Chapter 59: The Letter That Knew My Name Before I Spoke It
The letter came the next morning.
I found it in my satchel, slipped carefully between the pages of my literature notebook, as if Oriana knew I would find it only when I was quiet enough to read it with my whole heart.
It was sealed with a tiny green sticker—shaped like a crescent moon.
She knew.
She always knew.
I didn't open it right away.
I pressed it to my chest.
Then waited until I was alone—beneath the mango tree in our backyard where the grass was overgrown and the air smelled of late summer.
Only then did I break the seal.
And begin to read.
Dear Anya,
Last night, while you were brushing your teeth, I sat by my window and watched the candlelight from the lanterns flicker across the canal water. I thought of all the things I wanted to tell you, but didn't. I always seem to need paper more than breath when it comes to love.
So here it is. In ink. In hush.
I have loved you since before I knew it was love. Since the day you leaned over to lend me your pencil in class and didn't ask for it back for three days. Since you laughed while drinking milk tea and spilled pearls down your blouse. Since you brushed my hair from my eyes without needing a reason.
But more than that…
I love the way you love. How gently you carry people. How you remember every small thing. How you listen without interrupting. I don't know how the world gave me you. I only know I'm trying not to waste it.
When we stood by the river and let our wish go, part of me wanted to say: "Don't let this end. Don't let anyone take this away."
But then I remembered: you're not something I'll lose.
You're something I'll choose. Over and over. Even if the years change us. Even if we grow into new shapes.
You'll always be the voice I look for when the world gets too loud.
You, Anya, are my peace.
And if you ever forget that—just read this again.
With everything,
Oriana
I didn't cry.
Not right away.
But I touched the page again and again, like maybe my fingers could press the words into my skin.
That evening, I wrote nothing back.
Instead—I started a project.
In my drawer, beneath old test papers and a box of pastels, I found the notebook I used to sketch in. The pages were still soft, worn at the corners.
I tore one out.
And began to draw her hand.
Just her hand—reaching out, fingers slightly open.
I spent hours getting it right.
The curve of her knuckle.
The way her thumb curled inward.
The tiniest scar on the side from when she fell off her bicycle as a child.
Then beneath it, I wrote in small, careful letters:
The hand that gave me back my name.
Each day after that, I added something new.
One day: the back of her neck, with the way her hair gathered when tied loosely.
Another: the shadow of her lips just before she smiled.
I wasn't drawing beauty.
I was drawing memory.
Moments.
The way she laughed when she forgot to breathe.
The way she stared at the sky like it was whispering something only she could hear.
The way her ribbon trailed behind her when she ran through the schoolyard barefoot after the rain.
I called it The Quietest Museum.
And I planned to show her—when it was time.
Meanwhile, her letters didn't stop.
Some short. Some long.
Sometimes I found one in my locker, other times beneath my lunch napkin.
But each time I opened one, it felt like the first warm breeze after a storm.
One said:
Today I saw a mother brushing her daughter's hair outside their shop. And I thought of you. Because you make me want to be gentle—even when the world isn't.
Another simply said:
Your silence speaks in a language I'm learning to love.
And once, when I had a cold and stayed home from school, I found one in my mailbox:
I missed your cough today.
That one made me laugh through my stuffed nose.
On Friday, after school, Oriana asked if I wanted to walk to the hill past the orchid farm. The sun was low and heavy, and our shadows stretched long across the dirt path.
We didn't speak much on the way.
Just held hands.
At the top of the hill, the world opened wide—green fields, a line of bamboo trees, and the distant silver of the canal glinting in the light.
We sat on the old stone bench, knees touching.
She looked at me and said, "Can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"If I disappeared tomorrow, what would you keep of me?"
I blinked. "Why would you disappear?"
She shook her head gently. "I won't. But… I still want to know."
I thought for a long moment.
Then said:
"I'd keep the way you say my name. No one says it like you do. Like it's not just a word, but a place."
She exhaled softly. "And you?"
"What about me?" I asked.
"If I disappeared, what would you want me to keep of you?"
I didn't hesitate.
"The way you make me brave without asking me to be."
As the sky turned to apricot, we lay down on the grass side by side, our pinkies interlocked.
"I think love is quiet," she said.
"Why?"
"Because loud things fade."
I nodded.
"But quiet things stay."
That night, I slipped a small folded sketch beneath her door.
It was one I'd finished just the day before: her profile, eyes closed, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
On the back, I wrote:
To the girl who walks like a poem and laughs like spring rain—
I love you.