Chapter 29: The Shape of Her Laughter
The first thing Anya noticed when she woke was the light.
It spilled through Oriana's bedroom window in long golden strips, soft and filtered by the thin cream curtains. It touched the wooden floor, the desk with its open sketchbook, and the edge of the bed where Anya lay—half-buried beneath a blanket, her hand still tucked gently into Oriana's.
The second thing she noticed was that Oriana was already awake, watching her.
"You stare too much," Anya whispered sleepily, voice caught between dreams and breath.
"You don't complain when I'm kissing you," Oriana replied, grinning.
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because then I forget to notice anything else."
Oriana's grin softened into something warm and full. She leaned in and kissed Anya's temple, slow and careful, like she was still unsure if this was real.
"You stayed," she murmured.
"I didn't want to leave," Anya said. "I still don't."
Outside, birdsong threaded through the air, light and melodic. Someone down the street was watering plants. The world was waking up, but Anya wasn't ready to rejoin it yet.
Neither was Oriana.
"Let's skip school today," she said suddenly.
Anya blinked. "We can't."
"We can," Oriana insisted. "Just this once. Just you and me. A day with no uniforms. No bells. No hiding."
Anya hesitated. Then she smiled. "Okay."
They got dressed slowly, in oversized shirts and soft shorts and mismatched socks. Oriana pulled her hair into a messy bun while Anya found an old hoodie to bury her hands inside.
Breakfast was fruit and warm tea on the balcony. They sat cross-legged on a mat, sharing slices of mango and laughing over how Anya kept accidentally getting tea leaves stuck in her teeth.
"This is my favorite kind of morning," Oriana said, biting into a piece of guava. "No noise. No rush. Just you."
Anya picked up a seed and flicked it toward the yard. "You say things like that so easily."
"They're easy because they're true."
Anya lowered her gaze. "I'm still not used to being loved like this."
"You don't have to be," Oriana replied. "You just have to let it happen."
And so, Anya did.
By late morning, they were walking hand-in-hand through a quiet path behind the old temple grounds—a place Oriana said she'd come to as a child when she needed to think.
The air smelled of incense and earth, of fallen leaves and distant prayers.
They passed under rows of Bodhi trees, the wind stirring the heart-shaped leaves so they danced above their heads.
"Do you ever think about forever?" Oriana asked suddenly.
Anya turned to her. "Like… what happens after school?"
"Yeah. Or what happens when we're not just girls anymore. When we're women. When we're different."
Anya was quiet a long time before she answered.
"I think about it all the time," she said. "I think about you in a white dress. I think about me watching you from the crowd. I think about missing you if we ever drift apart."
"We won't," Oriana said immediately, tightening her grip on Anya's fingers.
"You can't promise that."
"I can," Oriana said, softer now. "Not because I know the future, but because I know what I want."
Anya stopped walking.
"I want it too," she said. "You. Us. Whatever this becomes."
There was a bench near the corner of the stone wall, half-covered in moss and sunlight. They sat there together, knees touching, the kind of closeness that didn't ask for permission anymore.
"I've never said 'I love you' to anyone before," Anya admitted.
Oriana smiled. "Then don't say it until you mean it."
"I think I already do."
"But you're scared."
"Yes."
"That's okay," Oriana said. "You don't have to say it. Just show me."
And Anya did.
She kissed Oriana like it was the only language she had left. Like the wind had stolen all her words and only her lips could speak now.
It was a kiss that didn't end in breathlessness or desperation.
It ended in understanding.
And laughter.
When they broke apart, Oriana leaned her forehead against Anya's and laughed—light, pure, full of color.
Anya smiled in surprise. "What's funny?"
"You," Oriana said, eyes sparkling. "You look like you just solved a riddle."
"Maybe I did," Anya said. "Maybe you're the answer."
They spent the afternoon in a world that felt separate from everything else.
They made paper boats and floated them down the temple's small stream.
They took turns drawing each other's faces in the dust with twigs, then laughing when the wind ruined them.
They made up names for clouds and told each other imaginary stories about what their lives might look like in another lifetime—if they were flowers, or foxes, or forgotten ghosts.
"If I were a ghost," Anya said, "I'd live in the library."
Oriana smirked. "And haunt girls who drop their pens?"
"Only the pretty ones."
Oriana rolled her eyes but blushed.
"If I were a ghost," she replied, "I'd follow you around and make sure you never felt alone."
Anya looked at her, deeply, and something flickered behind her ribs.
"I think you already do that."
As the sun began to sink, casting a golden veil across the earth, Oriana pulled Anya into the grass under a tamarind tree and laid beside her.
They watched the sky change colors together—pink to rose to a deep, heavy blue.
"What are you thinking about?" Oriana asked.
Anya hesitated. Then answered honestly.
"How easy it is to be myself with you."
Oriana turned her head. "You make it easy for me too."
"I used to think love had to be loud," Anya whispered. "Dramatic. Like in movies. But this—"
"This is better," Oriana finished.
They lay in the grass until the stars came out. Then they sat up, brushing leaves from each other's hair, laughing when Oriana found a ladybug on Anya's sleeve and declared it their "tiny red blessing."
As they walked back through the empty streets, Anya felt something shift inside her. Not like falling. More like landing.
More like home.
They arrived back at Oriana's just as the streetlights blinked on. A warm hush filled the air, and Anya didn't want to let go of her hand.
They stood outside the gate.
No one said goodbye.
No one moved.
"I don't want this day to end," Anya said.
"Then stay."
"Again?"
"Yes," Oriana said. "Until the world stops feeling so big."
Anya stepped closer, arms wrapping around her. "And when it does?"
"Then we'll make it small again. Together."
And so, Anya stayed.
Inside Oriana's room, wrapped in soft lamplight and quiet laughter, they lay beneath a shared blanket, two shadows curled into each other.
Before sleep took them, Anya whispered, "I think I know what your laughter looks like now."
Oriana, half-asleep, murmured, "What?"
"It looks like light touching water."
And with that, the world disappeared.
Leaving only love.
And breath.
And the soft sound of the stars, blinking above two girls who had finally learned how to be held.