Chapter 12 : "The Way She Looked at Me"
Oriana didn't laugh that morning.
Not like the other mornings where her voice bubbled like spring water and her hands brushed against Anya's arm in playful teasing. Instead, she stood at the window of the guesthouse, barefoot on the wood floor, hair falling down her back in loose waves still kissed by sleep.
Anya watched from the edge of the bed, the blankets crumpled around her hips, her breath quiet and waiting. Something in Oriana's stillness stirred a tension in the air — the kind of silence that trembles before a storm, or after the soft confession of a dream.
"What are you thinking about?" Anya finally asked, voice barely more than a whisper, not wanting to disturb whatever world Oriana stood in.
The taller girl didn't turn around. She only tilted her head slightly, like the question had surprised her.
"About yesterday," Oriana said after a long breath. "And the way you looked at me."
Anya blinked. "I look at you all the time."
"No," Oriana murmured, finally turning. Her eyes met Anya's with a quiet gravity. "Not like that. Yesterday, at the stream. When I said I wasn't afraid of falling."
Anya's throat tightened. She remembered it exactly. The way the sun hit the water. The way Oriana's wet fingers had brushed her cheek. The wildness in her eyes, the kind that didn't ask for permission.
"You looked at me," Oriana continued, walking toward her slowly, "like I was something you'd been waiting to see all your life. Like I wasn't a person, but a season. Like I was the answer to a question you hadn't asked yet."
Anya lowered her eyes, suddenly shy, heart hammering. "I didn't mean to… I mean, I wasn't—"
"It wasn't a bad thing," Oriana interrupted gently, crouching down by the bed, her hands sliding over Anya's knees. "I just… I've never been looked at like that."
Anya placed her hand on Oriana's cheek, fingers trembling. "Then maybe no one ever saw you properly."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The only sound was the birds outside, waking up the sleepy village. The smell of jasmine still lingered in the air from the night before — from the garland Oriana had woven and placed on Anya's wrist before falling asleep together.
"May I kiss you again?" Oriana asked, her voice nothing more than a breath.
Anya leaned in, closing the distance between them.
"You don't have to ask."
Their lips met like two pages folding into the same story — familiar, slow, unhurried. It wasn't like the kiss from the festival, or the one beneath the lanterns. This was quieter. More solemn. As if both of them understood that nothing would be the same after.
Oriana climbed into bed beside her, pulling Anya into her arms. They lay there for a long time, legs tangled, noses brushing, hearts finding a rhythm that matched.
"I used to think," Oriana said softly, tracing patterns on Anya's skin, "that I'd never belong anywhere. That the world was always a room I wasn't invited into. But now…"
Anya didn't speak. She only kissed her shoulder.
"…now I think maybe I was just waiting for the right person to walk in with me."
They stayed like that until the light turned golden, until the world outside began to stir. The sound of a motorbike in the distance. A dog barking. The smell of sweet rice being steamed from the kitchen downstairs.
But neither of them moved.
Because in that room, in that bed, in the warmth of each other's arms — time wasn't something to be feared. It was something to be tasted, breath by breath.
Later, walking hand-in-hand down the stone path toward the old market, Oriana paused.
"Do you ever wonder," she asked, watching the wind tease the trees, "if we were meant to meet? Like the universe pushed us into each other's orbit?"
Anya smiled. "I don't wonder. I know."
Oriana looked at her, that same look of astonishment from the stream returning. "How?"
"Because nothing has ever felt more like home than your laugh."
The market buzzed with life. Vendors sang out their prices, umbrellas opened like a field of sunflowers, and children ran between baskets of mangoes and lotus flowers. Anya brushed a strand of hair behind Oriana's ear and said, "Let's get something sweet."
They stopped at a stall selling sticky rice with mango, the woman behind it smiling at their closeness with a knowing gleam in her eyes. Oriana fed Anya the first bite, laughing when the sticky rice clung to her lips.
"You've got something—" she began, but instead of finishing her sentence, she leaned forward and kissed it away.
Anya blushed furiously. "Oriana!"
"What? I'm just helping."
She grinned and took her hand again, weaving their fingers together tightly.
They found a quiet place near the water's edge to sit — the river glistening in the sun, boats drifting lazily, dragonflies skimming the surface.
Oriana rested her head on Anya's shoulder.
"Tell me something no one else knows."
Anya turned to her, surprised. "Why?"
"Because I want to know you deeper than anyone else does."
Anya hesitated, then said quietly, "When I was younger, I used to dream about a girl with a voice like thunder and hands like silk. She'd come to me in my sleep and say nothing. Just sit beside me, and I'd feel safe."
Oriana lifted her head. "That's… that's what I used to dream too. Except in my dreams, the girl had eyes like rain. And she never said anything either. But she always brought flowers."
Anya laughed, softly. "I used to leave flowers under my pillow. Hoping she'd come."
Oriana reached for her hand. "Maybe we were dreaming of each other."
That night, after dinner, the rain came.
Soft at first. Then harder, until it was drumming the roof and streaking the windows like a symphony. Anya stood by the open door, letting the cool breeze kiss her cheeks, the scent of wet earth and frangipani thick in the air.
Oriana came up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist.
"Let's dance," she whispered.
"In the rain?"
"Yes."
Anya hesitated only a moment before turning and stepping barefoot onto the porch, the wooden boards slick with water. Oriana followed, laughing, pulling her close. They danced beneath the storm, their hair soaked, their clothes clinging to them like second skin.
Neither cared.
The world had narrowed to this moment — the way their bodies swayed together, the thunder like applause, the lightning sketching their shadows onto the wet ground.
"I love you," Oriana said suddenly, breathlessly, her forehead pressed to Anya's.
The world paused.
Raindrops slowed.
Anya closed her eyes, smiled, and whispered back, "I know. I love you too."
It was the first time they'd said it.
And it didn't feel strange.
It felt like they had always known.
After they dried off, wrapped in thick towels and laughter, Anya pulled Oriana into bed and traced her jaw with her fingers.
"I want this," she said. "All of it. The quiet mornings. The thunderstorms. Your laugh. Your tears. Even the way you leave toothpaste caps off and hum songs you never finish."
Oriana blinked. "I do that?"
"You do."
She chuckled, and Anya kissed her nose.
"Then take it all," Oriana said. "Because it's yours."
They kissed again, slower this time. A kiss of promises. Of beginnings. Of learning each other not just through words, but through touch, breath, and the quiet language of two hearts slowly synchronizing.
Later, as they lay side by side, fingertips grazing, thunder still rumbling low in the distance, Anya asked, "Do you think love is always this soft?"
Oriana turned to her, brushing her lips against her temple.
"No," she whispered. "But it should be."
And that night, with the storm outside and the warmth between them, neither of them dreamed of anyone else.
Because the girl with thunder in her voice and silk in her hands was real.
And she was already here.