Chapter 12: The Way Love Pulls You Home
(from Oriana's perspective)
The train windows blurred with morning light, soft and pale as milk.
Oriana sat alone, her sketchbook open but untouched on her lap. A line of poetry ran through her head, unspoken:
Love doesn't always shout—it tugs.
Gently. Quietly.
Until you turn back.
She was going home. Early. Again.
Not because she'd failed, or because the program was too much.
But because every page she filled, every moment she captured, felt like it only found meaning when shared with Anya.
Kyoto had taught her how to see.
But Anya had taught her why.
She hadn't told many people.
Only Professor Nakahara, who simply smiled and said, "Some seasons teach you how to return. That's still learning."
And the girl who shared her tea breaks, Mio, who blinked twice before nodding softly. "You talked about her like she was part of your body. Of course you'd go."
It made Oriana smile—quiet, grateful, a little embarrassed.
She packed the same way she had the first time.
Carefully. Thoughtfully.
But this time, she folded the letters she hadn't yet sent into the side pocket of her bag. She wanted to read them with Anya beside her. To see her reactions in real time.
To press her thumb against hers and whisper, "This one's about the day I nearly broke just from wanting to hear your voice."
On the morning she left, it rained again.
Kyoto always gave her rain when it mattered most.
As if the skies understood how to make a moment feel sacred.
She walked to the station slowly, umbrella in hand, shoes splashing gently in the puddles. The air was cool. The street vendors were just setting up, folding cloth over steaming pots, brushing away the night with quiet hands.
She stopped at the canal one last time.
The water moved like breath.
She whispered, "Thank you," and dropped a flower in.
A single camellia.
The kind Anya once sketched into her arm with henna on a spring afternoon.
It spun gently in the current before vanishing.
The train pulled away without fanfare.
No music. No grand goodbye.
Just movement.
And Oriana sat with her chin in her palm, watching the world slide by.
She thought of the letter Anya had sent last week:
I wore your sweater and danced in the kitchen. I pretended you were watching. I hope the universe filmed it for you.
Oriana had read it five times in a row.
Then written back:
I didn't need a video. I felt it. Like a warm breeze through a closed window.
She would arrive just after dusk.
Just when the air grew gold and the light softened into everything.
Her heart was a steady ache.
Not painful.
Just ready.
She imagined Anya at the table, sketching or sipping tea, or maybe curled in the window with one foot tucked beneath her knee.
She imagined that first moment—the door opening, the pause, the breath.
The kiss.
God, the kiss.
Oriana leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
She remembered the last one.
The way their lips met like forgiveness.
Like truth.
Like home.
Midway through the journey, Oriana opened her sketchbook.
She began drawing without thinking.
Not the temples.
Not the market.
Not even Anya.
Just hands.
Two of them, reaching.
One extended. One waiting.
She didn't need to label them.
She knew whose they were.
As the train neared its final stop, the sky flared peach and violet across the horizon.
Oriana pressed her fingers to the glass, as if she could touch the color. As if Anya might be out there somewhere, watching the same sky and smiling without knowing why.
She imagined Anya whispering, "She's close."
And smiled to herself.
The city greeted her like an old friend.
She stepped off the train, bag slung over her shoulder, sweater sleeves pulled down past her wrists. Her heart beat slower than expected. Calmer.
Not nervous.
Not hesitant.
Just certain.
She didn't take a cab.
She walked.
Past the bookshop where Anya first touched her hand by accident and didn't pull away.
Past the park where they once lay side by side counting clouds shaped like animals.
Past the café where they shared a kiss behind a curtain of steam and cinnamon.
All of it still here.
All of it waiting.
The house glowed at the end of the block.
Warm yellow light in the windows.
Curtains drawn slightly open.
Like a lantern calling her name.
She stopped at the gate.
Her hand trembled, just a little.
Not from fear.
From joy too big to contain.
She opened the gate.
Climbed the steps.
And knocked.
Softly.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Anya.
In her bare feet.
Wearing Oriana's sweater.
Eyes wide. Lips parted.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Anya whispered, "You came back."
Oriana smiled. "You knew I would."
Anya stepped forward.
Wrapped both arms around her.
Held her so tight it knocked the wind from Oriana's lungs—in the best way.
Then pulled back.
And kissed her.
It wasn't the kind of kiss meant to say hello.
It was the kind meant to say never again without you.
They didn't speak much.
Just lay curled up in bed later, fingers laced, limbs tangled.
Oriana pressed her lips to Anya's shoulder and whispered, "Next time I leave… it'll be with you."
Anya didn't answer.
She just smiled into Oriana's skin.
And whispered her name like a poem coming home.