Chapter 18: The Rain Doesn't Ask Permission
Rain fell gently that morning.
Not a storm. Not the kind that came with warnings or wind. Just the kind that arrived without asking—quiet, persistent, and soft. The kind that changed everything by being exactly what it was. Without apology.
Anya watched it from her window.
The world outside was silver and blurred. The garden swayed gently under the weight of water. The earth drank deeply. Leaves trembled, but did not break.
She rested her cheek against the wooden frame, the soft creak of her old chair beneath her legs. Her thoughts were full of color and warmth, but also a fragile kind of ache.
Oriana hadn't messaged her since yesterday.
But that wasn't what hurt.
What hurt was that she didn't need her to.
Anya had seen it in her eyes when they kissed beneath the cherry tree—the longing, the hesitation, the quiet terror of wanting something too badly. And yet Oriana had stayed. Had touched her hand. Had kissed her like it was the first time she'd breathed in years.
That was enough.
Still, the rain made her lonely.
Not for someone to talk to.
But for someone who understood the silence.
At the same time, Oriana stood in front of her mirror, damp towel wrapped around her shoulders, her wet hair dripping onto the hardwood floor. She had forgotten to turn on the heater again. The room smelled like lemongrass shampoo and unanswered questions.
She stared at herself.
She didn't look different.
But something had shifted.
She could feel it in the way her heart behaved—less like a clenched fist, more like an open hand.
When Anya touched her, it didn't feel like falling. It felt like flying low to the ground, close enough to the earth to know she wouldn't shatter if she landed.
Her phone buzzed.
Not a message. Just the calendar alert: Lunch with Grandma – Cancelled.
Oriana stood there for a while.
Then she walked to her wardrobe, pulled on a plain white blouse and her softest pair of jeans, and grabbed the umbrella from the kitchen.
The rain didn't scare her today.
Anya's door creaked open without a knock.
She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
The scent came first—wild jasmine from Oriana's shampoo, tangled with something floral and ghostlike that always clung to her like memory.
Anya smiled without looking. "The door was locked."
"I have magic," Oriana said softly, stepping inside.
"Or a spare key I forgot you still had."
Oriana walked closer, her feet quiet on the wooden floor. "Maybe both."
Anya turned then.
Oriana was damp at the edges, her hair half-frizzy from the rain, her umbrella dripping near the door.
And yet—she glowed.
There was a kind of defiance in her softness today. A refusal to run. A quiet bravery in the way she stood there with her heart visible behind her eyes.
"I woke up thinking of you," Oriana confessed.
Anya's breath caught, but she didn't show it. Instead, she tilted her head. "What was I doing in your thoughts?"
Oriana stepped closer. "Smiling. Just like now."
Anya reached out and tugged gently at Oriana's damp sleeve. "You're wet."
"So are the flowers outside. Doesn't make them less beautiful."
Anya blinked.
That line didn't sound like the old Oriana.
No, this was someone blooming—slowly, tenderly, but undeniably. Someone who had learned that showing up was the beginning of everything.
"Sit," Anya said softly.
Oriana obeyed.
They curled together on the floor near the window, wrapped in a shared blanket. The rain outside continued to sing softly, its rhythm steady and unhurried.
"Do you think it's strange," Oriana asked after a while, "that the world keeps moving even when we feel like stopping?"
Anya leaned against her shoulder. "No. I think it's comforting."
"Comforting?"
"Yeah. Like… no matter how heavy it gets, the rain still falls. The trees still drink. The birds still try."
Oriana nodded. "I like that."
They sat in silence again.
But this silence was warm.
Later, Anya brought out her sketchbook.
"Draw me," Oriana whispered, her voice barely audible beneath the rain.
Anya glanced at her. "You hate being looked at."
"I don't mind if it's you."
That sentence opened something in Anya.
Something shy. Something ancient.
She began to draw.
Not just Oriana's eyes or lips or profile—but the way her hand curled when she thought too hard. The way her shoulders rose when she got nervous. The curve of her collarbone beneath the blouse. The softness in her half-smile.
It wasn't about beauty.
It was about truth.
And Oriana was full of it.
When Anya finally set the pencil down, Oriana took the page in her hands.
She didn't cry.
She didn't speak.
She just stared at it for a long, long time.
And then she kissed Anya again.
Slower this time. With both hands on her face. With the kind of trembling that only came from being loved despite everything.
That evening, they cooked together.
Well—Anya cooked. Oriana mostly watched and handed her things.
"I could live in this moment forever," Oriana said suddenly.
Anya looked up from the stove. "Even if the rice burns?"
"Especially then. That way we'll have to eat toast, and you'll pout, and I'll fall in love with you all over again."
Anya flushed. "You're very poetic today."
"I think I've been holding back," Oriana said. "Out of fear."
"And now?"
"I don't want to live behind locked doors anymore."
Anya stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her.
Oriana's head dropped onto her shoulder.
"You don't have to be perfect," Anya whispered. "You just have to be honest."
"I'm scared every day," Oriana admitted.
"I know. Me too."
"But I want to try. With you."
Anya pulled back enough to look into her eyes.
Then, quietly, "Then stay."
Oriana nodded.
"I will."
That night, they lay on Anya's bed, back-to-back at first, then facing each other in the quiet dark.
Anya traced a finger down Oriana's arm. "Tell me something no one knows."
Oriana hesitated. Then: "When I was eleven, I wrote a letter to a future version of myself. I told her to never fall in love. I said it would only hurt."
Anya smiled sadly. "Do you still believe that?"
"I believed it until you."
A long pause.
"And now?"
"Now I'm writing her a new letter in my head."
Anya leaned in and pressed her forehead to Oriana's.
"What does it say?"
Oriana whispered, "It says: fall, even if it breaks you. Especially then."
They kissed again.
Not because it was perfect.
But because it was real.
Because sometimes, the rain doesn't ask permission.
And sometimes, neither does love.