Chapter 57: The Days We Might Not Share
The wind was different that day.
It wasn't colder, exactly. But it carried a kind of pause. The sort of hush you feel in the air before something changes—not out of malice, but out of necessity.
Anya felt it before Oriana did.
It began with a letter, folded neatly, slipped into the side pocket of her schoolbag. Not an ordinary letter, not from a classmate or a secret admirer. This one came stamped with the seal of an art program in Kyoto—an international fellowship, one Anya had applied to nearly a year ago and promptly forgotten, assuming she wouldn't make the shortlist.
She read the letter three times.
Then she didn't mention it at all. Not that day.
Instead, she smiled the same way.
Laughed at Oriana's half-drawn sketches. Ate lunch beside her. Leaned on her shoulder during physics and whispered, "This teacher is trying to murder me with boredom."
But her hand trembled slightly when she wrote in her notebook.
And Oriana noticed.
Not right away.
But by the time the moon rose and they were lying on Oriana's bed, back to back with their arms slightly touching, Oriana reached across the pillow and asked, "Is something wrong?"
Anya's throat caught for a second.
She considered denying it.
But that wasn't what they were anymore.
So she rolled onto her side and whispered, "I got a letter."
Oriana turned to face her. "From who?"
"A school. An art program. In Japan."
Oriana blinked once. "You didn't tell me you applied."
Anya nodded. "I didn't think I'd get in."
Oriana was quiet for a moment. "Is it a full scholarship?"
"Yes."
Another pause.
"For how long?"
"Six months."
Oriana didn't speak again.
She just stared at the ceiling, her eyes tracing invisible patterns in the plaster. Her fingers curled slightly against the blanket, as if trying to grip something.
Anya reached out. "Say something."
Oriana looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Do you want to go?"
Anya swallowed. "I… I don't know. I think I should. It's what I've been working for. It's a chance to study with artists I've admired since I was twelve. But…"
"But?" Oriana's voice was soft, almost too soft.
"But I don't want to leave you behind."
The words landed like petals falling on a pond—gentle, but still making ripples.
"I won't be angry if you go," Oriana said after a while.
"But will you be hurt?"
Oriana hesitated. Then, honestly: "Yes."
Anya sat up, wrapping the blanket around her. "I don't want to become someone who chooses ambition over love."
"You won't," Oriana said. "You're not choosing one instead of the other. You're just choosing to grow."
"But what if I grow away from you?"
Oriana sat up too. The room was dim, lit only by the lamp in the corner, the shadows stretching long.
"Then we let the distance show us what stays," Oriana said quietly. "I won't ask you to stay just because I'm afraid of being without you."
Anya touched her arm. "Even if it means mornings without me?"
Oriana smiled faintly. "You'll still be in them. Just... different."
They didn't solve it that night.
They just leaned into each other, wrapped their arms around the silence, and breathed slowly until their hearts aligned again.
Over the next few days, the letter sat on Anya's desk like a small weight.
She didn't touch it.
Didn't reread it.
But she thought about it constantly—during lectures, during meals, during those soft, in-between moments where Oriana would smile at her across a room, and she'd feel that pull again.
She told her mother.
Her mother was thrilled.
She told her teacher.
Her teacher clapped and told the class, "You'll all remember you knew her when she was still scribbling poems on the back of exam sheets."
But Oriana—Oriana remained calm.
Supportive.
Too supportive.
One evening, as they sat on the school rooftop watching the pink burn from the sky, Anya turned and asked, "Why aren't you upset?"
Oriana glanced at her. "I am. But I love you more than I love my fear."
Anya exhaled. "I don't know how to be apart from you."
"Maybe," Oriana said, "you don't have to be."
Anya looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I don't mean I'll come with you," she added quickly. "But... maybe we learn how to be near even when we're far."
Anya leaned her head on Oriana's shoulder. "And what if you need someone and I'm not there?"
"I'll still hear your voice," Oriana said. "Even if it's just in memory."
The final day to reply came fast.
The envelope still lay unopened on her desk—not out of denial, but reverence.
That morning, Anya sat across from Oriana at the tea shop near school.
Two cups between them.
Two hearts trying not to shake.
"I wrote my answer," Anya said.
Oriana stirred her tea, not looking up. "And?"
"I said yes."
Oriana nodded.
"I leave in three weeks."
Another nod.
Then, finally, Oriana said, "I'm proud of you."
Anya reached across the table and touched Oriana's hand. "I'm scared."
"Me too."
"But I want to try."
Oriana's hand squeezed hers. "Then go. Grow. Let the world see what I already see every day."
Anya blinked, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Will you write to me?"
"Every morning," Oriana whispered. "Even if you don't answer."
They left the shop holding hands.
Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Just… gently.
Like they trusted the cord between them would hold.
The days that followed passed like pages turning.
They went to the bookstore and chose a blank journal together—Anya would write in it during the trip, one page for every day they were apart.
Oriana filled the first page herself.
Just a single line:
"There's nothing about you the distance could erase."
They packed together.
Folded clothes.
Laughed when Anya tried to fit ten sketchbooks into a single suitcase.
Watched movies curled on the floor, both pretending not to count down the days.
And on the final night, Oriana brought Anya to the river—the same river from their quiet escape weeks ago.
They sat at the edge.
The moon full above them.
Oriana pulled something from her pocket—a bracelet, handwoven, their initials knotted into the cord.
"For the journey," she said.
Anya tied it around her wrist with shaking fingers.
And then she leaned in and kissed Oriana—not rushed, not sad.
But slowly.
Like she was carving the memory into her bones.
The next morning, the airport was full of sound—calls over loudspeakers, luggage wheels clattering across the floor, people hugging, running, waiting.
But in the quiet space between gates, Oriana and Anya stood without words.
Oriana looked at her. "Come back when your heart says so. Not before."
Anya nodded, voice trembling. "And you?"
"I'll be here," Oriana whispered. "I'll always be here."
They held each other for one last time.
And then Anya walked away.
She didn't look back.
Not because she wasn't aching.
But because she was carrying Oriana with her—every step forward, every mile ahead.
And behind her, Oriana stood still.
Not broken.
Not lost.
Just… waiting.
In love.
In trust.
In the hope that when seasons turned again, she would feel the wind shift once more—
—and it would bring Anya home.