Chapter 30: The Things That Stay
Monday brought them back to the world.
Uniforms, bells, homework, footsteps down tiled corridors. The illusion of timelessness they'd shared over the weekend had dissolved with the morning sun. But something inside them hadn't faded. If anything, it had become more certain.
Anya stood by her locker, adjusting her sleeves. The hallway was buzzing with students swapping stories, notes, weekend gossip. But she didn't hear any of it.
Because Oriana was already walking toward her.
There was no dramatic moment, no slow-motion montage. Just a quiet understanding in Oriana's eyes and a smile so small it felt like it was meant only for Anya.
"Good morning," Oriana said, brushing past a group of third-years who turned to look.
"Morning," Anya replied softly, eyes warm.
They didn't touch. Not here. Not yet. The school wasn't unkind—but it wasn't safe either. Not for hearts like theirs.
Still, when they walked to class together, side by side, Anya could feel Oriana's shoulder just barely brushing hers with every step. That was enough. A kind of private rebellion. A language only they spoke.
During chemistry, Oriana passed her a folded note beneath the desk.
Anya opened it, careful not to draw attention.
You're still in my dreams. Even when I'm awake.
She pressed her fingers over the words like they were too tender to look at.
At lunch, they sat outside near the far wall where the banyan trees grew wild, their roots thick and knotted like old hands. It was the only place on campus quiet enough to be themselves.
Oriana had brought a rice ball wrapped in banana leaf. She unwrapped it slowly and broke it in two, offering the larger half to Anya.
"You always give me more," Anya said.
"You always look like you need it," Oriana teased.
They sat with their backs against the wall, eating and sharing sips of soy milk. Anya watched the wind moving through Oriana's hair and wanted to memorize the way it looked—like something gentle had found a place to rest.
"Do you ever wonder how long we'll have this?" Anya asked suddenly.
Oriana blinked. "This…?"
"This us. These days."
"I think about it," Oriana admitted. "Sometimes it scares me."
"Me too."
"But then I remember," she said, turning toward her, "we don't need forever to make something real. We just need now."
Anya's throat tightened. "That sounds like something from a poem."
"Maybe it is," Oriana smiled. "But it's also true."
Later that day, Anya found herself standing by the window of the library, her notebook open on the table, half-full of unfinished lines and half-shaped thoughts.
She stared out at the field below, where students ran laps in the sun, their laughter distant and bright.
She didn't hear Oriana approach.
But she felt her.
A soft presence beside her, not intruding—just being.
"Your pen is still uncapped," Oriana murmured, gently closing it for her.
"I couldn't write," Anya said. "Not yet."
"That's okay."
They stood in silence. The kind that didn't need to be filled.
Then Oriana reached into her bag and pulled out a small sketchpad. She flipped to the last page and showed it to her.
It was a drawing of the two of them beneath the tamarind tree.
Their heads tilted toward each other. The shadows soft. The moment still.
Anya stared at it.
"You always draw me so… calm."
"You are calm," Oriana said.
"No," Anya whispered. "I just pretend well."
Oriana set the sketchpad down. "Then maybe I'm not drawing who you are. Maybe I'm drawing who you are with me."
Anya turned to her.
She wanted to say something. But Oriana was already moving closer.
They were hidden between shelves, out of sight.
And in that quiet space, Oriana gently took her face in her hands and kissed her.
Not long. Not deep.
Just a soft press of truth.
When they pulled apart, Oriana looked at her and said, "You don't have to pretend with me."
And Anya—shaking, quiet, full—nodded.
"I know."
That night, Anya lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
The room was silent. The fan turned slowly. Outside, the crickets had begun their steady song.
She opened her notebook again, this time with less hesitation.
And finally, she wrote:
Some things don't need to be forever to be true.
Some hearts only know how to bloom in borrowed time.
But if you're reading this—
You were real to me.
You are.
She set the pen down.
Looked at her phone.
No new messages.
Then it buzzed once.
From Oriana.
I miss you. And it's only been hours.
Anya smiled.
Her fingers moved quickly.
I think some part of me always misses you. Even when you're beside me.
There was a pause.
Then a reply.
Then I'll just have to stay closer.
And somehow, even in the dark, Anya felt light.
She rolled over, pulled the blanket to her chin, and whispered into the silence:
"I think this is what love feels like."
And the silence, for once, whispered back—
Yes.