The spiritual program at school had always been background noise to Ami, like static on an old radio. She'd walk past the faded posters in the hallways, their curled edges promising hope and community, and barely glance at them. Worship songs drifted from the gym during assemblies, their melodies soft but distant, never quite reaching her. She didn't think twice about it—faith was for other people, the ones who had their lives figured out, not for someone like her, navigating the messy orbit of high school and her secret love with Racheal.
But that day, something shifted. Ami paused outside the auditorium, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. A pull, faint but undeniable, tugged at her chest—like a whisper she couldn't ignore. She didn't know why she stopped, couldn't explain the ache that made her linger. Maybe it was the way the light spilled through the cracked door, or the hum of voices inside, warm and unhurried. Whatever it was, she found herself slipping into the back row, hoodie up, arms folded tight across her chest, ready to bolt if it got "too much."
The room was half-full, students scattered across folding chairs, some listening, some doodling. The speaker wasn't what Ami expected—no fire-and-brimstone preacher, no judgmental glare. Just a woman with a gentle voice, talking about love that sees you, identity that anchors you, and truth that sets you free instead of chaining you down. Her words were simple, unadorned, but they cut through Ami like light through fog. It wasn't loud or dramatic—just honest, like a conversation with a friend who knows you better than you know yourself.
Ami sat frozen, her heart breaking open in the quietest way. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and unbidden, pooling in the collar of her hoodie. She wasn't crying out of sadness or guilt—it was something deeper, like being seen for the first time. Not by the people in the room, who barely noticed her in the back, but by something—someone—bigger. God, maybe. The idea felt too vast, too wild, but it settled in her chest like a truth she'd always known but never named.
That night, Ami called Racheal, her voice shaky but sure. "Can we talk?" They met at their usual bench by the school's overgrown garden, the one tucked behind the art building where ivy climbed the walls and fireflies blinked in the dusk. The air was thick with the scent of summer grass, and the sky above was a deep indigo, speckled with stars. Ami sat cross-legged, picking at the frayed hem of her jeans, her heart pounding. "I… I think God's calling me," she said, the words feeling both foreign and right. "Like, for real. And I think… I'm ready to say yes."
Racheal went quiet, her silhouette still against the glow of a distant streetlamp. Ami held her breath, afraid she'd said too much, afraid this would fracture the secret planet they'd built together. The silence stretched, heavy, until Racheal finally spoke, her voice soft but steady. "I've been feeling it too," she admitted, her eyes glistening. "For weeks, maybe longer. But I was scared you wouldn't understand."
The relief was overwhelming, like a dam breaking. They cried again—not from heartbreak, but from clarity, from the sudden understanding that they weren't alone in this pull toward something bigger. They sat close, shoulders brushing, and talked until the air grew cool. Racheal had been reading her mom's old Bible, the one with dog-eared pages and underlined verses. She'd felt a stirring too, a sense that their love, beautiful as it was, was only part of a larger story. Ami confessed she'd been praying—awkward, fumbling prayers in the dark of her room, asking for guidance, for courage.
They decided together, not out of guilt or shame, but out of a shared longing for something higher. Their romantic relationship, the secret kisses and tangled limbs, had felt good—electric, even—but this new call felt better, like a path lit by a light they couldn't yet fully see. They chose to step back from dating, to let go of the secret planet they'd built, not because it was wrong, but because they wanted to explore this new galaxy of faith together.
They were no longer that kind of close, but they were still close—sisters in something deeper, bound by a shared journey toward truth. They prayed together, their words clumsy but earnest, sitting on that bench under the stars. They laughed, too, at how surreal it felt to be here, two girls who'd once hidden their love now hiding nothing from a God who saw it all. They let go, not out of obligation, but out of love—for each other, for themselves, for the divine whisper that had called them both.
In the weeks that followed, they joined the spiritual program, sitting side by side in the auditorium, no longer in the back row. They wore their pride pins still, but now they added small cross necklaces, symbols of a faith that didn't erase who they were but expanded it. They studied scripture, finding verses that spoke of love without limits, of identity rooted in grace. They held hands sometimes, not as lovers but as allies, as family, their fingers laced with trust.
The knock in Ami's chest was no longer quiet—it was a song, steady and sure, guiding her forward. She and Racheal were still discovering what it meant to say yes to this call, but they knew they'd walk it together, step by step, under a sky that felt infinite.