Chapter 31: When the Rain Doesn't Fall
The first storm in weeks was supposed to arrive that Friday. That's what the forecast said. The skies had turned a shade of heavy grey, and the air had a hush to it, like it was holding its breath. But the rain never came.
Anya stood by the classroom window after final period, watching the clouds curl into each other, waiting for the first drop to fall. Students were packing up behind her, the shuffle of bags and notebooks a familiar background noise. But she didn't move.
She wanted the storm to break.
It felt like something in her needed it to.
"Waiting for the world to cry with you?" Oriana's voice came from beside her, low and close.
Anya turned, startled, but smiled faintly. "How do you always know?"
"I don't," Oriana replied. "But you have that look again. The one like you're listening for something no one else can hear."
Anya looked back at the sky. "I thought it would rain."
"So did I."
"Feels like a lie, doesn't it? When the weather promises something and doesn't deliver?"
Oriana smiled gently. "Maybe it changed its mind."
They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, watching a sky that refused to weep.
Later that afternoon, they walked home the long way—past the riverbank, through the narrow alleyways where neighborhood cats slept under parked bicycles and the scent of fried garlic drifted from kitchen windows. Oriana's hand brushed against Anya's every few steps, a rhythm so subtle it didn't need to be spoken aloud.
"I had a dream last night," Oriana said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"You were leaving."
Anya looked at her. "Did I say where I was going?"
"No. Just that you had to. You didn't want to. But you still did."
"That's a sad dream."
Oriana didn't answer.
After a few more steps, Anya asked, "Did I come back?"
"I woke up before I could find out."
Anya's fingers found hers and held on.
"I wouldn't leave without you," she said.
"I know," Oriana whispered. "But the world doesn't always ask what we want."
They reached Anya's house just before dusk.
The jasmine by the gate was blooming, the petals small and white like delicate thoughts. Anya's mother wasn't home yet, and the lights inside were still off, the place wrapped in a warm, quiet stillness.
"Come in," Anya said. "If you want."
Oriana nodded.
Inside, they left their shoes by the door and made their way to Anya's room, where the air was cooler and the curtains were drawn slightly apart to let in the last of the fading light.
Anya lit a single candle on the desk.
Oriana sat on the bed, legs folded under her, watching her move.
"You always feel like something soft," Oriana murmured. "Even when you're quiet. Even when you're not touching me."
"I don't know how to be anything else," Anya replied.
"I hope you never try."
There was a long silence.
Then Anya said, "I'm scared of something."
Oriana sat up straighter. "Tell me."
"It's small," Anya said. "But it feels big in my chest. Like a shadow I can't shake."
Oriana nodded, waiting.
"I keep thinking," Anya continued, "what if this ends? What if something changes and we… stop being this?"
"This?" Oriana echoed.
"You and me."
The words were soft, but they hung heavy in the air.
Oriana got up slowly and crossed the room to where Anya stood. She didn't speak right away. Just took her hands and held them between her own.
"Even if everything around us changes," Oriana said, "I want to be the part that stays."
Anya's throat tightened. "But we're still just two girls. And the world is so loud."
"I know," Oriana whispered. "But I've never been more certain of anything than I am of you."
She leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.
"So if the world tries to take this from us, we'll build it again. Brick by brick. Word by word."
Anya closed her eyes. "Promise?"
"Promise."
They stayed like that for a long time.
No kisses. No tears.
Just breath. Just presence.
Just the shape of a promise passed silently between their skin.
That night, they sat together by the open window. The storm still hadn't come, but the wind had returned—soft and cool, curling around the curtains and brushing the edges of their sleeves.
Anya opened her notebook again.
"I've been writing something," she said. "But I don't know how to end it."
"Can I hear it?"
Anya hesitated, then read aloud:
"She said love is a hallway with no doors,
Just a long stretch of light you walk into,
Not knowing what waits at the end—
But hoping it's a hand,
Reaching back."
Oriana was quiet.
Then she whispered, "Maybe the ending isn't a door."
Anya looked up. "Then what is it?"
"Maybe it's just a window. One that opens. And you climb through, together."
Anya smiled softly. "That sounds like you."
"I hope so."
She lay back on the bed, pulling Anya gently beside her.
"Will you write about me?" she asked after a pause.
"I already have."
"Then will you read it to me one day?"
"Yes," Anya said. "When I'm brave enough."
"You already are."
Anya turned toward her.
"Do you really believe we'll make it?"
Oriana reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. "We already are."
In the morning, the sky was clear again.
No storm. No warning.
Just the quiet calm that comes after something that never arrived.
They walked to school hand in hand through back roads, careful but unafraid. There were still things they couldn't say aloud, still eyes they had to avoid. But in each other, they had carved out a space where none of that could reach.
And maybe, Anya thought, as they stopped at a red light and Oriana squeezed her hand gently—
Maybe that's what love really is.
Not the storm.
But the shelter.