15 Soukoku
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 layed eyes on us.
About 15 Soukoku
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 ...Read more