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Chapter 45 - Chapter 45: All the Words I’ve Been Holding

Chapter 45: All the Words I've Been Holding

The date circled on the calendar stared at her like a silent flame.

December 28th.

It didn't blink.

It didn't tremble.

But Anya did.

Every time her eyes drifted to it, her chest filled with a kind of thunder. A quiet anticipation, soft as snow and loud as bells. As if something long asleep inside her had finally stirred and was beginning to stretch.

Three more days.

Three more sleeps, and then Oriana would be home.

Anya's room had transformed.

Her sketches lined the walls now—unapologetically bold. Some still rough, others carefully inked and colored. She'd hung the canvas from the winter gallery near her bed, right where the light could touch it in the mornings.

The scrapbook sat open on her desk, a pressed camellia resting gently between its pages. The flannel blanket—faded slightly now—was still draped across her chair. The green hair clip she used to hold in her pocket was now clipped to the edge of her lamp.

Everything was ready.

Everything except her.

Because no matter how many letters passed between them, no matter how many dreams she woke from with Oriana's name on her lips, Anya couldn't help but ask herself one thing:

What if time changed us more than we meant it to?

She didn't say anything to Mina about the nerves. Not directly.

But Mina knew.

"Do you want to rehearse what you'll say?" she asked one afternoon as they sat under the plum tree outside the school gate.

Anya plucked at a dry leaf between her fingers. "You think I need a script?"

"No," Mina said. "But I think your brain needs the illusion of control."

Anya smiled faintly. "What do you think I should say?"

Mina tilted her head, pretending to think. "Maybe something like: 'Hi. I only wrote you seventy-five pages of devotion. But in person, I am socially bankrupt.'"

Anya laughed, too suddenly, too loudly, startling a crow nearby.

Mina grinned. "See? You'll be fine."

But later, as she walked home alone, Anya slowed her steps.

She found herself whispering softly under her breath, like a prayer.

"Hi, Oriana… You're here… You're really here…"

But even that didn't feel right.

There were no words big enough to carry what she'd been holding all this time.

On the night before the 28th, her mother made her favorite dish—steamed tofu with garlic soy sauce, rice with a little pickled plum, and warm miso with green onions floating like islands in the broth.

"You look pale," her mother said, setting the tray down.

"I feel…" Anya pressed her fingers to her chest. "Like a balloon filled too full."

Her mother chuckled. "That's love, sweetie. Comes with a little panic."

After dinner, Anya sat at her desk, reading over Oriana's letters again. She didn't cry. She just touched the paper, letting her fingertips memorize every indentation.

When the sky darkened, she curled beneath the blanket and whispered into the quiet:

"I'm still yours. In all the ways that matter."

The morning of the 28th arrived with cold sunlight.

The kind of light that looked sharp but carried no warmth.

Anya wore a deep green coat—one Oriana had once complimented and said made her look like a storybook character. Her scarf was the pale blue one she'd been gifted last winter. She brushed her hair slowly, then paused at the mirror, staring into her reflection like it might answer the question she couldn't say aloud:

Will I still be enough?

Then, carefully, she took the green hair clip from the lamp and fastened it in place.

"Let's find out."

The train station smelled like warm bread and coffee.

It was louder than she remembered—children laughing, people dragging luggage, announcements humming from old speakers overhead.

Anya's hands were buried deep in her coat pockets. The scrapbook sat in her bag, sealed with a new note tucked inside:

"This is what I became while you were gone."

The clock above the arrival board ticked forward.

11:05.

The train from Yamagata was two minutes away.

Every breath became harder to manage. Every second louder.

Then came the low rumble.

The tracks began to tremble.

And the moment that had stretched for weeks—months—finally snapped.

The train pulled in, sleek and silver, steam rising in curls from its edges like it had just run through winter itself.

Anya held her breath.

Doors opened.

People spilled out.

Businessmen. Tourists. A woman with a toddler in a yellow coat. A student with her arms full of paper.

And then—

There.

Oriana.

Standing just outside the car. A scarf too long wrapped twice around her neck, hair slightly curled at the ends, her bag hanging from one shoulder.

She looked up.

And froze.

Anya's feet moved before she knew what they were doing.

She stepped forward. Slowly.

Oriana took one step too.

Then another.

And suddenly—

They were there.

Standing across from each other in the soft chaos of the platform, the whole world dulling around them.

Neither said anything.

For a moment, it was just eyes. Just breath. Just presence.

Then Oriana reached out. Her fingers trembled.

Anya took her hand.

And that was it.

The crack closed.

The distance disappeared.

Everything slid back into place.

They sat on the bench outside the station, wrapped in silence too sacred to fill.

Anya glanced sideways. "You're really here."

"I didn't know I missed your voice this much," Oriana said softly. "It's… warmer than I remembered."

Anya blushed. "Your scarf is too long."

"You still notice everything."

"I tried not to."

"I know."

Oriana reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper.

A single letter.

"I wrote this two days ago. Just in case I couldn't speak when I saw you."

Anya took it. Unfolded it slowly.

Inside, in her handwriting:

"Dear Anya,

I spent the last few months trying to figure out if love stays soft when time stretches it.

I think it does.

Because I love you more now than when I left.

Not just for who you were when I held your hand—but for who you became when I couldn't.

And I hope I can learn how to be yours again.

With you.

In this new sky."

Anya folded the paper and tucked it into her coat.

"I'm still yours," she said. "You never stopped being mine."

They walked the long way home.

Past the bookstore.

Past the shrine.

Past the park where the swings still creaked in winter wind.

Oriana brushed her hand against Anya's.

"Okay if I hold it now?" she asked, quieter than breath.

Anya nodded.

Their fingers laced together like they'd always belonged that way.

Back in Anya's room, everything felt different.

Not strange. Not unfamiliar.

Just… lived in.

Oriana sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the scrapbook, flipping through the latest pages with reverence.

"You kept drawing."

"You kept writing."

They didn't need to explain more.

They had already said everything in absence.

Now, they could just be.

That night, curled together under the blanket, Oriana whispered:

"I thought I'd come back to someone waiting. But you weren't waiting. You were growing."

Anya kissed her shoulder.

"You gave me space to."

"Do you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"For leaving."

Anya pressed their foreheads together.

"You didn't leave me. You just walked where I couldn't follow. And now you're back."

Oriana smiled softly.

"And I'm staying."

Outside, the sky was full of stars.

Inside, their hands found each other in the dark.

And love—gentle, rooted, undeniable—breathed again.

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