Chapter Text
The choir hall is nearly empty, save for one girl kneeling at the front—just beside the church organ, head bowed low, hands clasped tightly like she's holding herself together more than she's praying.
Film doesn’t say much aloud. Her lips move, but only barely, like even her confessions need to be small, quiet, unseen. Behind her, the light from the high windows softens the sharp corners of the room—white walls, old wood, a low humming silence where music used to be.
Namtan sits a few pews behind, pretending to scroll on her phone, but really just waiting, watching. She doesn’t know what Film’s praying for today, but she has her guesses.
She always has her guesses.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
There’s something sacred about the way Film hums when she thinks no one’s listening.
At the front of the church hall with metal chairs stacked unevenly behind her, she tucks the remaining sheet music into a plastic folder with careful hands.
It’s almost evening. Youth practice ended nearly half an hour ago. Most of the choir has gone home, but Namtan lingers, as always, perched on the edge of a church benchㅡa pew, technically, but it doesn’t feel sacred unless someone’s praying on itㅡlike she belongs.
Namtan isn’t part of the choir. Never has been, never will be. She always says the choir’s too obsessed with being prim and proper—always pushing obedience like it’s a virtue. It feels like being tied to a leash, she once said, so she settled for just watching Film.
She likes watching Film.
Film doesn’t notice her at first. She’s swaying slightly, humming a hymn that’s already faded from everyone else’s mind—the same one the choir sang earlier, now just a breath softer than silence.
Namtan leans back and watches, fondly smiling with an ache blooming quietly in her chest.
Film’s always like this—a little too careful, a little too devout. Always organizing hymnals that don’t belong to her. Always fixing chairs someone else left messy. Always wiping down the organ to keep it free of dust. Always the last 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, standing casually like she hadn’t been watching the whole time.
Film jumps, nearly dropping the hymn folder in her hands.
She turns fast, eyes scanning the room. No one.
Still, her expression twists into a frown as she whisper-yells, "Not here," like the nickname was a scandal.
Namtan doesn’t flinch. She just stands up and strolls over, her grin never fading. “Relax,” she says, already crouching to help collect the sheet music. “I’ll help out. Maybe if I clean too, God’ll give us a discount on sin.”
Film exhales sharply through her nose—part laugh, part exasperation. But she lets her stay.
They sort the hymnals in silence, the soft kind that almost feels domestic.
“Why are you still here? I thought you left with Milk.” Film asks after a while.
Namtan shrugs. “Milk didn’t wanna fetch me today. Said something about not wanting to step into a cult.”
She says it like it’s a direct quote, dry and amused.
Film huffs a laugh—short and tight. “She shouldn’t joke like that…”
“Eh. You’re used to her,” Namtan replies, still calm. “You know how she is.”
They keep working. Film smooths the corners of a folded paper, voice lowering. “You know people will talk, right? If they keep seeing us together after practice.”
“They already talk.” Namtan laughs under her breath. “They just don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s not funny,” Film says quietly. “Love told me her mom and the church officers had a meeting. They’re starting to talk about how some of us are being… influenced by the environment. She said they’re going to be more watchful.”
Namtan scoffs. “If people think we’re gay just because we breathe in the same room, that sounds like a them problem.” She pauses, then adds with a grin, “I mean, they’re not exactly wrong… but still.”
That earns a real smile from Film—brief, tired, but there. Still, it fades fast.
They finish placing the last hymnal. Film doesn’t say anything else. Namtan doesn’t need her to.
Once they step out of the church gates, the air feels different—looser, like it doesn’t carry as many eyes.
“I’ll walk you home,” Namtan says casually.
They walk side by side, their steps slow, unrushed. The night hums around them—the low buzz of distant traffic, the faint memory of hymns still echoing in Film’s mind. It’s a ten-minute walk. Not far, but enough for Namtan to feel the weight of each step.
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.
But then, after a breath, she slides her hand into Namtan’s and clasps it tightly as if it’s the only thing anchoring her in the world.
Namtan doesn’t grin, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even look at her. She just holds on because 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 walk in silence for a while. Streetlamps flicker gently as they pass. There’s a quiet rhythm to the way their hands swing between them, fingers still locked.
Then Namtan speaks, not looking at her. “I saw you stay behind after the choir prayed.”
Film doesn’t respond right away.
“You were kneeling,” Namtan adds. “Everyone else had left.”
Film exhales slowly, the kind that feels like it’s been sitting in her chest all day. “I know,” she says.
“Did you… pray for something specific?” Namtan asks, careful not to sound accusing.
Another pause. Then, a tired sigh from Film—one that seems to carry years of guilt, of trying, of shame soaked deep into her skin.
“You know what it’s about,” Film finally says, resigned, quiet, like she’s too tired to pretend.
Namtan bites the inside of her cheek. Of course she knows.
It’s one of those moments where their old joke—"maybe if we pray hard enough, He’ll fix us"—stops being funny, where it starts to hurt because only one of them still means it.
Film keeps praying to be normal.
Namtan stopped praying a month agoㅡbecause it started to feel like asking God to erase her.
Namtan doesn’t say all that, though. She just holds Film’s hand a little tighter, the silence between them pulsing with all the words they can’t say out loud yet.
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,” Film says, voice cracking just a little. “I never… I never want to make you feel like you’re the sin, or like being with you is.”
Her eyes don’t meet Namtan’s, but her grip tightens, knuckles pale.
Namtan breathes in slow. She’s always ready for this, always ready to catch her.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, 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 says steadily. “We grew up in the same church. We heard the same sermons, carried the same shame.”
She squeezes her 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. And 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 like 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꒱ ‧₊˚
The cafeteria smells like fried garlic and soy sauce. It’s crowded and noisy, filled with students trying to squeeze the most out of their lunch break.
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 like grace was never part of the planㅡit never was with Milk.
“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” Milk says, not looking up. “Problem with your girlfriend?”
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.”
Milk shrugs. “Still exclusive. The only thing stopping you two from putting a label on it is the cult you’re in.”
That makes Namtan laugh—a low sound through her nose. It’s not funny, not really, but it comes out anyway. “Good thing we’re not near the church or else the officers might jump you.”
“They’re scary sometimes,” Milk says, finally glancing at her. “I can’t imagine how you feel.”
“I’m not scared of them,” Namtan replies, voice quieter now. She leans back in her chair, shoulders heavy. “It’s just that…”
Milk softens. “She’s still trying to pray it away?”
“Yeah,” Namtan breathes. “And I feel useless. I can’t do anything to help her. I mean, I get it—faith is something 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.”
There’s a small pause before Milk asks quietly, like she’s been holding the question since yesterday. “Then why won’t you leave? Why won’t she?”
Namtan glances up from her food. “What?”
“The church,” Milk says. “Why won’t you leave? Or Film, at least, if it’s what’s weighing her down.”
Namtan doesn’t get defensive. She rarely ever does, especially not with Milk. Her faith may be complicated, but it’s never fragile.
“We grew up there,” Namtan says, meeting her eyes this time. No defensiveness, just tired honesty. “We were raised to believe everything they taught us. We memorized the verses before we even knew what they meant. We said amen before we could spell it. It’s always been home.”
Milk rests her chin on one hand. “Even when it tells you you’re wrong?”
“I don’t agree with everything.” Namtan shakes her head. “But I still believe in God. I still believe most of what they teach.”
“But not the part about you being a sinner for liking girls.”
Namtan barely smirks. “I mean… at least it’s not drugs, right?” She doesn’t mean to joke, but it comes out like one anyway. Still, the truth follows right behind.
“I know it’s a sin,” Namtan says. “I’ve heard the sermons. I’ve memorized the shame. But deep down, I still believe God is kinder than what’s preached, kinder than the people who pretend to speak for Him.
“God is love. God has to be love. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Milk’s quiet for a second before asking, “You think Film believes that too?”
“No,” Namtan says softly. “Not yet."
She doesn't say how hard it is to wait, or how much it hurts to see someone you love keep asking God to fix something that was never broken.
"I just hope Film gets there too. Someday, at her own pace," she adds
Milk asks out of concern. “You think she’ll ever stop trying to fix herself?”
Namtan stares past her, toward the cafeteria window where late light spills across the floor. “I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. “I just hope she doesn’t break herself trying.”
Film’s voice cuts in, soft but clear. “Sorry, I’m late.”
Film approaches the table with her tray. The moment she does, both Namtan and Milk look up too quickly, like they’ve been caught saying something they didn’t want her to hear.
Film doesn’t mind, though. She knows Milk only brings her up when she’s concerned, and that Namtan only ever talks about her out of love.
She sets her tray down beside Namtan and slides into the seat. Not too close, but close enough.
“Class ended late,” she murmurs. Then, she turns to Milk. “Hi.”
Milk gives her a small smile. “Hello.”
Film hums, polite. She rolls up her sleeves, folds her hands, and bows her head.
“Thank You for this meal,” Film whispers under her breath. “And please, purify me. Make me worthy to serve You.”
A familiar prayer, a small oneㅡeach time still wrings something raw in her chest, like asking God to scrape her clean, like begging to be rewritten.
When she opens her eyes, neither Namtan nor Milk speaks. Namtan just watches herㅡnot intrusively, but with a softness that carries both concern and knowing. Film doesn’t meet her gaze. She picks up her spoon and pokes at the rice on her tray.
The appetite's there, but thin. Prayers take more out of her than hunger ever does.
It’s the ache that follows her everywhere. The hum of guilt, of devotion, of something else she hasn’t figured out how to name yet.
Milk doesn’t press either. She never does. That’s what Film’s most thankful for.
Out of everyone, Namtan’s best friend is the only one who knows, the only one she’s ever admitted it to—haltingly, on a rooftop, months ago, after too many bottled thoughts and a single offhand question.
“I think I might be…” Film couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Milk had only shrugged. Blunt, but not unkind. “Yeah. Took you long enough.”
Now, Film eats slowly, small bites. Each spoonful feels heavier than it should. She doesn't notice how quiet she’s gone until Namtan’s knee shifts under the table—just a light nudge, not even a touch, more like presence. A simple kind of reassurance.
Film exhales through her nose. Not quite a smile, but something eases in her chest.
School is safer.
Here, she doesn’t have to pretend as hard. She can sit close, can lean on Namtan’s shoulder, can whisper sweet nothings during breaks and call it friendship.
Here, their affection is disguised in plain sight—just girls being close, no church officers watching from the corners.
She doesn’t say anything, but she knows they both feel it—the weight of everything unspoken.
Inside Film, there's only the quiet hum of a prayer still lingering, and the girl beside her who makes it so hard to believe it’s supposed to be wrong to be loved like this.