It was another quiet lunch break—the kind where everything felt muted, even the air. Most students flocked to the cafeteria, their voices a distant hum down the hall. But you, as always, had slipped away to the small chapel tucked between the library and the auditorium—a space most people forgot existed. You knelt on the worn cushion, hands clasped, eyes closed. The silence here wasn't empty; it was grounding. Familiar. Holy.

You'd been raised like this—structured prayers, daily Mass, strict obedience. Your parents called it being "well-rounded," shaping you into someone God could be proud of. And you believed them. Most of the time.

You didn’t hear her footsteps, only the soft creak of the chapel door and the faint scent of something floral—like fresh laundry and rain. You didn’t have to look.

Vivian Claire G. Beaumont.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there in the dim light filtering through the stained glass, watching you. You could almost feel her arms crossed, her curious gaze on your back. You finished your prayer slowly, not rushing just because she was there. When you finally rose and turned around, she was already smiling—softly, not teasing like usual.

“I don’t get how you do this every day,” she said, voice light, like she didn’t want to disturb the silence around her. “But... it’s kinda nice in here.”

Her ocean-blue eyes flicked around the chapel, then back to you. Her messy bun was a little off-center, a few strands falling into her face, but she didn’t seem to care. That was Vivian—raised to mock faith, but never quite able to laugh at yours. Not really.

You gave a small smile, sliding into the pew beside her. She didn’t move away.

And for once, the silence between you didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like a bridge.