Chapter Text
“It was very sudden. One moment she was reciting her essay, and the next she started crying. I was supposed to stop my class, but I really couldn’t react.”
The man sitting across from her stared at her for a moment. “Did she say why?”
“She said her boyfriend left her,” Orm replied.
“What about after? Did you reassure her or say anything?”
Orm stayed silent—a contemplative silence. She was thinking.
“Not really. Teenage love isn’t that serious. She’s going to be okay.”
Dr. Narong blinked slowly. It was the kind of blink that was supposed to mean something, but instead held the promise of a respectful silence. Orm had seen it enough times to know it only meant he was buying time.
She lounged on the couch, one leg dangling over the side almost child-like. A paper cup of instant coffee steamed weakly in her hands. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat.
Dr. Narong broke the silence. “This response sounds oddly familiar.” He stared at her, then continued. “Have you talked to him?”
“No.”
“You haven’t even asked how it happened?”
“God, no.” Orm grinned, all teeth. “What am I going to do, plead?” She scoffed. “That’s not happening.”
Dr. Narong scribbled something on his pad. She always wondered if he was actually writing or just doodling crude anatomy sketches.
“It’s been a month,” he said.
“It has.”
“And you haven’t cried.”
“Should I have?”
He looked at her with that persistent softness that used to make her uncomfortable. Now it was like background music—harmless, vaguely irritating, easily ignored.
“Orm,” he said gently, “when people don’t process their emotions—”
“They end up hoarding resentment and develop cancer. Yes, yes, I know. You’ve said it before. Right after recommending writing.”
She made finger quotes. He didn’t laugh. He never did, not really.
“You use humor to deflect.”
“Well, it’s either that or throw myself into traffic. I’m just being fair, who would even pay for my funeral?”
Dr. Narong sighed. “I’m just saying, you shouldn’t use this space like it’s a lunch break.”
“Is that... not what it’s for?”
He leaned back, crossing his legs. She hated when he did that—it made him look taller. More... balanced, thought he probably wasn’t. She could tell by the way he dressed, he wore his scarf tucked into the collar of his shirt, it made him look somehow French. He looked ridiculous.
“Let’s try something,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Orm.”
She did it. Only because she paid for this.
“Think about the café. Think about him. The moment he said it.”
“I was cold, I wanted to pee. I remember thinking the coffee was too bitter, and that the woman at the next table had lipstick on her teeth.”
“Not your observations. The moment. Him.”
“He looked relieved,” she said finally, eyes still closed. “Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“...Hungry. and wanting to go to the bathroom.”
He didn’t write that one down.
Orm opened her eyes and stared at the tiny, ticking clock on the wall. Forty-two minutes in.
“You know,” she said lightly, “you should consider changing your decor. This place feels like it’s straight out of those Backrooms TikToks.”
“Orm.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll journal. I’ll feel things. I’ll try to process my emotions.”
She stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
“Same time next week?”
He gave her a long look, the kind that might’ve meant something if she weren’t already halfway out the door.
“Try to be honest with yourself,” he said.
Orm smiled.
“What a terrifying suggestion.”
And then she left.
She was mid–Love Island episode when the front door creaked open.
“Finally.”
“Sorry, traffic,” Jules said, kicking off her boots and shaking the raindrops off her jacket. “But I brought something.”
Orm didn’t look up. “If it’s not a completed thesis or a million dollars, I don’t want it.”
“Close.” Jules dropped three six-packs and a crinkly bag of snacks onto the coffee table. “Beer and flaming hot squid chips.”
“That’s not even remotely close, but I’ll take it.”
Jules collapsed beside her, grabbing a chip. “What are we watching?”
“A bunch of emotionally stunted adults pretending to find love on an island.”
“So, us—but with Botox and no island.”
They drank in silence for a while, watching Diego tell someone named Amber that he wasn’t ready to be vulnerable, right before making out with her best friend.
It was supposed to be a quiet Sunday night. Just a few beers, maybe a little yelling at the TV. But three six-packs later, they were sitting on the sidewalk outside a 7-Eleven, knees bumping, cheeks flushed, surrounded by empty bottles and vague life regret.
Jules cracked open another. “So. Ray.”
Orm groaned. “God, why?”
“Because I’m drunk enough to care now.”
“I’m completely over it.”
Jules raised an eyebrow.
“He can go fuck himself and his new wife,” Orm added flatly.
“Yeah!!” Jules said, clinking her can against Orm’s.
They sat in the warm buzz of streetlight and hangover-to-be for a minute before Jules leaned her head back against the metal shutter behind them.
“Did you ever suspect he was seeing someone else?”
Orm didn’t answer right away. She just watched a group of teens stumble out of the 7-Eleven, their pockets rattling with energy drinks and cheap candy.
“I mean, come on,” Jules continued. “How do you break up with someone by saying, ‘I’m getting married’? What a piece of shit.”
Orm exhaled through her nose. “A bold, stupid, and short-dicked one. But in all honesty, I respect the flair.”
“Seriously?”
“No. I hope he chokes on his own saliva.”
Jules snorted.
“I don’t think he was cheating, though,” Orm added after a beat. “I think he just... figured out what he wanted. And it wasn’t me.”
Jules side-eyed her. “That easy? No tears? Nothing? Doesn’t it hurt?”
Orm shrugged. “It doesn’t, really. It’s just… humiliating.” She drank the rest of her beer. “I’m being transferred.”
Jules frowned. “Transferred? What is this, prison?”
Orm tilted her head. “It’s called a PGCE. Postgraduate Certificate in Education. Fancy letters for a sad detour.”
“Where to?”
“Saint Eustace’s Catholic High School for Girls.”
Jules laughed. Like, really laughed—head thrown back, almost choking on her drink.
Orm waited.
“Sorry,” Jules wheezed. “It’s just... your life. It’s like one long Greek tragedy, except you actually have to work to pay bills.”
Orm let out a low, incredulous laugh. “Glad you’re entertained.”
“Maybe that’s what you need,” Jules said, catching her breath.
“What is?”
“To be close to God. Ask him for some clarity.”
Orm pushed her shoulder, nearly knocking her over. She got really quiet and... Against all odds, she shouted:
“God! Are you there? Can you hear me?!” Her arms flung wide. “I’m asking you for one thing!”
Silence.
“Clarity—and a new boyfriend,” Jules added.
“Or a girlfriend. Honestly, I’m flexible!”
Amidst the stupidity of it all—being drunk on a sidewalk at 2 a.m., no real life outside her studies—Orm suddenly remembered an old quote.
“Existence is a grand cosmic joke, and we’re the punchline, spending our days deciphering the laughter of the universe.”
So she shouted again, louder this time, “God!” Because in all honesty, who else was there left to call for help?
Orm woke up late.
Her alarm had apparently gone off, but she’d slept right through the gentle chime meant to encourage a peaceful start to her life of service. She blamed the beer. And Jules. Mostly Jules.
She brushed her teeth with one eye open, chewed half a slice of bread, and downed lukewarm coffee straight from the mug she’d left by the sink overnight. It was bitter and tasted like cardboard.
On her way out, she tripped over her own boots, slammed her hip into the doorframe, and, in an attempt to keep still, spilled the rest of her coffee down the front of her white blouse.
Of course it was white. Of course it was her only semi-formal shirt. Of course it was introduction day.
She stared at the stain and shrugged. Then she buttoned up her oversized cardigan and hoped the fabric was too sad and neutral for anyone to care.
It was raining heavily today. Not that it ever wasn’t, but today the gray sky—besides matching her jacket—matched her mood and the building in front of her.
Saint Eustace’s Catholic High School for Girls looked exactly like how she felt: tired, dim, and haunted.
And yet, its structure seemed straight out of a Van Helsing movie. Gothic architecture with intricate patterns carved into its stone walls. It was… intriguing. Beguiling. Full of things that made her feel… something.
The front office smelled like lavender cleaner and old paper—possibly books. Crucifixes hung above every doorway and someone’s voice echoed distantly. Orm stepped inside, taking in the space.
The woman behind the front desk wore a tight bun, a rosary around her neck, and a sour expression—either because her face was naturally like that or because Orm’s presence seemed so completely out of place, it was actually unsettling.
“You must be Miss Orm Kornnaphat,” she said, standing with her hands clasped in front of her body.
Orm offered a half-smile. “Just Orm is fine. Unless you’re mad at me. Then Miss Kornnaphat is acceptable.”
If it was a joke but the woman didn’t even blink. “The principal is in prayer. But one of the Sisters will show you around.”
Prayer. Of course.
Before Orm could ask who the Sister was, a second door opened quietly.
The woman was younger than Orm expected—maybe late twenties, possibly thirties—but with the kind of façade that made her seem older. Her hair was tucked into a soft gray wimple, and she wore no makeup, no jewelry, nothing but a long black habit and the calm complexion of someone who had long since chosen silence over noise.
She approached Orm.
“Miss Kornnaphat?” she asked.
“Just Orm is fine,” Orm said, standing a little straighter. “Unless you’re mad at me.”
The woman nodded once. Straight face. Straighter than the woman behind the desk. “I’ll let you know.”
She turned and began walking.
Jesus, where was these people’s sense of humor?
As they walked deeper into the school, Orm realized this had been someone’s failed—but admirable—attempt to subtly turn a church into a school. The walls were made of stone rather than brick. It was dimly lit. There were few windows, and where there were windows, little light filtered through the stained glass, painting the floor in shards of red, green, and gold.
The tour was quiet. Orm had tried to touch things twice already—interrupted each time by a firm, “Don’t,” whenever she stretched out her hand. It was starting to feel mortifying. The woman recited rules left and right. Orm had already forgotten them—except the one that strictly forbid smoking, for very obvious reasons.
The Sister moved through the hallways like she’d built them herself. Students parted around her like wind through trees. Orm tried to keep up, adjusting her cardigan over her stained shirt, occasionally smiling at girls in pleated skirts who looked at her like she’d grown two heads.
“This is the library,” she said, opening a heavy door.
Inside, it was even dimmer. Humid. The smell of old books and wet stone gave Orm an oddly comforting feeling—one that reminded her of her own childhood.
The shelves were lined with neatly labeled sections: Christian Ethics, Church History, Saints and Martyrs, and—of course—Christian Literature.
Orm squinted at the reading list pinned near the front desk.
“I see we’re deeply committed to the theological canon,” she said. “Is there a separate shelf for the mundane, rebuked people?”
The nun glanced at her. “We’re a Catholic school.”
“I had a hunch.”
“You’ll be co-teaching Literature for the first term,” the nun added, voice even. “We’re currently working through The Confessions of Saint Augustine.”
Orm tried not to laugh. “Light stuff.”
“We take spirituality seriously here.”
“I noticed. There’s enough guilt in the air to suffocate a lesser woman.”
The nun stopped walking and turned around, facing Orm. He face was a blank page, nothing to read, nothing to tell.
“Do you have experience in religious settings?”
Orm paused. “I witnessed Don’t Blame Me by Taylor Swift live… and my ex left me for a Jehovah witness.”
The nun let out a quiet sigh but didn’t respond. Just turned back around and kept walking.
Orm bit her lip. Great start.
But even as she followed, even as she mentally kicked herself for not shutting up, she watched the woman walk. Controlled, distant. Like she knew something no one else did. Like she knew nothing would go wrong—because she had the Big Guy on her side.
Orm noticed and envied her confidence. But more than that—she was intrigued.
What exactly was it that made them believe they had everything figured out?
Intrigue was a weak word for it.
But well.
The tour was over and they were now in the principal’s office. It was colder than the rest of the school—high ceilings, narrow windows, and the unmistakable scent of incense that hit your nose as soon as you entered the room. Crucifixes were present too. One sat above the principal’s desk, along with Quattrocento paintings that decorated the room.
The principal aka the father, sat with perfect posture behind the desk, his hands folded neatly. His white clerical collar peeked out from beneath his thick black coat.
“Ah, Miss Kornnaphat.” The man greeted with a smile. “Please, sit.” He invited the two of them.
Orm lowered herself into the chair. It creaked under her weight. The nun didn’t make a sound.
“I see you’ve met Sister Ling.”
Orm turned to the woman sitting next to her. “Not by name.”
The man chuckled, “My name is Father Anan. We’re pleased to have you with us, Miss Kornnaphat,” he began, voice smooth, composed, quietly authoritarian. “As part of your placement under the PGCE program, you’ll be shadowing Sister Ling.”
“Shadowing?”
“It’s a mentorship,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Observe her classes, assist where appropriate, contribute when you’re confident. You’re here to learn. She’s here to make sure you don’t accidentally traumatize the Year Elevens.”
Orm was a loss of words.
Was that a joke?
“Right,” Orm said. “Less chaos, more quiet admiration. Got it.”
Father Anan didn’t smile. “You’ll be expected to follow her structure, not disrupt it.”
He shifted his focus to Ling. “We’re also encouraging pedagogical collaboration—where it makes sense. If there are lessons where a modern literary perspective could enhance the discussion, Miss Kornnaphat is free to prepare short segments. But only with your approval.”
Sister Ling gave a small nod. Perfectly neutral. Perfectly superior.
Orm turned her head, just slightly, to glance at her. Still unreadable. Still maddeningly composed.
“You’ll share a classroom for the term,” the principal continued, tapping a finger on the desk. “But this is not a co-teaching arrangement. Sister Ling leads. You follow. Understood?”
Orm shifted in her chair. “Completely.”
“Good.” He opened a folder. “Your timetable and reading list are inside. Lessons begin tomorrow morning. Try to be punctual.”
Orm took the folder. Inside were printed schedules, margin notes, and a list of canonical texts longer than her last relationship.
“Any questions?”
Orm hesitated. Then looked at Ling again. Still nothing but silence.
“No,” she said finally. “None.”
“Excellent.” He turned back to his paperwork.
They stood to leave.
“And Miss Kornnaphat?” the priest added, without looking up. She paused in the doorway.
“Try to keep your contributions theologically appropriate.”
Orm gave him her brightest, sharpest smile.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Father.”
“Honey, I’m home,” Orm announced, dropping a takeout bag on the counter with a dramatic sigh.
Jules stepped out of her room, tying her hair up with one hand. “Hey there, honey. How was your first day?”
“Ugh.”
“Wow.” Jules raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
Orm pulled out her Tupperware and flopped onto a stool. “Is it too late to change careers?”
Jules chuckled. “Come on. I doubt it was that bad.”
Orm sighed again, louder this time. “It actually wasn’t. It’s just... not my thing, you know? Religious stuff.”
“So what will you be doing, exactly?”
Orm chewed for a second, then gestured with her fork. “I’m shadowing a teacher, part of the PGCE thing. Observing, assisting, occasionally contributing, but under strict supervision. Her name’s Sister Ling.”
Jules tilted her head. “Oh, so is she like a grumpy old lady or one of the sweet kind ones? By your face, I’m guessing the first.”
Orm rolled her eyes. “Neither. She’s young. Asian-looking, maybe Chinese? Black hair. I could see a bit of it under the edge of her wimple. Her nose is... straight, but not delicate. The kind that only works on her. And her eyes—” she paused, chewing absently. “they’re like black coffee. Very deep.”
She continued, yes, continued. “And she has full lips. I only noticed because she barely moves them when she talks. Like, at all.”
Jules only blinked. Didn’t speak.
A fat, heavy silence fell between them. The one that made Orm think back of what she just said.
Orm looked up from her rice. “What?”
Jules gave her a look. A slow, delighted grin already blooming. “You wouldn’t be attracted to a nun, right?”
Orm barked out a laugh. “What?!” She nearly choked on a mushroom. “No!” she said again, already laughing harder. “Absolutely not. Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly.” Jules sipped her tea, still smirking. “And literally.”
Orm threw a napkin at her.
Tuesday was equally dark, dull, and wet—everything Monday had been, minus the hangover and the stained shirt.
Now it was her pants.
They’d caught the edge of a puddle on her way in, and the water had soaked all the way up her calf. Not that it mattered. Today she was introduced to her class—though it wasn’t hers at all. She was mostly, and mainly, sitting at a desk to the side of Sister Ling. Like an intern, a cautionary tale or perhaps her secretary.
The girls filed in, pleated skirts swaying, notebooks ready. Ling stood at the front, chalk already in hand. She didn’t raise her voice, not at all. The room just listened, her stance was commanding enough.
“As we’ve already discussed,” Ling said, her tone steady, measured, “The Confessions are not only an autobiographical account, but one of the strongest bases of theology and philosophy. A masterpiece through and through.”
Orm leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. She let her gaze wander across the shelves, the crucifixes, the high, stained-glass windows. A cracked one near the ceiling let in a single, warped line of light that landed right on her desk. Of course.
“Saint Augustine,” Ling continued, “frames his spiritual journey not as self-centered reflection, but as evidence of God’s mercy. His intellect leads him astray; his faith brings him home.”
The girls nodded. Pencils already dancing over her notebooks as they took notes.
Then Ling turned her head. Perhaps to write something on her board, wrap her notebook to find the following point. Orm even thought she was about to take a sip of her long forgotten glass of water.
But.
“Miss Kornnaphat,” she said, “from a philosophical standpoint... what’s your reading of the text?”
The pens stopped. Every eye turned.
Orm’s lips parted.
Not because she was nervous—she wasn’t. But because of course this was happening. Day one and already she was being asked to participate in the sacred text's dissection. By the nun. In a room full of impressionable girls in socks and pigtails.
She cleared her throat.
“I think…” she began, carefully, “that Augustine’s search for God is also a search for control.”
The nun tilted her head slightly.
Orm continued, slowly.
“That maybe his desire to find meaning in suffering—his own guilt, his mother’s grief, his past desires—wasn’t only spiritual, but existential. A way to organize chaos. A need to justify pain in the only way he could. Handing it over to God.”
The only sound in the room was a clock ticking.
The students looked down at their notebooks. A few squinted, unsure whether they should be writing that down.
Ling didn’t blink. “You believe his confessions are an act of self-justification?”
Orm gave a non-committal shrug. “I believe they’re honest. But honesty isn’t the same as truth.”
Ling took a step closer. “Would you say, then, that faith is merely a coping mechanism?”
Orm opened her mouth—but the bell rang. Loud. Harsh. Like God himself was extending a hand toward her.
She muttered a quiet, “Thank you,” under her breath. And maybe she was becoming a little religious already. She wasn’t ready to fuck up her PGCE on the very first day.
The girls immediately began packing up. Chairs scraped. Notebooks snapped shut. Conversation returned to the room like nothing had ever been said.
Orm exhaled, watching her escape walk out in shiny black shoes.
She was almost at the door when Ling’s voice stopped her.
“Miss Kornnaphat.”
She turned, bracing herself. But Ling wasn’t scowling. She didn’t even look annoyed. Just... calm, as always.
“We’ll need to coordinate on the next few lessons,” she said. “This week, we’ll begin dwelling on more... general literature. That’s where you step in.”
Orm nodded once. “Got it.”
“Would it be okay for you to stay after we close?” the nun asked, her voice quieter this time.
“Uh... sure.”
The day passed faster than she expected. There were more classes, politer nods, more quiet halls with high windows and dust. Before she knew it, the sky had darkened, the students were gone, and the school had quietly locked its doors to the outside world.
Later, Ling found her lingering in one of the corridors and simply said, “Follow me.”
At the back of the school, there was a large room—long wooden tables stretched across the middle. It looked like a second library, though it held fewer books. The architecture matched the rest of the building; stone walls, vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows that didn’t quite catch the light anymore.
The room was dimly lit. Since night had already settled in, the yellow overhead lights buzzed faintly—but didn’t do much. They cast long, moody shadows instead of clarity.
The décor was the same, crucifixes, framed verses and a giant Salvator Mundi painting in the middle of it.
“What is this room?” Orm asked.
“The teachers’ room,” Ling said simply. “Or library. Or archive. Or nap room. Depends on the mood.”
Orm stared at her for a moment.
If she wasn’t mistaken—and honestly, she often was—but if she had to bet, she’d say Ling had just made... a joke. A bad one, yes. But still.
She smiled. Couldn’t help it.
“See that hallway there?”
Orm nodded.
“That’s where I live, along with the other sisters.” Ling gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit.”
“A school, slash church, slash convent? What’s next? A pool?”
“Actually...” Ling started.
Orm’s brows shoot up.
“No, we don’t have that.”
Orm laughed and sat down. Now, there were three of them at the table: Ling, herself, and a massive stack of papers.
Ling looked at her. “Let’s get to work.”
After what seemed like minutes but it was actually hours, Ling set another folder down between them. “We’ll be shifting into philosophical territory starting next week. Existentialism, Romanticism. Which—believe it or not—are more connected to Catholicism than most people realize.”
Orm raised an eyebrow. “Brave. Nothing says 'faith in God' like the complete collapse of meaning.”
Ling continued, unbothered. “Collapse is often where meaning begins.”
Orm didn’t reply to that.
“We’re narrowing it down to short parts of existentialist works,” Ling went on. “Something the students can wrestle with, without losing track of the unit. Then we’ll move into Romanticism—as a reaction to rationalism. That’ll transition us into more emotionally and spiritually charged literature.”
She reached for another binder and flipped it open. Her nails were short. Perfectly manicured. Clean.
“Father Anan actually suggested the Romantic piece. White Nights, by Dostoevsky.”
Orm straightened slightly. “Dostoevsky in a Catholic school? Wow.”
“He speaks to the experience of absence. Which is, in itself, spiritual.”
“And terribly depressing.”
“He’s my favorite writer.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The overhead light buzzed like a lazy fly.
Orm studied the folder in front of her. “So what’s my role in this? I assume you’ll take Augustine and the soul’s longing for God, and I’ll... play devil’s advocate?”
“You’ll offer a secular perspective. A counterpoint. It’s important the students learn to think beyond doctrine, even if they choose to come back to it.”
“Is that allowed?”
Ling took a breath. “It’s encouraged. Faith isn’t supposed to be afraid of doubt.”
She paused, thoughtful. “It was my idea… to design this kind of class, accept this kind of program. I think people should always have different perspectives laid out—not just one. They should have options.”
Orm didn’t know if it was the relentless days of rain, the damp smell of stone that clung to everything, or the ancient, underperforming air conditioner—but suddenly, she felt so cold she could swear her body had frozen right there.
Had a nun really said those words?
“It’s late,” Ling said quietly. “You should get going.”
Orm stayed silent.
Then Ling slid a printed copy of White Nights across the table. “Start reading. We’ll draft the lesson plan together the following weeks.”
Orm stared at the cover for a second longer than necessary. Then took it.
Days had gone by, and Orm was already getting used to Saint Eustace’s rhythm—the quiet hallways, the chapel prayer times she wasn’t allowed to join unless it was the weekend. Marie, one of the other nun-teachers, had told her it was because she was just a teacher. But deep down, Orm knew it was probably because she’d worn a lace blouse once.
But honestly, it had covered enough. How could that possibly be offensive?
She had admired the paintings around the space, the framed Bible verses, the uniquely haunting architecture of the school, which—more and more with each passing day—looked like a mix between a Game of Thrones set and a Van Helsing movie.
And most importantly. She observed Ling. She felt... Intrigued. But she’d already said that. Many, many times.
You wouldn’t get it.
She was luring. Mysterious in a way that left you hanging for more, knowing you’d get the exact same. She was stoic, quiet—but so smart that Orm found herself losing track of time in every class.
Orm felt humbled by her inability to see past the wimple. To understand what was going through the woman’s mind every time Orm opened her mouth to blurt out whatever she thought of first.
And now they were once again sitting in that teacher’s room—slash library, slash archive, slash nap room.
Stacks of paper littered the table between them. A chalkboard leaned crooked in the corner, still smudged with a half-erased quote:
“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.”
—Psalm 42:7
Orm tilted her head, eyes narrowing at it. “That’s a strange one,” she said.
Ling glanced up from the lesson plan. “What is?”
“The verse.” Orm gestured with her pen. “Deep calls to deep? I don’t know if I get it.”
Ling followed her gaze to the board. “It’s about longing. Being overwhelmed. The soul’s hunger for God.”
Orm leaned back slightly in her chair, the pen still between her fingers. “I think it’s about being understood. Like… something in you recognizes something just as heavy in someone else. And you know they’ll never say it, but they carry it too.”
Ling turned to look at her fully.
Orm continued, still lost in thought. “Or maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe I’m projecting. It’s the kind of verse that feels like it knows your secrets before you do.”
The sister stayed silent.
“That’s a beautiful approach,” she said softly.
Orm looked up then, caught slightly off guard.
Ling didn’t elaborate. She just went back to her notes—but something in her seemed to hesitate, a breath held mid-thought. “Do you write?”
The light of the lamp reflected in her dark eyes, yet you still couldn’t see their depth.
Orm blinked, slightly thrown. “I don’t.”
“Not even short ideas?”
Orm hesitated. Something like shyness passed over her face. “Well… I’m not a poet.”
“That depends on what you think being a poet means.”
“To write poems?” Orm joked.
Ling looked down at her notes and smiled—small and private. Orm had only seen a few of those. They had never been because of her. Or at least not that she knew.
“That would be the definition of a writer,” Ling said gently.
Orm tilted her head. “Then what is it to you, Sister?”
Ling’s voice lowered, like the thought was only struggling to leave the corners of her mind. “I think someone’s a poet long before they write anything. It’s a way of seeing. A person who notices beauty in simple things. Who carries real questions. Who shares their point of view without worrying whether it fits anywhere.”
She looked at Orm then—“I think, you are like that.”
Orm swallowed, quietly. She wanted to make a joke, say something self-deprecating. But the words didn’t come. Instead, she glanced down at her own notebook—half-filled with sarcastic comments, margin doodles, lists that made no sense. Somewhere near the bottom, she'd scribbled the words:
Deep calls to deep. Underlined. Twice.
Ling returned to her lesson plan. The pages rustled, gently.
But Orm didn’t move. She just sat there, wondering what was there around this place. Days seemed longer, but not lazy. It had somehow pulled her out of a lethargic state she hadn’t realized she wasn’t in, until now.
She had told her therapist about the new program, about her class—and especially about Sister Ling.
“Isn’t it strange for a nun to be so open about her religion?” Orm had asked, making the man pause mid-note.
“What you probably find strange,” he replied, “is that someone has the mental capacity to question what isn't certain.”
“So...?”
“I don’t think it’s strange. If anything, it makes her faith even more powerful—to know that there are things no one can quite explain, and still believe.”
Orm had carried that with her the entire day. She even seemed distracted later that night when she went out with friends. It was a local bar—she knew most of the people who went there, and the bartender already knew her drink.
“Mojito.”
She smiled at the man and joined her group.
“Orm!” Jules called. “I was just telling Uma about your new program.”
Uma threw her head back in laughter. “Catholic?” she joked. “No offense, girl, but you’re like the devil herself.”
They weren’t wrong. Not entirely.
She had probably earned that reputation—maybe when she slept with her yoga teacher. No one noticed at first, but they started to suspect when she suddenly lost her mat. Or maybe it was the time she got drunk before presenting her school project and still scored a clean 100.
That—or the fact that she hadn’t spoken to her mother in god knows how long.
Hard to tell. But she wasn’t about to ask.
Everyone thought, with a certain confidence, that they knew her. But Orm had always been one to fit in while never quite belonging. Ironically, she knew how to play the room precisely because she never felt like one of them.
Her soul felt... different. Not quite of this world. Maybe not of any world. And she knew that—not because she thought herself superior, but because she had been rejected before.
Not in the gentle way someone asks you to step back from a group project, but in the way someone looks at you, and says, “You’re so weird.” With a smile on their face to make it lighter. It’s not even offensive, because to her, it was simply the truth.
The next morning, she was late—forty-five minutes late. She knocked on the door, peering through the small window it had. Ling turned, saw her. Orm gave an apologetic smile and waved.
Ling stared for a moment… and then continued with her class.
She never opened the door.
Orm remained outside. It was pouring again—as always. She tried to light a cigarette, but before she could even spark it, the rain had already soaked it. She pulled out another one, trying to shield it with her hand, but the result was the same.
By the time she reached for a third, someone held an umbrella over her head.
“You should probably buy one of these if this is a habit of yours,” Sister Ling said.
Orm could light her cigarette now, but her mind stuck on the fact that that was the only thing the nun had to say.
“Sorry,” she said at last—because she knew. It had only been a few days, but she already understood how strict Ling was with her rules.
“No worries,” the nun replied. “Had a bad night?”
“Mmm… you could say that.”
“You missed the introduction to existentialism. Its connection to the search for meaning,” she commented. “Hillary is doing a great job.”
Orm smiled. “She’s so fierce.”
“Stay today after we close,” Ling said. “Your insight is needed.”
The rain hadn’t stopped, but the room they always worked in felt warmer somehow familiar. The long table was still cluttered with books, papers, folders, and the occasional chipped mug. Outside, the building creaked under the weight of water and time.
They were sitting across from each other, again. Their usual spots.
The subject: existentialism and its theological versus philosophical applications. Specifically, how it could be bridged into a curriculum shaped by Catholicism—and what it meant for students raised with scripture as moral foundation.
“We can’t ignore the spiritual implications,” Ling said, flipping through her annotated copy of The Confessions. “Even despair, as Augustine sees it, is a form of longing for God.”
Orm leaned back in her chair, turning a pen between her fingers. “Or… it’s just despair. Not everything needs a higher meaning.”
Ling looked up. “So you believe in meaninglessness?”
“I believe in human invention. Meaning is something we cling to because chaos is unbearable.”
Ling studied her for a moment, then asked, “What do you think about the Bible?”
Orm didn’t hesitate. “I think the Bible’s a masterpiece. A work of art. And like any other art, it’s subjective.” She paused. “But if you’re asking me for an objective opinion, it’s full of metaphors.”
Ling’s face remained unreadable. She tilted her head slightly. “So you think it’s fiction?”
“I didn’t say that.” Orm smiled faintly. “Not all literature is fiction, is it? I just think every work is created with a purpose.”
Ling nodded slowly. “And what would be the Bible’s?”
Orm exhaled through her nose, amused. “Control.”
It came out casual. Almost careless. But Ling stilled—just for a tiny flicker of a second. She leaned back, thoughtful. “That’s a deep insight.”
Orm arched a brow and let out a low chuckle. “Deep insight,” she mocked lightly. “I keep contradicting your beliefs and you keep embracing it.”
Ling chuckled too. Rare. Quiet. They kept coming back from time to time, like a furtive visitor that made better each session.
“You’re a cool nun,” Orm said.
Ling opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.
“A cool nun? I just can’t change your beliefs.”
Orm shrugged. “You could try.”
Ling looked at her a moment longer than necessary. “Depends—do you consider yourself a cool person?”
Orm blinked. “A cool person?”
“Yes.”
Orm laughed. “Oh no, not at all.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Orm hesitated, then said it. “I don’t believe in God.”
Right then—something fell.
A loud crash echoed from one of the back shelves. They both jolted, turning at the same time.
Books spilled onto the floor, and on top of the pile, a wooden chessboard lay cracked open like it had dropped from heaven itself.
They stared in silence.
Orm slowly turned her head. “…I take it back.”
Ling’s smile curved softly. “I love when He does that.”
Orm squinted. “Do you play chess?”
They were mid-game now, the board balanced on a stack of textbooks. Orm moved her knight forward, then immediately regretted it.
Ling didn’t even flinch. “So how does an atheist end up teaching at a Catholic school? Are you usually this unfortunate?”
Orm laughed—dark and low. “Oh, you have no idea. My last job was canceled due to mold, my yoga teacher dumped me and kept my mat, and I once tripped down the stairs on the same day I got ghosted. By a dentist.”
“Checkmate,” Ling said. Again.
“Ugh,” Orm groaned. “You said you were bad at this.”
“I did,” Ling replied calmly, resetting the board. “I just didn’t know you were worse.”
They both laughed this time. It felt light. Almost normal.
After a moment, Ling glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”
Orm nodded and stood. Ling did too.
She crossed the room to the shelves, crouched to pick up the fallen books. Orm watched as she stood on her tiptoes to return them to the higher ledge. As she stretched, the sleeve of her habit slipped back—barely anything. But enough.
Her forearm caught the light. Lean. Toned. Skin warm and golden beneath the yellow bulbs. She flexed slightly to reach the top shelf, and Orm, god help her, found herself wondering; Did nuns work out?
Did Ling have biceps like that under her habit? Abs? Could she maybe lift Orm over her shoulder like a bag of flour?
Her eyes flicked upward—only to land on the Salvator Mundi hanging just above the doorframe. Jesus stared back at her. Judging her, saying; I did not die in the crucifix for you to like a nun.
“Um—okay. I’m going,” Orm muttered, nearly tripping over her own foot as she grabbed her bag.
Ling turned, half-curious. “Orm?”
But Orm was already halfway out the door.
She muttered to herself the whole way down the hall.
“No. Nope. This is not happening. I am not—I cannot be crushing on a nun. A nun. Out of all people.”