Chapter 9: Night Study

Study hall was torture.

Seven to nine. Two hours of silence broken only by the scratch of biro on paper, the rustle of pages, the occasional cough from someone who’d been reading too long. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting that sickly yellow glow that made everyone look like ghosts. The air was thick with the smell of old books, sweat, and the faint lingering sting of Izal from the morning cleaning.

I sat at the back, my Introduction to Philosophy textbook open to a page I hadn’t turned in forty-five minutes. My eyes moved over the words. My brain processed none of them. Something about Descartes. Something about doubt. I was an expert on doubt now. I doubted everything—my faith, my future, my own ability to resist the woman three rows ahead.

Because Chi-Chi was three rows ahead. Her back was straight. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, a few stray curls escaping at her temples. She was writing something—fast, focused, her hand moving across the page like she was possessed. Her pen scratched against the paper with urgent precision.

I watched her shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Watched the way her neck curved when she tilted her head. Watched the small mole just behind her ear that I’d never noticed before.

I wanted to kiss it.

Then she stopped writing.

She folded a piece of paper. Small. Neat. She didn’t look back. She just reached behind her, her hand stretching until her fingers found the edge of my desk.

She dropped the note. Her fingers brushed mine. A second. Two. Then she pulled away.

I unfolded the note under my desk, my heart hammering so loud I was sure the girl next to me could hear it.

“Meet me after. Chapel.”

No name. No signature. But I knew her handwriting. Sharp. Confident. The kind of letters that didn’t apologize for taking up space. The kind of letters that said I know what I want, and I’m not afraid to ask for it.

I looked up. She was writing again. Like nothing had happened.

I folded the note. Slipped it into my bra. Right over my heart. I could feel the paper against my skin, warm, secret, mine.

The chapel was dark when I arrived.

The doors were unlocked—they always were. St. Catherine’s kept its chapel open day and night. A refuge for the faithful. A hiding place for the fallen. The heavy wooden doors creaked when I pushed them open, the sound echoing in the empty space.

I walked down the aisle. The candles were out. The only light came from the moon through the stained glass windows—blue and red and gold, casting colored shadows on the stone floor. The faces of saints stared down at me. Peter. Paul. Mary. Their painted eyes seemed to follow me as I walked.