Chapter 2: The Way the Wind Carried Her Voice
The wind in Chiang Mai always seemed gentler in the late afternoon, as if it had run through every alley, every courtyard, and finally needed rest. That was when Anya liked to walk—with her camera slung around her shoulder and her sketchbook tucked beneath her arm like a folded wing.
She wasn't looking for anything.
But ever since Oriana had smiled—truly smiled—something in Anya began looking anyway.
For signs.
For shadows shaped like her.
For the kind of quiet only Oriana left behind.
She found her again by the river, near the paper-lantern stall where old men painted wishes onto silk. Oriana stood barefoot on the stone edge, her shoes set neatly beside her, toes curled against the warm surface. She leaned into the breeze like someone greeting an old friend.
"I thought you didn't like being photographed," Anya said softly, not raising her camera.
Oriana turned, slow and dreamlike. "I don't. Not by strangers."
"And I'm not a stranger?"
Oriana grinned, brushing hair from her face. "No. You're the girl who draws me when I'm not there."
Anya blinked. "How did you—?"
"I guessed," Oriana interrupted. "Or maybe I hoped."
She stepped down from the ledge and joined Anya on the narrow path that ran beside the river. Their shoulders brushed once. Then again. Neither moved away.
They walked in silence for a time. The kind of silence Anya had grown to love—where no explanation was owed and no words were needed to feel seen.
Oriana spoke first.
"Do you believe people belong to seasons?"
Anya tilted her head. "Like… being a summer person or winter?"
"No," Oriana said, her voice light but thoughtful. "I mean… some people feel like seasons themselves. Some are warm, full of life. Some pass through quietly and leave everything different after."
Anya looked at her. "And what are you?"
Oriana smiled faintly. "I think I used to be spring."
Anya stared. "Used to be?"
"I'm not sure anymore," Oriana said, glancing down at the water. "Some days, I feel like the wind that comes after a storm. The kind that smells like wet leaves and doesn't know where it's going."
Anya wanted to reach out. Touch her hand. Anchor her somehow. But she kept her fingers tight around her sketchbook instead.
"I think," Anya said carefully, "you still feel like spring. The kind that arrives softly. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself to be noticed."
Oriana stopped walking.
She looked at Anya—really looked—and her expression shifted, like something had cracked open behind her eyes.
"I wish I believed you," she said.
Then she sat on the river's edge again, hugging her knees to her chest.
Anya joined her. The stones were still warm from the afternoon sun.
"I'm not good at saying things out loud," Anya admitted. "But when I see you, I feel like… like maybe I don't have to explain myself all the time."
"That's because I don't ask questions you're not ready to answer," Oriana said.
Anya nodded. "That's exactly it."
A small bird landed near Oriana's foot. A wagtail. Twitchy and curious. It hopped once, then flew away in a silver blur.
"I used to think silence was empty," Oriana whispered. "Like something was missing. But with you, it feels like… it's allowed to exist."
Anya didn't speak. She just leaned a little closer, her shoulder pressing gently against Oriana's.
The world around them carried on—boats in the river, footsteps on the bridge, bells ringing somewhere deeper in the city—but between them, there was stillness.
And in that stillness, something bloomed.
That night, Anya couldn't draw.
She tried. She opened her sketchbook, flipped to a blank page, and stared.
But every time her pencil touched paper, it felt wrong.
Too heavy.
Too planned.
Oriana wasn't something you could draw. Not really. She was a flicker, a gesture, a voice that curled like steam around your ribs.
Anya closed the book and stood on her balcony instead.
The moon was pale. A slice of pearl. And the air smelled like jasmine and dust.
She didn't know what they were yet. What name to give this thing growing quietly between them.
But she didn't want to rush it.
Some things are more beautiful when you let them arrive on their own.
The next day, Oriana brought a gift.
It wasn't wrapped.
It wasn't even whole.
Just a pressed flower tucked between the pages of a poetry book.
She handed it to Anya without ceremony.
"It reminded me of you," she said. "Soft and stubborn."
Anya laughed. "Is that a compliment?"
Oriana looked her in the eye. "It's the best kind."
They sat in the courtyard behind the noodle cart that afternoon, hiding from the heat beneath a crumbling canopy of bougainvillea. Anya turned pages of the poetry book slowly, savoring the faded underlines Oriana had left behind.
"You mark the parts you like," Anya said.
Oriana shrugged. "No one ever told me not to."
"I like that," Anya whispered. "It's like leaving pieces of yourself behind."
"Isn't that what we all do?" Oriana asked. "Try to leave pieces behind. So someone knows we were here."
Anya looked at her—not the way an artist studies, but the way a girl does when she realizes she might be falling in love.
"You don't need to leave pieces," Anya said softly. "You're already here."
Oriana's breath caught. Just slightly.
Then she reached over, slowly, and placed her hand on top of Anya's.
It was the lightest touch.
But it felt like a promise.
A season shifting.
A beginning without rush.
That night, Anya took a photo of her own reflection.
Not because she felt pretty.
But because she wanted to remember what her face looked like the first day she realized someone saw her—not as strange, not as quiet, not as the girl always hiding behind a lens—but simply as Anya.
And that was enough.
Maybe more than enough.
The wind carried Oriana's voice the next morning.
From across the street. From behind the school gate. From where she stood laughing with friends, her back to Anya.
Anya didn't call out.
She waited.
She waited until Oriana turned—like she always did—and looked for her.
And when she smiled… Anya smiled too.