Chapter 24: You Were Always the Sky
The sky had never looked so wide.
It was the kind of blue that poets compare to silk or old promises—soft, endless, stretched thin over the horizon like a secret kept too long. The clouds were gentle smears of white, like paint brushed by a forgiving hand.
Anya lay on her back in the grass, eyes half-closed, her sketchbook resting beside her.
Oriana was a few feet away, sitting cross-legged with her arms wrapped around her knees, chin tilted upward.
They hadn't spoken in a while.
But it wasn't a silence born from distance.
It was the kind that only came when two people understood each other enough not to fill the air with unnecessary sound.
The hill they'd climbed wasn't steep, but it had taken effort. Anya's legs still ached slightly, and Oriana had been breathless for the first five minutes after they reached the top. But now, with the wind brushing over them and the world stretched wide below, it felt worth it.
More than worth it.
It felt right.
"I like the sky better up here," Oriana murmured at last.
Anya turned her head, smiling. "Why?"
"It feels less like something above me, and more like something I'm a part of."
Anya let that settle for a moment.
"Maybe you've always been part of it."
Oriana looked at her. "What do you mean?"
Anya sat up, brushing a leaf from her shoulder. "You remind me of it. The sky."
Oriana raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm unpredictable and full of storms?"
Anya laughed. "No. Because you're open. And quiet. And sometimes, when I look at you, I forget I'm on the ground."
Oriana blinked.
Then looked away quickly, cheeks tinted pink.
"You say things like that and expect me not to fall apart."
Anya reached out and touched her fingers gently. "Then fall. I'll be here."
They spent the next hour watching birds glide across the sky, pointing out cloud shapes like children—dragons, teacups, a cat stretched long and lazy. At one point, Oriana pulled a small packet of sticky rice from her bag and offered it to Anya, who accepted it with a reverent smile.
"This is the best thing I've eaten all week," Anya declared between bites.
"It's literally just rice and banana."
"It's perfect rice and banana."
Oriana chuckled. "You're easily pleased."
"Only when I'm around you."
That earned her another blush.
And a moment of silence too delicate to disturb.
When the sun moved further west, Oriana stood and walked to the edge of the hill.
Below, the fields stretched out like patchwork—rice paddies shimmering, small homes dotted in the distance, a road winding like a loose thread through the town.
"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to live somewhere else?" she asked.
Anya stood beside her, the wind tugging gently at her shirt.
"Sometimes," she replied. "But lately, I wonder what it would feel like to stay."
Oriana's jaw tightened slightly.
As if the word stay was still something she had to teach her bones how to believe in.
Anya noticed.
But didn't push.
Instead, she sat back down and opened her sketchbook.
Oriana turned and watched her quietly for a while.
"Draw me," she said.
Anya looked up.
"Really?"
Oriana nodded.
"Like this?" Anya asked, gesturing to the wind-blown hair and half-buttoned shirt.
"Exactly like this."
Anya smiled softly. "Then don't move."
And she began to sketch.
It took longer than either of them expected.
Because Anya didn't want to just draw Oriana.
She wanted to see her.
To catch the shape of her shoulder where the sunlight met skin. The curve of her fingers resting at her sides. The way her eyes looked not at anything in particular—but as if they were seeing everything at once.
Oriana stood still for the first ten minutes.
Then sat down again, hugging her knees and watching the clouds.
Anya kept drawing.
Adding lines that didn't exist and erasing ones that did, letting the pencil find its own way like it always did when her heart was too full.
When she finally put it down, Oriana moved to sit beside her.
"Let me see."
Anya turned the sketchbook around.
Oriana stared.
It wasn't perfect.
Her hair was messier than she thought. Her collar crooked. There was a small smudge on the cheek.
But she looked real.
Not like a photograph.
Like a memory.
Like someone worth remembering.
"You make me look like someone who belongs here," Oriana whispered.
Anya met her eyes. "You do."
They didn't leave the hill until the sun dipped low enough to paint the sky orange and gold.
As they packed up their things, Oriana hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why me?"
Anya paused, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"You've asked me that before."
"Not like this."
Anya turned, looked at her closely.
Oriana's eyes weren't afraid.
They were… open.
Not waiting to be told something pretty.
Just something true.
Anya stepped closer.
"Because when I look at you, I feel like I'm breathing."
Oriana blinked.
Anya continued. "Not because you save me. But because you remind me I'm still here."
Oriana's voice was quiet. "Even when I'm quiet? When I don't know what to say? When I mess up?"
"Especially then."
There was a pause.
Then Oriana reached up and cupped Anya's cheek.
The kiss they shared was soft.
Long.
And slow.
The kind that tasted of warm sky and too many things left unsaid.
By the time they walked down the hill, the stars had begun to appear.
They didn't speak much on the way back.
They didn't need to.
Oriana held Anya's hand like she'd been doing it for years.
And Anya let herself lean into the feeling of that—that quiet trust, that soft rhythm of steps beside her, that sense that whatever came next, she wouldn't be alone.
They reached Anya's house and paused at the gate.
"I should head home," Oriana said softly.
Anya nodded.
But didn't let go of her hand.
Oriana smiled. "What?"
"Nothing," Anya said. "Just… you're like the sky. Too big to hold, but somehow still here."
Oriana leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to Anya's.
"Then maybe you were the wind," she whispered. "The thing that made me move."
When she finally walked away, Anya stayed at the gate.
Watching.
Not in fear.
But in quiet awe.
Because some girls didn't need to be chased.
Some girls were meant to be witnessed.
And loved.
Exactly as they were.