Chapter 20: A Room Made of Us
The wind came softly through the window that morning, curling around the edges of the curtains like it knew it wasn't meant to disturb. It carried with it the scent of damp rice fields and frangipani blossoms. In that hush, before the town stirred and the roosters remembered their voices, Anya awoke to warmth.
Not sunlight.
But the warmth of Oriana's hand, still resting on hers from where they had fallen asleep together on the floor, too lazy to move to the bed, too happy to care.
Anya kept her eyes closed.
It wasn't because she was tired.
It was because she wanted to pretend just a little longer that this was how life had always been—Oriana beside her, safe and soft and staying.
Oriana breathed deeply, her chest rising slowly under the blanket.
There were little details Anya had only started noticing now—how Oriana's brows furrowed slightly in her sleep, like she was always halfway between dreaming and remembering. How her fingers twitched, as if still reaching for things she hadn't said out loud.
Anya thought: This is a girl learning to be unafraid.
And that was beautiful.
When Oriana woke, she said nothing at first.
She only looked at Anya and smiled, her hair a mess and her lips still kissed by sleep.
"I had a dream," Oriana murmured, her voice catching the edge of morning.
"Was it soft?"
"No. It was strange. There was a house with too many doors. I kept opening them, but every room was filled with water. And you—" She stopped, blinking slowly. "You were there. But you were dry."
Anya sat up on one elbow. "That sounds poetic. And very much like something my heart would make up."
"I think it means I'm scared," Oriana said honestly. "But you aren't."
Anya tilted her head. "I am."
"But you don't look it."
"That's just the art of loving someone properly."
Oriana looked down at their hands. "Do you think this will last?"
Anya didn't answer right away. She took her time, reaching for words the way one might reach for smooth stones in a shallow stream.
"I think love isn't about guarantees," she said finally. "It's about building something slow. Room by room. And choosing not to leave when the windows rattle."
Later that morning, they began cleaning out the attic.
It was Oriana's idea. She said it might help them "do something boring together," and Anya had laughed and agreed instantly.
The attic was full of forgotten things: old clothes, cracked photo frames, dusty fans, Anya's childhood art projects covered in glitter and good intentions.
They sneezed through the first hour of it, surrounded by mothballs and misplaced memories. Oriana found a box labeled "Summer Camp (Disasters)" and pulled out a photo of twelve-year-old Anya with a broken kite and a too-big smile.
"You were adorable," she teased.
Anya groaned. "Don't look at me."
"I already am," Oriana said, holding the photo like it was sacred. "And I still love you."
The words came out without her thinking.
And then they hung in the air like silk caught in the wind.
Anya froze. Her heart skipped.
Oriana blinked.
"I mean—"
Anya reached out and covered Oriana's mouth gently.
"Don't take it back."
Oriana melted a little.
"Okay," she said behind Anya's palm. "Then I meant it."
By noon, the sun had climbed above the clouds, sending little squares of golden light through the attic windows.
They sat in a cleared-out corner, sweaty and laughing, surrounded by boxes and the wreckage of forgotten years.
"Is this what growing up feels like?" Oriana asked, resting her chin on her knees.
"No," Anya replied, grinning. "This is what living feels like."
She handed Oriana a bottle of water and opened one herself.
And for a while, they just sat there, back to back, drinking slowly, breathing evenly. The attic no longer smelled of dust. It smelled like citrus shampoo, paper, and the beginnings of something beautiful.
That evening, Anya painted.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she had to.
Oriana was reading on the bed, curled up in a blanket that didn't match anything in the room. She looked at peace, and that feeling spilled out of Anya's fingers before she could even name it.
She painted with quick strokes—fluid lines, swirls of sunset pink and soft blue. Not a portrait. Not a landscape. Just feeling. Just color that matched the beat of her heart when she looked at Oriana across the room.
Oriana glanced up.
"You're painting me."
"No," Anya lied.
Oriana raised an eyebrow.
"You're painting the way I make you feel," she said quietly.
Anya paused.
Then smiled. "Exactly."
Oriana closed her book. Walked over slowly. She watched Anya's hands for a moment, then wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her cheek against her shoulder.
"You make me feel like I'm not broken," Oriana said into her ear. "Like all the little pieces I've hated for so long were just waiting for you."
Anya turned slightly.
"I didn't fix you," she said gently.
"I know."
"But I see you."
Oriana closed her eyes.
"And I want to keep being seen," she whispered.
That night, they made the attic their own.
They cleared a space. Brought up cushions, string lights, a small kettle for tea. It wasn't perfect. The fan squeaked, and the lights flickered when the wind blew too hard—but none of it mattered.
Oriana pulled out her notebook—one she never let anyone read—and opened it to the middle.
Anya sat beside her, silent, curious.
"I want to show you something," Oriana said.
She read a poem aloud.
It was about a girl with no name, who walked barefoot through the world, afraid of everything and still trying anyway. The girl found a river one day, and it didn't speak, but it stayed. And the girl kept coming back.
Oriana looked up.
"You're the river," she said.
Anya's eyes shimmered.
"And you're the one who stayed," she replied.
The night deepened around them.
They lay on a blanket, their heads close, sharing headphones and listening to songs they never played for anyone else.
At some point, Anya whispered, "If I asked you to write me into your future, would you?"
Oriana nodded.
"I already have."
Anya's breath caught.
"I'm scared of wanting this too much," she admitted.
"Me too," Oriana said.
"But I want to keep waking up beside you."
"I want to grow old beside you."
Anya turned to her.
"You want wrinkles and burnt toast and terrible sleep schedules?"
"If they're yours, then yes."
They laughed softly.
And then they stopped laughing.
Because in the quiet that followed, something ancient settled in the room.
Something honest.
A beginning that didn't need fireworks—just two girls brave enough to say I choose you.