Chapter 50: The Morning the Sky Stayed Soft
The morning after the school festival, the world woke slower.
The sun stretched across my bedroom walls like it, too, had stayed out too late, watching lanterns rise with held breath. I lay in bed a little longer than usual, my fingers brushing the folded fan I'd left on my windowsill. Anya & Oriana — written in black calligraphy, woven into the gold silk like a story beginning its second chapter.
My phone lit up with a message.
Oriana: Did you dream of the lanterns too?
I smiled.
Me: No. I dreamed of your hand in mine. But I think the sky remembered them for us.
A minute later, the three dots appeared.
Oriana: Come over. I want to be quiet with you.
By the time I arrived, her grandmother was watering the orchids by the gate.
"She's on the balcony," she said, not looking up. "The sky's been good to her lately."
I didn't ask what she meant. I just nodded and slipped inside quietly.
Upstairs, Oriana sat cross-legged in a sun-washed patch of floor, a bowl of peeled pomelo beside her, hair still damp from her shower. She wore a pale linen shirt, buttoned halfway, and loose pajama pants. She looked like a poem I hadn't finished reading.
"You came," she said without turning.
"You called."
She looked over her shoulder. "There's tea."
There was always tea.
I poured a cup and sat beside her. We said nothing for a while. Only the wind moved — soft and slow, lifting the white curtain behind her like breath.
"I didn't think I'd feel so calm," she said eventually. "After yesterday."
"Me either."
"Do you think they'll talk?"
"They already are."
She looked down, plucking a pomelo segment and offering it to me.
"They can talk," she said. "As long as they don't try to rewrite our story."
We sat like that for an hour, picking pomelo from the bowl, reading lines from our shared poetry book, and listening to the lazy hum of neighborhood birds.
Then, a knock at the door downstairs.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Her grandmother calling up, "Oriana, there's someone here for you."
She frowned. "For me?"
I followed her down, curiosity crawling up my spine.
At the gate stood a woman in her mid-forties — pressed shirt, sensible shoes, the kind of smile that's too polite to be warm.
"Oriana," she said, nodding once. "It's been a long time."
I watched Oriana freeze beside me.
"Aunt May," she said stiffly.
The woman's smile faltered.
"I heard about last night. A friend of mine teaches at your school."
Oriana's hand found mine without thinking.
"I'm not here to scold," Aunt May added quickly. "Only to talk."
Her eyes flicked to me, then back.
"Can we?"
Oriana didn't let go of my hand. "Only if Anya stays."
We sat at the garden bench. Her grandmother brought more tea, silent but present. Aunt May stirred her cup three times before speaking.
"You're young," she began, "and I know how intense feelings can be at your age."
Oriana's jaw tightened.
"But some feelings," Aunt May continued, "can lead to difficult roads. Harder lives. I just want you to think carefully."
I saw Oriana's shoulders square.
"I have thought carefully."
"You're fourteen."
"I'm fourteen and I know what kindness feels like. I know what respect is. I know what it means to feel safe."
Aunt May glanced at me again. "I'm not saying Anya is the problem—"
"I didn't say she was," Oriana interrupted. "I said she's the reason I feel safe."
Silence.
Then Aunt May said, quietly, "I only came because your mother asked me to check on you."
At that, something in Oriana's expression shifted. A small ache rippled through her.
"She's in Chiang Mai now, isn't she?" Oriana asked, voice quieter.
"Yes. And she's… concerned. She asked me to make sure you weren't being led into something you'd regret."
Oriana's hand trembled slightly in mine.
I squeezed back.
She looked up, straight into her aunt's eyes.
"If I ever regret anything, it will be all the years I spent pretending not to need love."
Aunt May blinked.
Then: "I hope you're not angry with me."
"I'm not," Oriana said. "But I'm done apologizing."
After she left, we sat in the garden for a long time.
Neither of us spoke.
Eventually, Oriana leaned her head on my shoulder.
"She's not cruel," she murmured. "She's just… afraid."
"Of what?"
"That love might change me into someone she doesn't recognize."
I ran my fingers through her hair.
"Love didn't change you," I said. "It just gave you space to bloom."
She closed her eyes.
And the garden, for a moment, felt like the center of a quiet universe.
Later that afternoon, we sat with her grandmother in the living room. She crocheted in silence while Oriana played soft notes on the old upright piano. I sat nearby, sketching lines of Oriana's silhouette in my notebook, trying to capture the curve of her spine, the way her fingers floated over the keys.
Her grandmother looked up once and said:
"You two carry each other gently."
We paused.
Then Oriana whispered, "We're still learning how."
Her grandmother smiled. "That's all love is."
When I finally left that evening, the sky was full of clouds. The kind that didn't threaten rain, only wrapped the world in softness. As I walked home, I thought about how fragile and fierce it all was — how easily a knock at the gate could change the day, how important it was to keep holding on.
When I reached my house, there was a note on my pillow.
I didn't recognize the handwriting until I turned it over.
Oriana's.
"Today, I didn't run.
I didn't shrink.
I let someone carry their misunderstanding into my garden, and I did not flinch.
You were beside me.
And I've never been more certain that the world — for all its noise and fear — will not take this from us.
Let them worry.
We'll keep writing the story."
I held the note to my chest.
And smiled.