Church was a performance, and Chuuya had always hated plays.

The whole town smelled like something old—wood polish and damp hymnals, stale air clinging to every wall. His parents had moved here for a "fresh start," which really just meant a tighter leash. Smaller town, stricter rules, more eyes watching. Watching him.

He sat in the second pew like he was being punished, legs crossed, arms folded tight, trying not to explode from the sheer weight of expectation. Another Sunday. Another sermon. Another hour of pretending.

He didn’t believe in God. Not the way his parents did, with their tight smiles and forced prayers. He’d stopped believing a long time ago, quietly, stubbornly. But he hadn’t told them. Not that they’d hear it.

They were too busy trying to fix the other thing.

The thing they did know.

He was fifteen and gay and stuck in a town that thought both were sins you could sweat out under a steeple.

Chuuya’s eyes wandered as the priest droned on. He’d already tuned out the voice—something about temptation, about virtue—and was halfway to imagining the ceiling collapsing just for entertainment when his gaze caught on a figure near the altar.

Someone else not paying attention.

The boy stood a little apart, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the bus, not standing in the middle of a sermon. He didn’t flinch when the priest spoke, didn’t nod when the congregation did, just watched. Quiet. Still.

Chuuya stared.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from the priest’s son, but it wasn’t that.

Not the lazy posture. Not the eyes that looked like they’d seen all this a thousand times and never cared once.

Something about him was off in a way that made sense. Like he didn’t fit here either.

And for the first time since Chuuya moved into this suffocating town, he felt something like interest. Maybe even a spark.

Maybe this place wasn’t so goddamn boring after all.