Chapter 39: A Season That Carried Her Name
There were certain hours in the day that didn't belong to the world.
Not to the clocks or schedules or any noise that tried to measure living.
Just to feeling.
Late afternoon was one of them.
The sky was amber. The wind a quiet exhale. And Anya sat barefoot in Oriana's backyard, sketchbook balanced on her knees, her toes curled in the grass. The scent of wet soil and jasmine drifted from the garden where Oriana's grandmother used to grow herbs, though the beds were mostly wild now—overgrown and full of stubborn, blooming things.
Oriana appeared from the house with two glasses of iced barley tea, condensation beading on the sides.
"One for my favorite artist," she said, handing one to Anya, "and one for her loyal muse."
Anya accepted the glass and grinned. "You're too dramatic."
"That's rich coming from the girl who writes lines like the forest leaned to listen to you."
Anya blushed. "That was one time."
"That was this morning in our scrapbook!"
"I was feeling poetic," Anya mumbled.
"You're always poetic," Oriana said, flopping onto the grass beside her. "It's why I fell for you."
Anya smiled and leaned against her shoulder. "So it wasn't the tragic girl act?"
"Nope. That was just a bonus."
They spent the afternoon working in quiet rhythm. Oriana reading aloud from a book of short stories she'd borrowed from the library—her voice rising and falling like wind through trees—while Anya sketched wildflowers on a fresh page. The petals didn't have to be perfect. Nothing did when they were together. Every flaw was just character. Every smudge, a memory.
At some point, Oriana stopped reading.
Anya looked up. "What is it?"
"I was just thinking," Oriana said, "that I want more days like this. Not exciting ones. Not ones where we have to do anything. Just this. Just you and me and the sound of leaves."
"We'll have them," Anya said.
"But will we?"
There was a tremor in her voice. Barely there. Like a note played too softly to name.
Anya set her sketchbook down and turned toward her fully. "Oriana?"
Oriana lay back on the grass, eyes on the sky. "My dad might be getting transferred. He told me last night. Nothing's official yet, but if it happens, it'll be before school resumes."
Anya's chest went still. "Transferred… where?"
"Up north. Way past the mountains. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I've never seen. Somewhere you're not."
A silence settled between them, heavier than the breeze, heavier than the sky.
"How long have you known?" Anya asked softly.
"Three days."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want to break this," Oriana said, sitting up again. "I wanted just one more perfect day. Like it might anchor me here."
Anya stared at the grass. Her fingers curled into it, like maybe if she gripped hard enough, the earth would hold Oriana in place.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered.
"I don't want to go either."
They sat like that for a while, not holding hands, not kissing—just breathing. Just staying. Because sometimes love isn't loud. Sometimes it's the quiet choice to remain, even when the moment trembles.
Later, inside Oriana's room, they pulled out the scrapbook.
It lay between them like something sacred. Its pages had weight now. Not just of paper and glue—but of them. Of days shared, promises whispered, silences survived.
"Should we stop adding to it?" Anya asked. "If you're…"
She couldn't finish.
"No," Oriana said quickly. "Especially not now. This book is proof. That we were. That we are. And maybe that we still can be."
They opened to a new page.
Anya took a photograph out of her pocket. One she had printed secretly—a candid shot Oriana's father had taken during dinner weeks ago. Oriana, laughing mid-bite, eyes crinkled, unaware she was being captured.
"I was going to give this to you at the end of the summer," Anya said. "But maybe now's better."
Oriana took the photo gently, staring at it like it was made of something more fragile than paper. "It looks like someone who's in love."
"It is."
Oriana leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm scared."
"Me too."
"But I think we can be brave together."
That night, Anya stayed late. They curled beneath Oriana's comforter, the world beyond the windows soaked in stars and the hush of a town too small to interrupt them.
"Would you write to me?" Oriana whispered.
"I'd write every day."
"Even if I couldn't write back right away?"
"I'd still write."
Oriana paused. "What would you say?"
Anya closed her eyes. "That the sky still looks like the day we kissed on the river. That the tree in the school yard still leans toward the east, just like your hair used to when the wind found it. That I'm still drawing the curve of your cheek in the corners of every page."
When she opened her eyes again, Oriana was crying silently.
"Don't cry," Anya said.
"I'm not sad," Oriana whispered. "I'm just… full."
They held each other tightly that night.
And the world spun on, unaware of the weight being carried in one small room by two girls holding each other against the shape of a future neither could quite see.
In the weeks that followed, the world didn't stop.
Oriana's transfer wasn't confirmed, but it hovered like a shadow on every sunny day. They filled their time with everything and nothing—rooftop afternoons, bookstore dates, early morning walks where dew clung to their sandals and silence pressed between them like a third hand.
They didn't say goodbye.
They didn't even say soon.
Instead, they added to the scrapbook. Every single day.
Pressed flowers from a roadside garden. A receipt from the café where Anya first said I love you aloud. A ribbon from Oriana's old school festival dress. Anya's sketch of a window filled with stars. Oriana's note written in the dark, taped with care beside a photo of their hands interlocked:
"Even if I go, my heart stays. You don't need to chase it. You already have it."
The call came in the first week of August.
The transfer was confirmed.
Two weeks.
That was all.
Oriana didn't cry when she told Anya. Not right away. She just held her close, arms tight, like she was trying to memorize the shape of her.
"We'll find each other again," she whispered.
"You promise?"
Oriana nodded. "Even if I have to walk back across mountains. Even if we have to live in letters for a while."
Anya leaned against her. "Then I'll wait. As long as it takes."
On the last day, they met at the train station.
Oriana wore the yellow shirt again. The same one from the day of the bicycle ride. Her braid was loose, and her suitcase was small. She didn't bring much. But Anya knew she carried everything that mattered already.
They didn't say goodbye at the gate.
Instead, Oriana opened the scrapbook to the last page.
Blank.
"I want you to fill it," she said. "When you're ready."
Anya nodded.
They kissed once more.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Just theirs.
And then Oriana stepped onto the train.
Anya stood on the platform, her hand lifted in farewell, the scrapbook clutched to her chest.
And as the train pulled away, the sky shifted.
But Anya remained.
And the season that carried Oriana's name settled into her like sunlight through leaves.