Chapter 13: The First Day of Always
Morning came in whispers.
A soft kind of light filtered through the curtains, brushing the edge of the bed where Anya and Oriana lay still tangled together, sleep-drenched and golden. The sheets had slipped halfway down Oriana's back, and Anya traced a slow line across her spine with the tip of one finger, the way she might follow the shape of a mountain in a painting—something sacred, something known.
Oriana stirred, then smiled without opening her eyes.
"I thought I was dreaming," she murmured.
Anya pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. "You still might be."
Oriana turned her head lazily, meeting Anya's gaze with a drowsy softness that filled the room like warmth from a just-boiled kettle. "If I am, don't wake me."
Anya leaned in and kissed her.
It was unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that came after storms had passed, and hearts had stayed.
They made breakfast together, still in their pajamas, Oriana barefoot and humming off-key, Anya trying to slice fruit with a knife that always cut a little crooked. The air smelled of jasmine rice, toasted sesame, and something sweet neither of them could name.
Anya fed Oriana a piece of mango.
Oriana kissed her fingertips after.
"You taste like summer," she whispered.
Anya rolled her eyes but blushed anyway.
They took their food to the little balcony, the one barely big enough for two chairs and a potted plant Oriana had once overwatered into near death.
The view wasn't grand—just rooftops, tangled wires, a street corner with old posters fluttering in the breeze—but today, it looked like a painting.
Or maybe it just looked like home.
"Tell me something you missed," Anya said between bites.
"Your cough when you laugh too hard," Oriana answered without thinking.
Anya tilted her head. "That's specific."
"I like specific things," Oriana said. "They're proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That I was paying attention. Even when I was far."
Later, they walked through the park again.
Their park.
The koi pond was still half-empty, the benches still uneven. Children ran laughing across the grass. The ice cream vendor still had only three flavors. Everything was exactly the same.
And yet, different.
Because they were different.
They'd left and returned. Changed and unchanged. And somehow closer.
Oriana brushed her thumb along Anya's wrist as they walked.
"Do you think we'll ever stop feeling like we're in a beginning?" she asked.
"I hope not," Anya said. "I like beginnings."
"Even if they come after endings?"
"Especially then."
They sat on the bench beneath the low-hanging tree, where the leaves turned golden-green in the breeze.
Oriana pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket.
"Another letter?" Anya asked, teasing.
"A half-letter," Oriana said. "I started it on the train back. Couldn't finish it until I saw you."
She unfolded it, smoothing the creases carefully.
Then she read aloud:
There are days I feel like a window.
Clear, open, watching.
And then there are days I feel like the rain.
Falling, hoping to be caught by something kind.
You're both.
You let me in, and you never let me drown.
Anya didn't speak right away.
She reached for Oriana's hand.
And held it like it was something she'd waited her whole life to find.
They went home as the light began to soften, the sky brushed with rose and rust.
Inside, everything felt sacred in its simplicity.
Oriana curled up on the couch, her head in Anya's lap, while Anya read aloud from a book neither of them had ever finished. Her voice made the words sound like lullabies, even the sad parts.
At one point, Oriana looked up at her and whispered, "You know, I thought I'd feel afraid when I came back."
"Afraid of what?"
"That we'd be different. Or that the space between us would've changed something I couldn't fix."
Anya leaned down and kissed her forehead. "The space just proved we could stretch and still stay whole."
"Is that what we are?" Oriana asked. "Whole?"
Anya nodded. "Even in the pieces. Especially there."
That night, they danced.
No music.
Just the rhythm of their own hearts.
Oriana reached for Anya in the kitchen, pulled her close, spun her in a slow circle beneath the soft glow of the hanging lamp.
"You know this is the first time I've danced with you while knowing I'll never have to leave again," she said.
Anya smiled. "Then let's make it the first of many."
They kissed.
Deep. Soft. Infinite.
Like a promise without words.
Like love that didn't need definition.
Just presence.
They fell asleep on the couch, Oriana's head against Anya's chest, their fingers still laced.
At some point during the night, Anya woke.
The rain had started again, tapping softly on the glass.
She looked down at Oriana—breathing slow, mouth slightly open in sleep.
Anya whispered into her hair, "You came back."
Oriana stirred but didn't wake.
And Anya thought,
This is how love should feel.
Not loud.
Not desperate.
Just certain.
Like the sky knowing it can rain, and the earth never resenting it for falling.
And somewhere, between breath and silence, between morning and night—
a season turned quietly in its sleep.
And love stayed.
Just like that.