Chapter 6: The Letters We Haven't Sent Yet
The calendar changed.
Not loudly—just one more page turned on the wall, a quiet reminder that time, unlike people, doesn't pause to ask if you're ready.
Oriana's departure became a red circle. A little ring of ink that Anya stared at more often than she meant to. Not because she didn't want Oriana to go—she did. Truly. She wanted her to see Kyoto, to take the scholarship she'd earned.
But still…
Wanting someone to grow doesn't mean it won't ache when they step beyond you.
They didn't talk about the date.
Not directly.
Instead, they lingered in each moment. Walks that once lasted an hour stretched into two. Oriana stayed later, their hands always linked, as if holding each other could slow the world down.
One afternoon, as they passed the old post office, Oriana stopped.
"What is it?" Anya asked.
"I was thinking," Oriana said. "Maybe we should write to each other. The real way."
"You mean letters?"
Oriana nodded. "I want your pauses. The parts you don't say out loud."
Anya smiled. "Then one letter a week. No matter what."
"Even if it just says 'I miss you'?"
Anya touched her hand. "Especially then."
That night, they wrote their first letters.
Sitting on the floor, legs folded under them, tea gone cold beside the desk.
Anya wrote and rewrote her opening line four times. Oriana stared at the paper for minutes before her pen moved.
Neither read their letters aloud.
When they finished, they swapped envelopes, pressing them to their chests like small pieces of each other they could carry.
"We'll open them after you leave," Oriana whispered.
"So it doesn't feel like goodbye too soon," Anya replied.
The days thinned like pages turned too fast.
They ate at their favorite stall, the one with the sleepy cook who knew Oriana's order by heart. They walked the night market, touching soaps and rings, pretending nothing was changing.
"You touch things like they're memory," Anya said once.
"That's because I'm already storing them," Oriana answered.
That night, they watched the river from the bridge with the old ribbons tied to its rails. Oriana leaned into Anya's shoulder, quiet for a long time.
"Do you think we'll still be the same when I come back?"
"I don't want us to be the same," Anya said. "I want us to be more."
Two days before the flight, it rained.
Not wild. Just soft and steady, like the sky was trying to comfort them. Oriana curled up in a blanket on the floor, and Anya sat behind her, fingers gently brushing through her hair.
"I'm not good at letting go," Oriana whispered.
"You're not letting go," Anya said. "You're just stepping away. The door's still open."
"What if something changes?"
"It already has," Anya murmured.
Oriana turned.
And said it.
"I love you."
Anya's breath caught.
And then: "I love you too."
No fanfare. No orchestration. Just truth, tender and quiet.
The rain lightened.
As if it had been waiting.
They didn't sleep that night.
They lay close, just breathing, the kind of silence that felt full.
When the light changed at dawn, Oriana whispered, "When I miss you, I'll press my hand to my chest. Because that's where you'll still be."
Anya smiled into the pillow. "And I'll whisper your name. Because some names deserve to be spoken softly."
The final morning came.
Oriana's suitcase sat by the door like it belonged to someone else. Her passport was in her coat pocket. Her hands trembled, though she tried not to show it.
They took the usual bus.
But every stop felt heavier.
At the terminal, they stood longer than necessary.
"Should I go?" Oriana asked.
Anya shook her head.
"Should I stay?"
Anya smiled. "You should live."
Oriana nodded.
She stepped toward the gate.
But before she crossed through, she turned.
Anya didn't wave with her hand.
She smiled.
And Oriana smiled back—like something promised.
That night, Anya opened the letter.
The one Oriana had written days earlier.
Inside:
I don't know what I'll become while I'm away.
But if I come back with new hands, I hope they still reach for yours.
If I come back with new eyes, I hope they still search for you in every room.
And if I come back changed…
I hope I'm changed in a way that still loves you.
Anya held the letter to her chest.
And let the tears fall—not because Oriana was gone.
But because love had left something behind.
And tomorrow…
She would write her first reply.
Even if all it said was:
"I miss you."