Chapter 1: The Day the Rain Waited
The rain didn't fall at once that day.
It lingered in the air like a breath held too long, heavy with promises. The sky above Chiang Mai was the color of old paper—soft grey with watercolor edges, as if the morning had forgotten to wake up completely. Anya stood beneath the awning of a noodle cart that hadn't opened yet, clutching her camera to her chest, not because she planned to take a picture, but because it gave her hands something to do.
She always felt quieter when the world around her was slow. Streets half-sleeping. Trees swaying like they were dancing to songs only they could hear. She liked watching. Not to capture, but to remember. That's what she told herself.
Then Oriana walked by.
Anya didn't notice her at first—only the color she left in her wake. Like the first leaf that turns gold before the others know it's time. Oriana wore a school uniform, the pleated skirt brushing against her knees, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her umbrella was half-opened but forgotten, tilted against the soft wind. There was something careless in her movement—like she wasn't walking anywhere important, but still moved like she belonged.
And then she smiled.
Not at Anya. Not at anyone.
Just a small, almost invisible curve of her mouth as she passed the corner where the jackfruit tree spilled its shadows across the sidewalk. A private smile. The kind people don't know they're making.
Anya's heart did something strange—like skipping and sinking at the same time.
The first drop of rain fell then. But only one.
Oriana didn't see Anya until the third morning. Same noodle cart. Same camera in her hands. This time, the rain had already come and gone, leaving puddles that reflected bits of broken sky. Oriana had bent down to tie her shoelaces when Anya lifted the lens instinctively, drawn not to the face but to the line of motion—the way her dark hair fell forward, hiding her cheek, the gentle curve of her back.
Then Oriana looked up.
And Anya forgot to take the photo.
Their eyes met. Just for a second. A brief, almost accidental thing. But it was enough. Enough for the wind to change. Enough for the soft tension in Anya's chest to pull tight like the strings of a paper lantern before it's lit.
Oriana didn't smile this time.
She just tilted her head, curious.
That night, Anya couldn't sleep.
She kept thinking about the look—not sharp, not demanding, just open. Like Oriana had been asking a question without words. And Anya, for the first time in her life, had no idea what the answer was.
She opened her sketchbook.
She didn't draw Oriana's face. She couldn't yet—it was too soft in her mind, like a dream still warm but slipping away.
Instead, she drew rain.
Gentle, curtain-like rain over a silent street. The place where Oriana had paused, the tree, the shoelace half-tied. She shaded everything except the corner of the mouth. Just the hint of it.
That smile from the first morning.
It became the center of the page.
Oriana started sitting across from Anya at the cart. Not beside her, not yet. But near enough that the silence between them wasn't accidental.
The fourth day, Oriana asked, "Do you always wait here?"
Anya blinked, then nodded. "Sometimes."
"Waiting for someone?"
Anya hesitated. "Not really."
Oriana looked at her, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That sounds like a yes."
Anya blushed. "I don't know what I'm waiting for."
"Maybe just a reason to stay still."
Anya didn't reply. The words slipped through her like wind through grass. And Oriana didn't press. She just turned her eyes to the street again, as if content to leave things half-spoken.
The next week brought warmer sun and bolder clouds. Still, the air felt slow—like summer was listening before it fully arrived. Oriana had started talking more. Sometimes about books, sometimes about things she overheard at school. She never asked Anya what she did, or why she always had a camera but never used it.
Maybe she didn't need to ask.
Maybe she understood the way some people only understand in glances—what it means to carry silence like a season inside you.
Anya took her first photo of Oriana on the tenth morning.
It wasn't planned.
She found her laughing—real, breathless laughter—after watching a little boy throw his school shoes into a puddle just to see the splash. Oriana clapped quietly, delighted. And in that moment, Anya raised the lens and clicked.
Oriana turned, startled. But she didn't look angry. Just… surprised. Then curious again. "Did I look like a fool?"
"No," Anya whispered. "You looked like someone who remembered how to be happy."
Later that day, Oriana left a note tucked in the spine of Anya's sketchbook. It read:
"If you ever draw me,
don't draw the real me.
Draw the girl you think I am when I smile."
They became a kind of ritual.
Coffee in paper cups. Shared bits of lunch Oriana smuggled out from the school kitchen. Afternoons walking near the canal, listening to the temple bells in the distance. Anya never asked for more, but Oriana gave more anyway—slowly, like petals unfolding.
One morning, Oriana didn't show.
Anya waited. The sky didn't wait with her. The rain came fast that day—sharp, wild, hungry. The wind tugged at her skirt and hair, and still she waited. Her camera bag soaked. Her fingers cold.
Only when the monk from the corner temple passed by with his umbrella did Anya finally move.
She went home and drew a hundred versions of Oriana's smile.
Each one wrong.
Each one almost.
Oriana returned two days later.
She was quiet, but not distant. She sat down beside Anya this time—not across. Close enough their knees brushed when they moved.
"I had to visit my grandmother," she said.
Anya nodded. "I thought maybe…"
"I wasn't gone," Oriana whispered, looking down. "I was just… somewhere else."
Then she turned, looked at Anya with those eyes that never asked permission but also never demanded anything.
"I thought about you."
The world grew still.
Anya didn't know what to say. So she didn't speak.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the photo—the one she'd taken of Oriana laughing by the puddle.
Oriana took it gently. She stared at it for a long time.
Then, finally, she smiled.
The same smile as the first day.
Maybe even softer.
"Keep this," she said. "So you don't forget."
Anya looked at her. "I don't think I could forget you even if I tried."
The rain didn't fall that day.
It waited again.
Just long enough.
Just like before.
Like it knew this was the moment something would bloom.