Chapter 19: Where We Leave Our Shadows
The morning after the rain smelled like clean beginnings.
Pale sunlight drifted through the lace curtains in Anya's room, spilling patterns across the floor. The air was cool, scented with damp wood and hibiscus. Somewhere beyond the open window, a rooster crowed lazily, as if even it didn't want to disturb the quiet.
Anya stirred.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the hush of dawn.
Oriana was still asleep beside her, curled slightly, her hand resting just beneath her chin. Her breathing was even, gentle, like the rhythm of the sea after a storm.
Anya didn't move.
She just watched her.
Not out of fascination, but reverence. There was something sacred about watching the girl you loved simply exist—unburdened, unguarded.
She traced the curve of Oriana's shoulder with her eyes, the way the morning light caught in the strands of her dark hair. She looked so peaceful, it hurt a little. Like beauty you weren't meant to touch.
But Anya had touched her.
Had kissed her. Had held her through the night with the kind of stillness that didn't ask questions.
And Oriana had let her.
That, Anya thought, was what love might be.
Not the passion that burned, but the trust that stayed.
When Oriana finally woke, she blinked against the light, then smiled—soft and a little sheepish.
"You were watching me," she mumbled.
"You're beautiful when you're dreaming," Anya said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I wasn't dreaming," Oriana whispered. "I was resting. For the first time in years."
Anya kissed her forehead. "Then let's make today quiet. Like us."
Oriana nodded. "No noise. No explanations."
"No pretending."
They spent the morning slow.
Oriana helped make breakfast—if "helped" meant stealing strawberries from the cutting board and making Anya laugh until her sides hurt. They sat on the veranda, legs folded beneath them, sharing bites of toast and tea. The sky above them was pale blue, with clouds like distant sails drifting across a sea of light.
"You used to sit here alone all the time," Oriana said, watching the yard.
"I was waiting," Anya replied.
"For what?"
"For the part of the story where you came back."
Oriana looked down. "I didn't know if I would."
"I didn't either," Anya admitted. "But I still left a space for you."
There were tears in Oriana's eyes, but they didn't fall.
Not yet.
That afternoon, they walked through the town.
Anya wore a pale yellow dress, and Oriana had borrowed one of her scarves—a soft lavender thing that fluttered when she turned. They walked without holding hands, but their shoulders brushed often. A kind of invisible thread tied them together.
They passed the market stalls, where women called out prices and children darted between fruit baskets. A vendor offered them roasted chestnuts, and Oriana—on a whim—bought some just to feel the warmth between her palms.
She handed one to Anya. Their fingers touched for half a second longer than needed.
The world slowed around them.
Not because anything had changed.
But because something within them had settled.
Later, they found an old temple on the edge of town—one with peeling red paint and moss-covered steps. No one else was there. Just them and the cicadas and the slow rustling of bamboo trees.
Oriana stood at the entrance for a long time, staring at the altar.
Anya stepped beside her. "You okay?"
"I used to come here as a child," Oriana said. "With my mom."
Anya waited.
"She used to tell me that we leave pieces of ourselves in places we return to. Even after we're gone."
Anya's gaze drifted toward the prayer ribbons, fluttering in the wind like fragile spirits.
"Maybe," she said, "some of those pieces are waiting for us to come back."
Oriana turned to her.
Something deep flickered in her eyes. "Would you leave a piece of yourself here? With me?"
Anya didn't answer.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small slip of paper, and wrote a single word on it.
She folded it twice, then tied it gently to the prayer tree.
Oriana leaned closer. "What did you write?"
Anya smiled. "Your name."
Oriana didn't speak.
She simply reached out and laced their fingers together.
And for the first time in that sacred place, two girls stood side by side and made no apologies for the way they loved.
That night, the stars came out one by one.
Anya and Oriana lay on the old wooden porch again, shoulders touching, the world wrapped in hush.
"Do you ever wonder what we'll become?" Oriana asked, voice barely audible over the crickets.
"Sometimes."
"And?"
"I think we'll become more honest. Less afraid."
Oriana smiled. "That sounds impossible."
"Good. I like impossible things."
They lay in silence for a long time after that.
The kind of silence that doesn't ask to be filled.
The kind that understands.
And when Oriana finally turned to face her—eyes soft, voice trembling—she said something that stitched itself into the center of Anya's heart:
"I think I've loved you since that first afternoon by the river. I just didn't know how to say it."
Anya kissed her gently.
Not to respond.
Just to let her know she was heard.
In a world full of noise, of demands and expectations, of things broken and loud—Anya and Oriana chose something else.
They chose this quiet.
This space between heartbeats.
This moment where love could bloom, slowly, without fear.
And they left a piece of themselves here, too.
Not in paper or prayer.
But in each other.
Where it would always stay.