Chapter 15: Something That Waited in the Quiet
It was one of those golden afternoons—late spring softening toward summer—when the air felt like honey and light.
Oriana had just finished arranging the new plants on the windowsill, fingers still smudged with earth, when Anya came in holding something in her hands. A brown envelope, aged and creased at the corners, with no return address.
"It was in the mail," Anya said, puzzled. "No stamp. Just your name. Handwritten."
Oriana dried her hands on a tea towel, eyebrows knitting. "My name?"
She took the envelope carefully. Her name was scrawled across the front in an ink she hadn't seen in years—tilted slightly, like it always had been, rushed but full of intention.
She opened it slowly, heart kicking against her ribs.
Inside was a letter.
And a photograph.
The photograph was old. She could tell by the paper, the way it bent when she touched it. It showed two girls on a rooftop, barefoot, faces turned toward each other, laughing like the wind knew their secrets.
Her and Mira.
Anya saw her reaction before she said a word.
"Who is it?" she asked gently.
Oriana didn't answer right away.
She sat down at the table, holding the letter like it might dissolve if she gripped it too tightly.
"She was my best friend. In high school. Before everything. Before here."
"Was?"
"We... stopped speaking. I left. She didn't follow."
Anya didn't push.
She simply waited.
So Oriana began to read.
Ori,
I don't know if this will reach you. I don't know if you'll want to read it. But I saw your name on an art show poster a few months ago—just your initials, but I knew.
You always signed things like that, remember? O.R.K. Like you were keeping something sacred close to your skin.
I've thought about you every spring. Every time the cherry trees bloom. Every time I pass our old shortcut or hear someone play that record we loved and never admitted to.
I'm sorry for everything I never said. I'm sorry I let you leave without chasing you. I was scared of how much I needed you. Still am.
I hope you're happy. I hope you found someone who sees you the way I did—in all your light and all your storm.
If you ever want to find me... you know where we used to meet, on the roof. Tuesdays, always after 4. I still go sometimes. Just in case.
Mira
Oriana read it twice before lowering the paper.
Silence hung between her and Anya like a thread waiting to snap.
"She meant a lot to you," Anya said softly.
Oriana nodded. "We were each other's secret world."
"And now?"
"I don't know," Oriana whispered. "It's strange. I haven't thought about her in months. Years, even. But this letter—her words feel like something unfinished inside me just stood up again."
Anya reached across the table and took her hand. Her thumb brushed over Oriana's knuckles gently.
"You can go," she said.
Oriana looked up. "What?"
"If you need to see her. To say goodbye. Or something else. I won't stop you."
A pause.
Then, very quietly, Anya added, "I want all of you, Oriana. But I don't want you to leave any part of yourself unloved. Even the old ones. Even the ones that hurt."
Oriana stared at her.
Moved. Humbled.
Then she leaned over and kissed her.
Not with hesitation.
With devotion.
"You're not afraid I'll go back to her?" Oriana asked.
Anya smiled, though her eyes were wet.
"No," she said. "Because I know who you come home to now."
The rooftop hadn't changed.
Same uneven bricks. Same rusted railing. Same crack near the drain where they'd once hidden love notes folded like origami cranes.
Oriana climbed the steps with her hands curled into fists in her coat pockets. She didn't know what she was hoping for.
Closure?
Redemption?
Forgiveness?
Maybe all of it.
She reached the top.
And there Mira was.
Sitting cross-legged, hair tied back, a book open in her lap, her face turned toward the sky like it was trying to tell her something.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps.
And smiled.
"Hey."
Oriana froze.
That voice.
That smile.
Familiar, and yet impossibly far.
"Hey," Oriana echoed.
Mira stood, brushing dust from her jeans.
"I wasn't sure if you'd come," she said.
"I wasn't sure either," Oriana replied.
They stood in silence for a long moment.
Then Mira said, "You still tilt your head when you're nervous."
Oriana laughed, short and quiet. "You still observe like it's breathing."
"I missed you."
"I missed what we had."
Mira's smile faltered just a little. "But not me?"
"I don't know," Oriana said honestly. "I think I missed the girl I was when I was with you."
Mira nodded.
"I missed her too."
They talked for nearly an hour.
About what they'd done.
Where they'd been.
The art. The people. The old teachers. The one time they almost ran away and didn't.
There were no accusations.
Only honesty.
Only two people trying to hold something delicate without crushing it.
"I loved you," Mira said, her voice barely more than breath.
Oriana didn't flinch.
"I know," she said. "And I loved you too. But we were afraid. And we never said it when it mattered."
Mira nodded. "And now?"
"I'm not afraid anymore," Oriana said. "But I'm not yours anymore, either."
There was a pause.
Mira nodded.
Eyes wet.
But smiling.
"Then I'm glad I knew you," she said.
Oriana stepped forward and hugged her.
Not tightly.
Not for long.
Just enough to feel like something old had closed gently.
Not with a slam.
With a sigh.
When Oriana returned home, the sun had slipped behind the trees.
The house was quiet.
Warm.
Full of something still and beautiful.
She stepped into the kitchen and found Anya painting by the window, brush in one hand, tea in the other, her hair a little messy, her eyes calm when she looked up.
"You're back," she said.
"I always come back," Oriana whispered.
Anya stood and crossed the room without a word.
She kissed her.
Long and soft and deep.
Then pressed her forehead to Oriana's and whispered, "Did you find what you needed?"
Oriana nodded. "Yes. And I left what I didn't."
Anya smiled. "Then let's go to bed."
That night, wrapped in each other's arms, Oriana whispered:
"Thank you for trusting me."
Anya kissed her neck and said, "Thank you for choosing me."
They fell asleep like that.
Not holding tight from fear.
Just resting against a future they now knew how to protect.
Because some things bloom twice.
Some things come full circle.
But the love they had—
it was the kind that kept walking forward.
With hand in hand.
With soft hellos after harder goodbyes.
With seasons that never stopped loving the sun.