Chapter 49: The Morning the Sun Forgot to Rise
The first thing Anya felt was warmth.
Not sunlight.
Not the sleepy kiss of morning air.
But something gentler. More human.
It was the quiet weight of Oriana's arm draped across her waist, the slow rise and fall of her breath brushing the back of Anya's neck. The blanket they had shared had slipped partway down during the night, tangled around their legs like the remnants of a dream too soft to fully remember.
For a moment, Anya didn't move.
Not because she couldn't.
But because there was nowhere she'd rather be.
Oriana's presence at her back was like a whisper made of skin—familiar, grounding, so heartbreakingly real that Anya was afraid if she shifted even slightly, the spell would break.
But Oriana moved first.
She stirred gently, her hand curling slightly at Anya's stomach. Her lips brushed the slope of Anya's shoulder like a thought that hadn't found words yet.
"You're awake," Oriana murmured, voice rasped and warm from sleep.
Anya smiled without turning. "I've been pretending not to be. Just to see how long you'd hold me."
Oriana's fingers tightened slightly. "Forever, if you let me."
The world beyond the curtained windows remained muted. Not dark, exactly—just soft. As if the sun had risen not in the sky but inside this room.
Anya finally turned to face her.
Oriana's hair was a little messy, her eyes not quite open, but her smile… her smile was the kind that made everything else fall away. She looked at Anya the way people look at their favorite season returning after a long, bitter winter.
Anya reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Oriana's ear. "You sleep beautifully."
"That's because you were next to me."
A soft laugh, barely a breath.
Then silence again, not uncomfortable—just full of everything they didn't need to say out loud.
Oriana looked at her for a long time before she spoke again. "You looked peaceful, you know. In your sleep."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Like someone who finally stopped running."
Anya hesitated, searching Oriana's face. "Do you really think I've stopped?"
"I think your feet are tired," Oriana said gently. "And your heart found a place to rest."
Anya blinked once. Twice. Her eyes felt full without tears. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That I'll mess this up. That I'll fall too deep. That I'll need you more than I should."
Oriana didn't answer right away. She reached forward instead, brushing her knuckles across Anya's cheek, then let her hand stay there.
"Then fall," she whispered. "If it's with me, fall."
And just like that, something gave way inside Anya—not like a wall collapsing, but like a door opening. Quietly. Unlocked from the inside.
They stayed in bed a while longer, tangled in soft limbs and even softer words. Oriana got up only to fetch breakfast—fruit, yogurt, and toast with the corners cut off, just the way Anya liked. She brought it back on a small tray, and they ate cross-legged on the floor again, music playing low from her phone.
Between bites, they shared old stories.
Oriana spoke of a childhood spent in garden shadows, of sneaking mangoes from a neighbor's tree and watching the moon rise through a crack in the roof tiles. Her voice was slow, nostalgic, like she was painting memory with her words.
Anya, in return, told her about the time she ran away from home for an entire day, only to come back at night just to see if anyone noticed. "No one did," she said, but there was no bitterness in her tone—only a soft ache that had dulled with time.
"They see you now," Oriana whispered.
"You do," Anya said. "That's enough."
Later, they sat on the small balcony outside Oriana's room. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind beads of water like scattered jewels on the railing and potted plants.
Oriana rested her chin on her knees. "Do you believe," she asked, "that people can become seasons in your life?"
Anya looked at her. "Seasons?"
"Yeah. Like… they arrive, they change everything, and then they go. Some leave you with sunshine. Others leave storms. But they always leave something."
Anya thought about that. "And what about you?" she asked. "What kind of season are you in my life?"
Oriana's lips curved into something shy. "Maybe I'm spring."
"No," Anya said, leaning closer. "You're not spring."
Oriana raised a brow. "No?"
"You're the season I never knew existed," Anya whispered. "Something between late autumn and early summer. The one that doesn't fit into names."
Oriana reached for her hand again. "Then what are you?"
"I don't know," Anya said. "But when I'm with you, I stop needing to define myself."
The wind brushed lightly past them. Down below, the street was coming to life—vendors opening stalls, a child's laugh echoing off stone, the world returning to its rhythm.
But in Oriana's apartment, time moved differently. Slower. Deeper.
Like each second was being written in ink, not pencil.
"I want this to last," Anya said suddenly.
Oriana turned to her. "It can."
"Even after the perfect mornings fade? Even when we get busy or tired or scared again?"
Oriana nodded. "Especially then."
And Anya believed her.
Not because she had to. But because there was something in Oriana's voice—quiet but certain—that made belief easy.
They stayed out on the balcony until the wind got too cool. When they went back inside, Oriana wrapped a soft cardigan around Anya's shoulders and made more tea. The second cup always tasted better. Maybe because it came with trust.
As the afternoon drew near, Anya knew she had to leave soon. Responsibilities waited. The world outside Oriana's arms had started calling again.
But when she stood at the doorway, shoes back on, hair tied loosely behind her, she turned to Oriana and hesitated.
"I don't want to walk away from this like it's temporary," she said.
"It's not," Oriana told her. "This isn't a visit. It's the beginning."
"Then promise me," Anya whispered. "That you won't stop choosing me when it's hard."
"I promise," Oriana said. "But you have to promise too."
Anya nodded. "I do."
They kissed again—not with urgency, but with something else. A vow, maybe. A memory being made in real time.
When Anya finally walked down the steps and into the street, she turned back once.
Oriana was still at the door, watching her go, wrapped in that soft cardigan, her hand lifted in a small wave that said:
I'll still be here.
Anya walked away smiling.
And though the sun still hadn't fully shown itself, the world felt brighter anyway.