohoon,” a familiar voice echoed form behind. I noticed the shadow that overpowered ours. I looked back to only see Father Wonwoo—calm, observant, yet finally deduced everything. 

“Youngjae, is it?” you nod in response, looking back and forth between me and Father Wonwoo. He ushered you out, wanting us two alone. “Go, my child, your friends await you,” he ushered, pointing at your friends on the chapel doors. You nod, waving goodbye. 

The cathedral seemed suddenly too vast, too quiet, once the last footsteps of parishioners faded. Candles flickered against the marble walls, but their light no longer comforted—it cast shadows that seemed to stretch toward me, accusing, curious. I remained frozen before the painting of the stairways, the golden steps curling upward in silent judgment.

A soft clearing of the throat broke the silence. I turned to see Father Wonwoo approaching, slow, deliberate, robes whispering against the floor. He stopped a few feet away, gaze steady, but there was something in his eyes I had never seen before: fear. Quiet, careful, contained, but unmistakable.

“I need you to hear me, Dohoon,” he said, voice low, almost shaking. “I’ve watched you struggle…felt the distance growing between who you are and the path you’ve chosen. I can’t—” His hand trembled slightly as he gestured toward the painting, toward the heavens depicted in oil and gold. “I can’t bear to see you throw away the years you’ve given to this place, to this calling, for something…something that could unravel you.”

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how raw and human he seemed, how small behind the weight of the cathedral’s ceilings. My heart thudded—not with desire this time, but with guilt, and something heavier: fear of what I might lose.

“Father…” I began, but he held up a hand.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not a word. Listen. You’ve trained, Dohoon. Years of discipline, of prayer, of study…all of it. And yes, I understand the pull, the…temptation. I’ve seen it in my own life. I’ve felt it. But this,”—he gestured between us, at the painting, at the air itself—“this could undo all you’ve built. Don’t let it. Don’t sacrifice who you are for what might only be fleeting.”

His voice broke slightly, betraying a crack of fear I hadn’t expected. “I’m asking you, as your mentor, as someone who has walked these halls longer than you can imagine: choose wisely. Choose your path. The seminary, your vocation—these are not just walls and books. They are your life, Dohoon. Don’t throw them away for a desire that will test you, that might destroy you if you let it.”

I looked at him, the man who had been steady, calm, unwavering. Now he looked small, almost human, as though my own confusion had made him vulnerable. And I felt it—the weight of his fear pressing on me, mingling with my own.

“I don’t know if I can,” I whispered.

“You can,” he said, voice softer now, almost pleading. “But you have to decide. Not tomorrow. Not later. Now. Decide what you are willing to risk…what you are willing to lose. Because once you cross a line, Dohoon, there’s no returning the same.”

I closed my eyes, thinking of the water, the quiet of your smile, the thrill of a world beyond the seminary—but also of the countless hours, the prayers, the discipline, the life I had built here. My chest ached with the impossibility of it.

Father Wonwoo waited, hands folded, silent but present, like the very stones of the cathedral were holding their breath. He didn’t push me. He didn’t demand an answer—but in his silence, in his fear, the choice was mine to make.

And I felt it—the gravity of the decision, heavier than any water, higher than any stairway, more sacred than any prayer I had ever whispered.

“Dohoon,” he said again, soft, steady now, voice no longer shaking. “Decide. Because the weight of not deciding…that’s worse than anything else.”

I opened my eyes, and for the first time, truly saw him—not as Father Wonwoo, mentor, or confessor—but as a man terrified for the life of someone he cared for. The world held its breath with me, waiting.

And I knew: the next step I took would define everything.

Night gathered the cathedral differently than dawn ever had.

The candles were fewer now, their flames small and deliberate, as if conserving themselves. The vastness of the space deepened—arches dissolving into shadow, stained glass reduced to dark geometry. The air still carried incense, but thinner, ghostlike. Everything felt pared down to essentials: stone, silence, God.

I knelt alone in the front pew.

My hands were folded properly this time. My spine straight. My breathing measured. I had rehearsed this posture for years—how to make the body look obedient even when the heart refused to follow.

I told myself I had come to pray.

But even before I heard you, I knew you were there.

A soft shift of wood behind me. The subtle creak of a pew accepting weight. Not careless. Careful. As if you already sensed what this place demanded and were trying, for my sake, to comply.

My chest tightened.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I could feel you the way one feels heat without touching flame. One pew behind me—close enough to matter, far enough to pretend distance.

The silence stretched.

I closed my eyes.

This ends tonight, I told myself.

This must end tonight.

I began to pray aloud, barely above a whisper. Familiar words. Safe words. Words that asked for forgiveness without naming the sin. Words that built a wall between me and the sound of your breathing behind me.

But the prayers faltered. They always did now.

“Dohoon.”

Your voice was quiet. Not pleading. Not playful. Just my name, spoken carefully, as if you didn’t want it to break.

I inhaled sharply.

“Youngjae,” I said, still facing forward. Even my voice felt disciplined—trained into calm. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A pause.

“You said that last time,” you replied. “And you still let me come.”

That hurt more than accusation ever could.

I finally turned, just enough to look over my shoulder. The dim candlelight caught your face in fragments—eyes earnest, mouth unsure, hands resting awkwardly on your knees like you didn’t know where to put them in a place like this.

You looked…smaller here. Not diminished. Just human. Stripped of the ease you carried in the world outside these walls.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said.

The words landed heavier than I expected. They echoed, even though I hadn’t raised my voice.

Your brow creased. “Do what?”

Us, I almost said.

Instead: “Whatever this is.”

You leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the pew in front of you, closing the distance by inches. It felt like too much.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked.

The question undid me.

I stood abruptly, the movement sharp in the quiet. I turned fully now, facing you, the cathedral rising between us like a witness that could not be silenced.

“No,” I said too quickly. “This isn’t about you.”

You searched my face. “That’s never true when you say it.”

I swallowed.

“This place,” I gestured vaguely around us—the altar, the shadows, the weight of centuries—“this is my life. I’ve given everything to it. Years. Faith. Discipline. I can’t keep standing here pretending I’m whole while wanting something I’m not meant to have.”

Your jaw tightened. “So that’s it?”

I hesitated. Just long enough.

“Yes.”

The word tasted like ash.

You stood too, slower than I had, like you were bracing yourself against the floor. “You’re choosing this,” you said, glancing toward the altar. “Over me.”

“I’m choosing God,” I said.

The silence that followed was not empty. It was full of everything we didn’t say.

“And what if God isn’t asking you to give this up?” you asked quietly. “What if it’s just people?”

I shook my head. “I can’t afford that question.”

You stepped closer, stopping just short of where the candles threw light. “You don’t look saved,” you said. “You look scared.”

That was the moment I almost broke.

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “I am scared,” I admitted. “But fear doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Sometimes it’s the price of obedience.”

You stared at me, eyes shining—not angry. Hurt. Understanding in the most painful way.

“So this is goodbye,” you said.

I nodded once. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

You breathed out slowly, as if steadying yourself. “I came tonight because I thought…maybe this place would explain you to me,” you said. “I thought if I sat where you sit, saw what you see, I’d understand why you keep pulling away.”

You glanced around the darkened cathedral. “But it doesn’t feel like love lives here the way you do.”

The words struck something deep and fragile.

“I can’t be both,” I said. “I can’t be his and yours.”

You stepped back then, creating the distance I hadn’t been able to. “I never asked you to choose,” you said softly.

“I know,” I replied. “That’s why I have to.”

You nodded once, accepting something you shouldn’t have had to accept. “I hope,” you said after a moment, “that you'll be happy from what you chose.”

You turned and walked away, your footsteps muted, respectful even in leaving. The pew creaked again as you passed it, then stilled.

I remained standing long after the doors closed behind you.

When I finally knelt again, my hands shook.

I bowed my head, pressing my forehead to my clasped fingers, and for the first time that night, the prayer came unbidden—not rehearsed, not disciplined.

It was desperate.

And the silence that answered did not feel like approval.

It felt like loss.

A few years later and I have started to forget about you. I earned myself a title as a priest, hoping that someday, you'll look back and think that I've made a right choice. 

The chapel smelled faintly of lilies and wax. Candles flickered along the aisle, their flames trembling like fragile hearts. I stood at the altar, hands folded, heart pounding—not with joy, but with memory.

Father Wonwoo had delivered the news weeks ago, but it had taken months for the words to settle, to pierce through the armor of discipline I had built around myself. Youngjae was gone.

Gone.

Not an accident. Not some cruel twist of fate. He had chosen to leave.

I remembered the day I heard it: the quiet knock at the seminary door, the careful steps of Father Wonwoo, the way his eyes tried to hold my gaze without crushing me.

“Dohoon,” he said, voice trembling—something I had never heard in him before. “I…have to tell you. Youngjae…he…he’s gone. He—he took his own life.”

I didn’t hear anything after that. The room, the floor, the walls—I was suspended in an endless echo of that moment. My chest felt hollow, like the cathedral itself had pulled a piece of me away. Months passed in a haze of prayer, study, and self-restraint. I tried to bury the ache, but it was always there, a shadow at the edges of my mind.

And now I stood here, leading the wedding service. Kyungmin, Youngjae’s brother, radiant in his black suit, smiled softly at me as he adjusted the flower pinned on his suit jacket. My voice carried over the gathered congregation, steady, precise—but inside, it wavered.

I caught his eye. He looked at me with trust, with hope, with love that I could not betray. And yet…Youngjae was there, in every glance I stole toward the back of the chapel where his absence loomed. Every memory of him, every weight of what had been left unsaid, pressed against my ribs.

“We gather here today,” I began, my voice echoing against the high ceilings, “to celebrate the union of Kyungmin and Han Zhen, a joining of hearts in faith, love, and devotion.”

My throat tightened. The words felt both sacred and impossible, because Youngjae was not here to see his brother smile, not here to stand beside me in this ordered, holy space. The memory of his mischievous tilt of the head, the warmth of his smile, the way he had made my heart ache and rise all at once—it lingered.

Kyungmin reached for my hand, a small, grounding gesture. “It’s okay,” he whispered, as if reading the storm behind my eyes.

I inhaled slowly, letting the chapel’s air fill me, anchoring myself in ritual, in duty, in the life that remained. Youngjae’s choice had left a scar I could not heal, but his memory—his being—reminded me why I continued to serve. To hold faith, even when it demanded the impossible.

“And now,” I said, my voice steadier, “let us witness this sacred vow of love and unity.”

As they spoke their promises, I felt the weight of absence and presence intertwine. Youngjae was gone, and yet—he was everywhere. In Kyungmin's laughter, in the stained glass light painting the aisle, in the echoes of my own heart.

The service continued, beautiful and solemn. I guided Kyungmin and Han Zhen through the ritual, every step measured, precise. Yet beneath the cadence of prayer and song, there was a quiet ache, a hollow that no ceremony could fill.

When the final blessing was spoken, and the congregation filed out, Kyungmin lingered for a moment, looking at me with a familiar, gentle smile.

“Thank you, Father,” he said softly, her voice carrying both grief and hope. “He would have wanted this.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yes,” I whispered, though the word felt like a lie and a truth all at once.

Alone now, I stepped outside the chapel. The evening sky stretched wide and forgiving above me. And in that moment, I let myself feel the ache fully—the loss, the love, the weight of choices. I let it settle, knowing that, though I could not bring him back, I could carry him forward—in every prayer, every service, every life I touched.

The chapel was empty now. The echoes of Kyungmin's wedding lingered like a fading hymn, soft and ghostly. I remained at the altar, kneeling on the cold marble, hands folded, head bowed—but my mind was anything but still. 

The chapel did not answer me. 

I was still kneeling when the last warmth faded, when Youngjae's voice—whether memory or mercy—I could no longer tell, dissolved into the stone and incense. The stained glass dimmed as night fully claimed the sky, colors retreating into the shadow. What remained was marble, silence, and the hollow space inside my chest where something essential has once lived. 

I stayed there longer than I meant to. 

My hands were still clasped, but the prayer had long since unraveled. Words felt dishonest now. Even God felt distant—not absent, not cruel—just impossibly far, like the surface of the water when your lungs have begun to ache. 

I thought of Kyungmin walking down the aisle this morning. Of the way her joy had been careful, reverent, as if she knew happiness required permission. I thought of you standing there where I stood now once, looking up at heaven like it might answer back if you stared hard enough. 

I told myself it started with blasphemy—that I have chose God. 

But kneeling there, alone, I finally understood the truth I've been avoiding: I had not chosen God, I've chosen survival. Order. The appearance of faith. I had chosen to keep breathing even when everything that made breathing meaningful was left behind.

And now, you were gone. 

A sound escaped my throat—something between a sob and a laugh. “I did everything right,” I whispered, though no one was listening. “I stayed. I obeyed. I endured,”

The altar remained unchanged. 

The silence pressed closer, heavier now, no longer waiting—only watching. 

I lowered my forehead to the marble, the cold seeping into my skin. For the first time, I did not resist the thought that rose gently, insistently, a tide I was too tired to fight. 

If love was a weight that pulled you under, and faith was a ladder that never quiet reached the surface—

then what was left for someone suspended between the two?

I saw you again—not as a figure, not as a voice—but as feeling. The quiet of water. The stillness where fear briefly loosened its grip. The moment where everything I was forbidden to want had felt achingly, unbearably real. 

“I'm so tired,” I said aloud. 

The words did not echo. 

They only settled. 

I stayed kneeling, unmoving, as the candles burned lower. Somewhere beyond the chapel walls, the world continued—cars passing, lives unfolding, prayers rising that were not mine. Inside, something in me finally went still. 

I stood at last, slowly, like someone obeying a gravity no longer questioned. I looked once more at the altar, at the cross above it, at the space where I had tried to make a life out of absence. 

“I'm sorry,” I said—not to God, not to the Church—but to you, to Kyungmin, to the boy I had once been before stillness became lying. 

I turned away from the altar. 

And the chapel, which had witnessed everything, said nothing as I made my choice. 

Each step I took was a step closer to my choice. The spiral staircase towards the chapel halls, where I used to run to as a kid to experience touching the clouds—closer to God. My thoughts began to echo in my mind. 

What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy? My heart aches when you're not here with me—nor would I even have the strength to continue living like this. The memories of your skin glistening under the sun, the taste of your lips underwater, and your voice that keeps my sheets ablaze. 

You've become a vow I'll uphold somehow. 

I could feel the breeze on the chapel's ceilings, the townspeople looking up to see me, mistaking me as God aiming to fly—but I wasn't. 

This act is only witnessed by you, Youngjae. 

It's blasphemous not to love you.