Chapter 3 :
The sanctuary lights were warm, golden. Safe, if he didn't think too hard.
Elias sat stiffly in the pew between his mother and father. His collared shirt itched against his neck. The worship band had finished playing, and Pastor Raymond Lyle stood at the pulpit, Bible in hand, voice deep and measured.
"In a world that tells our children to chase feelings," the pastor said, "God calls us to pursue truth."
Elias's father murmured an approving "Amen."
Elias didn't move.
He kept his eyes forward, nodding slightly like he always did. But his mind was still backstage. Rowan's voice in the dark. I'm not going to knock forever.
His stomach clenched.
"Truth," the pastor continued, "doesn't come from within. It comes from above. And when the world asks our sons and daughters to accept sin disguised as self—we must stand firm."
Elias stared at the back of the pew ahead of him. The grain of the wood. The scratch someone had carved into it — a cross, faint and crooked. He traced it with his eyes to stay grounded.
"Temptation is loud," Pastor Raymond warned. "But holiness is quiet. Discipline is quiet. Sacrifice is quiet."
Quiet, Elias repeated in his mind. Be quiet. Be invisible.
His mother's hand slid gently over his, warm and certain. He didn't pull away.
In the car afterward, the silence stretched like a wire. His father finally broke it.
"You looked distracted during the sermon."
Elias didn't look up from his lap. "Just tired. Rehearsal's been long."
"You're still playing Romeo, right?" his mother asked from the passenger seat.
"Yeah," Elias said. "Theater department wants to modernize it. Gender-neutral casting."
His father snorted. "Of course they do."
Elias stared out the window. "It's not a big deal."
"You're playing opposite a boy?" his father asked.
Elias paused. The pause was too long.
"…Yeah," he said finally.
Silence again.
Then: "Well," his mother said carefully, "just remember who you are. We raised you with values. The world might try to confuse you, but you know better."
Elias clenched his jaw. "It's just acting."
His father's eyes flicked up in the rearview mirror. "It better be."
That night, Elias lay awake staring at the ceiling fan. Round and round. Steady. Predictable.
His phone buzzed once. A message from Rowan:
> Rowan: You okay?
Elias stared at it. Then put the phone face down without replying.
He didn't want to lie.
And he didn't know how to tell the truth.
At school the next day, the stage crew was rebuilding the set while cast members ran lines in the wings. Rowan was sketching in the margins of his script — Elias glanced once and saw it was a pair of hands, fingers almost touching.
"Hey," Rowan said without looking up. "You disappeared yesterday."
"I had church."
"Did you have to confess the sin of playing Romeo to a boy?"
Elias froze. "Don't joke about that."
Rowan blinked, then set his pencil down slowly. "I'm not joking. I've been there. I know how hard it is."
"You don't," Elias said too fast.
"I do," Rowan said quietly. "Catholic parents. Last school tried to 'pray the gay out of me.' This isn't a contest, Elias."
Elias stared down at his hands.
"You don't have to push me away," Rowan added. "I'm not asking you to be anyone you're not. I'm just asking you to be real with me."
"I don't know who that is yet," Elias admitted.
Rowan nodded. "That's okay. But I hope someday you'll want to find out."
They sat there, the silence stretching between them — not cold this time, but warm. Heavy. Real.
> Journal Entry – Monday Night
They keep talking about truth like it's something simple.
Like it's light or dark. Right or wrong.
But I don't think truth is a line.
I think it's a door.
And I'm standing in front of it, afraid to find out what's on the other side.