Chapter 49: Beneath the Lantern Sky
The school courtyard glowed differently that evening.
Strings of lights arched from tree to tree, draping the branches like warm stars. Paper lanterns swayed above us, each one hand-painted by students — some with dragons, some with blossoms, some with nothing but shades of light and longing. The school festival had arrived, softening the air with food stalls, music, and laughter that echoed like memories waiting to be made.
Oriana found me by the music building just as the last colors of daylight melted from the sky. She was wearing a pale blue blouse with flower buttons and a long indigo skirt. Her hair was half up, pinned with a small white flower I instantly recognized — frangipani.
I smiled, speechless for a second.
She noticed.
"What?" she asked, her voice already teasing.
"You look like something pulled from a poem."
She rolled her eyes, but she blushed too.
"And you," she said, tugging gently at the corner of my sleeve, "look like you belong in my night sky."
We walked side by side through the festival, our shoulders brushing now and then, but our hands never quite touching. Not yet. Not here.
There was music playing from the center stage — soft instrumental melodies drifting from violins and flutes, blending with the distant laughter of children trying to win prizes at the game booths. The scent of grilled pork skewers, sweet coconut pancakes, and fried bananas filled the air.
We stopped at a stall where someone was writing names in calligraphy on red silk fans. Oriana leaned close and whispered, "If you get one, you have to promise to write mine into the folds."
"I was already thinking that."
Her smile widened.
We chose a fan together — pale gold with soft green vines painted at the edge. I watched as the artist brushed my name carefully onto the center with elegant black strokes. When he asked if I wanted to add another name, I nodded and spelled it out softly.
O-R-I-A-N-A.
The brush paused for a moment before continuing.
When it was done, he handed it to me with a knowing look. Not judgment. Not curiosity. Just quiet understanding.
I held it tightly.
Like a promise I could finally hold in daylight.
We wandered until we found the lantern station near the edge of the field, where students were decorating floating lanterns to send into the air later that evening. Oriana picked one with a soft pink base and handed me a brush.
"Let's write something," she said. "Not our names. Something secret. Something only we'll understand."
We knelt beside the low table and began to paint — not with letters, but with shapes and colors. I drew a sky of stars. She painted a girl with open hands and a crown made of rain. Between them, we painted a tiny house built from threads of light.
When it was finished, she turned to me.
"It's us," she said. "You see it?"
"I do," I whispered.
"Then let it rise."
The lantern release began just as the music shifted into a softer tempo. Hundreds of students stood together across the field, lanterns in hand, their paper sides glowing with candlelight. Teachers counted down from the front of the stage, their voices amplified but gentle.
"Three…"
Oriana found my hand.
"Two…"
Our fingers laced tightly.
"One."
And then —
They rose.
One by one, the lanterns floated into the night, spinning softly as they climbed into the sky. Pink, gold, blue, and white — a drifting sea of stars we had made ourselves.
Ours lifted among them, and we watched it go with wide eyes and full hearts.
"It's flying like it knows we wrote something sacred inside," she said.
"Because we did."
We stood in silence as the lanterns drifted higher, smaller, until they were only glowing specks against the velvet dark. Around us, the world seemed to slow. The lights, the laughter, the music — all of it felt distant, like a story happening somewhere else.
Only she was close.
Only her warmth remained.
She turned to face me, her eyes reflecting the lanterns above.
"We're being watched," she said.
I knew what she meant — not just by classmates or teachers. But by the moment. By the way time holds its breath when something beautiful dares to happen in the open.
"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" I asked.
She nodded.
We found ourselves beneath the frangipani trees near the back fence, where no one else stood, where the lantern glow still reached but didn't shine too bright. The petals had started to fall again, drifting slowly through the air like snow made of memory.
She turned toward me fully now, lifting a hand to touch the side of my face.
"I didn't know I could feel this much," she said.
"Me either."
"I used to think love would be something loud. Something huge. Like fireworks or thunder."
"And now?"
"It's this." Her fingers slid through mine. "This quiet. This holding. This choosing."
I leaned in.
She met me halfway.
Our kiss wasn't long.
It didn't need to be.
It was soft.
Sacred.
Like the sky kissing the top of a mountain before morning.
When we pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
"I love you," she said. Not like a question. Not like a confession. But like a truth she had always known.
"I love you," I replied. "In every version of the story."
She smiled.
And for the first time in all the days we'd been walking this path — hiding, worrying, hoping — she didn't look away.
We returned to the festival hand-in-hand.
And this time, we didn't let go.
Some people stared. Some looked away. One or two smiled — not mockingly, but as if they remembered what it felt like to hold someone you couldn't stop choosing.
We passed a group of classmates near the bean bag corner. They went quiet as we approached. But Oriana raised her chin and kept walking.
So I did too.
And the world didn't end.
Later, we sat under the tamarind tree with two cups of Thai milk tea, our legs stretched out, our hands still linked.
"They'll talk tomorrow," I said.
"Let them."
"They'll ask questions."
"We'll answer with how we walk."
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
And we both knew: this wasn't about proving anything. It was about existing—gently, honestly, unapologetically. About showing that love, even in its quietest form, had the power to outshine every whisper.
As the festival wound down, Oriana turned to me one last time and whispered:
"Promise me this — if the world ever tries to quiet us again…"
I nodded. "We'll sing softer. But we won't stop singing."
And in that moment, I knew—
The lantern sky would remember us.
Even if no one else did.