Chapter 16 : "The Morning We Built"
The morning after The Mirror felt different.
Not louder, not busier. Just realer.
Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains in long, gentle ribbons. The room smelled like skin, faint jasmine, and something new neither girl had words for — the quiet scent of trust that had finally found somewhere to rest.
Oriana was already awake, lying on her side, watching Anya sleep.
It had become a quiet ritual for her — to memorize Anya's face in the early morning when everything was still. The flutter of her lashes. The way her lips parted ever so slightly. The faint creases left behind by the pillow.
Oriana had memorized people before. But this was different.
This wasn't survival. This was worship.
When Anya stirred, Oriana didn't move. She simply smiled as Anya blinked the sleep from her eyes.
"Good morning," she whispered.
Anya stretched, then smiled in that sleepy, precious way that made Oriana's breath catch. "Is it?"
"Very."
They lay facing each other in the soft hush between words. Outside, roosters called to the rising sun and a scooter buzzed down the village road. A dog barked. The wind rattled the wind chimes above their porch in soft, uncertain melodies.
And still, they didn't move.
Because everything they needed was right here.
"I dreamt about you again," Anya said.
Oriana smiled. "What was I doing?"
"Dancing," Anya said, cheeks pink. "In the rain. Alone. And I was just watching, soaking wet, and thinking how I could never look away."
Oriana reached for her. "You don't have to. I'm right here."
Anya closed the space between them, kissing her softly. "I know."
They spent the morning slowly, the way you do when you don't want to leave the dream you've stepped into.
Oriana made tea. Anya sat on the porch with a sketchbook in her lap, drawing nothing in particular — just shapes, lines, memories.
The village moved around them. A neighbor swept her front stoop. Children chased a ball down the narrow dirt path. A vendor passed with sweet sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves.
Oriana brought her a cup of tea, crouching beside her.
"Can we stay another week?" she asked.
Anya blinked up at her.
"Just a little longer," Oriana said. "I know we said a few days, but I want more of this. I want more us."
Anya reached out and brushed a hand down her arm. "You don't have to ask."
They sat together on the porch steps, bare feet touching, sharing sips from the same cup. The tea was warm with lemongrass and honey. The sky was a soft, uncommitted blue.
Oriana pulled her knees up to her chest.
"I used to be afraid of happiness," she said.
Anya turned. "Why?"
"Because I didn't think I could keep it. Because every time I touched it, it vanished. Like it wasn't meant for me."
Anya slipped her hand into Oriana's. "Does it still feel that way?"
Oriana hesitated. "No. Not now. Not with you."
Anya squeezed her hand. "That's all I want. To be a place you don't have to run from."
Oriana smiled, kissed her shoulder, and whispered, "You are."
In the afternoon, they walked through the rice paddies, barefoot, fingers laced.
The fields stretched out like an ocean of green. The air shimmered with heat and distant laughter. Birds rose from the stalks like floating prayers.
Oriana stopped and pointed to a small house on the hill.
"That's the kind of place I used to dream about. Simple. A garden in front. White curtains that dance in the wind."
Anya looked at her, studied the light in her eyes.
"Then let's find one like it."
Oriana blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean it. When we leave here. We don't have to go back to everything we knew. We can make something new. Just you and me."
Oriana stared at her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe her heart could truly have this.
Then she said softly, "Are you serious?"
Anya nodded. "Completely."
Oriana stepped into her arms and buried her face in her neck.
"I think I've been waiting to hear that my whole life."
Anya held her tightly. "Then let's stop waiting."
They returned just before sunset, cheeks flushed, skin warm from sun and laughter. Oriana flopped onto the bed, pulling Anya with her.
They landed in a mess of tangled limbs and soft giggles.
Anya rolled onto her side and reached for her sketchbook again.
"What are you drawing now?" Oriana asked, propping herself up on one elbow.
Anya smiled. "Our future."
She turned the book to reveal a half-finished sketch: two girls under a roof of paper lanterns, one painting flowers across the wall, the other reading a book aloud by candlelight.
Oriana stared.
Her eyes shimmered with quiet, unspoken things.
"Do you really see us like that?"
"I only see us like that."
Oriana reached for her face, brushed her thumb along her cheek.
"You've given me so much," she said.
"You gave me everything first," Anya whispered. "You gave me you."
That night, they cooked together.
Oriana wore Anya's oversized shirt, sleeves rolled up, a wooden spoon tucked behind her ear. Anya sliced vegetables while Oriana stirred curry over the flame, the air thick with coconut milk and red chilies.
They danced around each other in the tiny kitchen, laughing every time they bumped hips or stole a kiss.
"Careful," Oriana said, licking sauce off her finger, "or I'll fall in love with your cooking."
Anya smirked. "You already love me."
Oriana grinned. "Hopelessly."
They ate on the porch, knees touching, fireflies blinking in the trees. The night air was warm, alive with crickets and the low hush of distant voices.
After dinner, Oriana rested her head in Anya's lap.
"Let's make a list," she said.
"A list?"
"Of everything we want. For our little life. So we don't forget."
Anya smiled. "Okay. You start."
Oriana held up her fingers, counting.
"One: A house with a blue door."
"Two: A cat named Saffron," Anya added.
"Three: A tree in the yard with a swing."
"Four: You singing in the mornings."
"Five: Kissing in the rain."
They kept going — laughter mingling with dreams, turning the night into a canvas.
It wasn't a list of what-ifs.
It was a promise.
Later, in bed, Oriana turned to Anya and whispered, "You're the first person I've ever built a tomorrow with."
Anya looked at her — hair messy, eyes soft, skin glowing in the candlelight.
"You're the only one I want to build it with."
Oriana kissed her then — deep and slow, full of everything words hadn't yet said. And when they moved together, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was sacred.
Their bodies remembered each other now.
Not just in hunger, but in reverence.
Fingertips over ribs.
Mouths over collarbones.
Breath shared.
Names whispered like mantras.
They didn't try to make it perfect.
They made it true.
And when they were wrapped in blankets, chests rising in rhythm, Oriana said into the silence, "I'm not afraid anymore."
Anya kissed her temple. "Of what?"
"Of being loved."
Anya smiled. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."