Chapter 38: The Way Your Silence Speaks
The sky that evening was a watercolor of fading light—hues of lavender, rose, and deepening blue streaking across the horizon like a whispered memory. The city beneath it moved slowly, as though lulled by the breath of twilight, and the windows of Oriana's apartment glowed softly in the golden light.
Anya stood by the balcony, her arms resting on the rail, the wind brushing her cheeks like gentle fingers. She was watching the world change colors—her heart quiet, full in a way that didn't need words. Behind her, Oriana moved quietly in the kitchen, the scent of lemongrass and chili drifting through the room.
They were planning nothing tonight.
No adventure, no guests, no distractions.
Just the two of them. And time.
Anya turned when Oriana stepped out with a steaming bowl of soup in her hands, her hair up in a loose knot, her eyes tired but beautiful.
"Come," Oriana said. "It's better when shared."
They sat cross-legged on the balcony floor, a candle flickering between them. Anya took a spoonful and hummed in approval.
"Too spicy?" Oriana asked.
"No," Anya smiled. "It tastes like comfort."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the neighborhood playing like a distant lullaby—dishes clinking, the bark of a dog, the hum of a motorcycle passing by. Everything felt distant, except for them.
After they'd finished, Anya reached out and took Oriana's hand. "You're quiet tonight."
Oriana didn't answer right away. Her fingers tightened around Anya's gently.
"I've been thinking," she said slowly, her gaze unfixed. "About how much of myself I've never let anyone see."
Anya waited, sensing the weight of what was coming—not prodding, only holding space.
"There's something I want to tell you," Oriana continued, her voice almost hesitant. "But I don't know if I'll say it the right way. I'm not good at talking about… the past."
"You don't need to say it perfectly," Anya whispered. "Just honestly."
Oriana nodded. Her eyes turned toward the candle, watching the flame shift with the wind.
"When I was younger," she began, "I lived in a house that always smelled like rice and sorrow."
Anya stayed still.
"My mother was strong. Too strong, maybe. She taught me how to tie my shoes and hide my bruises on the same day. She loved me, I know she did, but life… it wore her down. My father left early, and she worked three jobs just to keep the lights on. I think she forgot how to smile. And I… I learned not to cry, because it made her cry harder."
Anya felt her own heart ache as if Oriana's story were being written into her.
"I used to sit on the roof at night," Oriana continued, "just to breathe. Just to look at the stars and remember that something else existed beyond the cracked tiles and quiet anger. I promised myself that when I got older, I'd never need anyone. I'd build walls so tall no one could get in. It was the only way I knew how to survive."
"And you did," Anya said softly. "You survived."
Oriana looked down at their entwined fingers. "I did. But surviving isn't the same as living. And then… you came."
Anya felt her eyes fill.
"You scared me," Oriana said, her voice trembling now. "Not because you were dangerous, but because you were gentle. Because you looked at me like I wasn't broken. Like I was worth learning."
"You are."
Oriana's lips quivered, and for the first time since Anya had known her, tears slipped down her cheeks—quietly, like rain beginning on temple stone.
"I don't know how to be someone's… person," Oriana whispered. "I'm afraid I'll ruin it. That I'll ruin you."
"You won't," Anya said, her voice firm. She leaned forward, pressing Oriana's hand to her chest. "You see this? You live here now. Every word you speak, every silence you hold—I feel it. And I love you more not despite your pain… but because you trusted me enough to show it."
Oriana looked up, and her eyes—full of old sorrow and new hope—met Anya's like the moon finding its reflection in still water.
They didn't speak for a long time after that.
They didn't need to.
Anya pulled her into her arms, and they sat like that for what felt like forever. The sky darkened into velvet. The city lights blinked on one by one. The candle between them flickered until it died.
Only their embrace remained—warm, grounding, whole.
Later, inside, Oriana pulled out a worn sketchbook from a drawer.
"I want to show you something," she said.
She flipped through pages of charcoal drawings. Some were jagged and abstract. Some were portraits. Some were just shadows. And then she paused at a page.
It was a drawing of two hands—fingers intertwined, one slightly smaller than the other. Beneath it, written in Oriana's small, careful handwriting, were the words:
If someone ever holds me this way,
I think I'll finally believe I'm not alone.
Anya touched the edge of the page.
"This is us," she whispered.
"It was you before I even knew your name," Oriana replied.
That night, they curled into bed again, the sheets cool, their bodies warm.
Anya lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as Oriana nestled into her side.
"Can I tell you something too?" Anya whispered.
"Always."
"I was lonely before you," she said. "Even when I didn't realize it. I had friends. Laughter. Good grades. But inside… it was like I was standing in a crowded room with no one to talk to. Then you came in and looked at me like I mattered. And suddenly… I wasn't invisible anymore."
Oriana lifted her head and kissed Anya's cheek. "We found each other."
"And I'm not letting go."
They fell asleep like that—arms around each other, breathing the same quiet air.
Outside, the world continued on.
But inside that room, two hearts rested with no more need to hide.