Chapter 40: A Small Distance in the Rain
The rain came unexpectedly that afternoon—first a whisper against the windows, then a slow weeping, then the steady rhythm of a sky remembering how to cry.
Anya stood by the glass, her fingers tracing faint lines in the condensation, her thoughts as scattered as the droplets racing each other down the pane.
Behind her, Oriana moved about the kitchen, quieter than usual. There was no music playing, no laughter echoing between the walls. Just the gentle clink of ceramic and the scent of warm ginger soup curling in the air.
Something hung in the silence between them.
Not anger.
Not coldness.
But distance.
Anya didn't know when it started—maybe it was yesterday, or the day before that, or somewhere between a kiss that felt a little too brief and a smile that didn't quite reach the eyes.
She turned. "Do you want help?"
Oriana shook her head, not looking up. "It's fine."
Anya nodded, unsure what to do with her hands.
Unsure what to do with her heart.
They sat down to eat, and the silence continued—polite, fragile, like a paper lantern caught in a storm. Anya tried to speak once, twice, but the words felt like stones in her throat.
Finally, she put down her spoon.
"Ori," she said softly. "Are we… okay?"
Oriana didn't answer right away. She stirred her soup, then set the spoon down and folded her hands.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "I think I'm tired."
"Tired?" Anya echoed, surprised by the ache that bloomed in her chest.
"Not of you," Oriana said quickly, eyes wide. "Never you. Just… everything. The past. The weight of things I never dealt with properly. I thought being happy meant those parts would disappear, but they didn't. They just… went quiet. And now they're loud again."
Anya reached out across the table. Oriana hesitated, then took her hand.
"You can tell me everything," Anya whispered. "Even the things that don't make sense."
Oriana's eyes softened. "I know. That's what makes it harder. You're so good, Anya. You make it look so easy to love me."
"It's not always easy," Anya admitted. "But it's always worth it."
Oriana lowered her gaze. "Sometimes I feel like I'm not enough. That one day you'll look at me and see all the cracks."
"I already see them," Anya said. "And I still choose you. Every single day."
A silence passed between them—deeper now, more honest.
"I think I just… need a little space tonight," Oriana said gently. "Not away from you. Just… inside myself."
Anya nodded slowly, even though her heart winced. "Okay."
"I don't want you to think it's something you did."
"I don't," Anya whispered. "I just want you to be okay."
That evening, Anya went home early.
She didn't cry, not right away.
Instead, she sat by her window, watching the rain blur the lights of the street, and thought about how sometimes, even in love, people retreat into themselves—not because they want to run away, but because they're still learning how to let someone stay.
She thought of Oriana's trembling voice, of the way her fingers hesitated before reaching out.
She thought of how love is not always loud.
Sometimes, it is quiet endurance.
Patience in the face of uncertainty.
Anya picked up her journal and began to write, the way she always did when words pressed too tightly inside her.
Tonight, I loved her in silence.
I loved her in letting go.
I loved her without needing a reply.
She closed the book and curled beneath her blanket, the weight of the evening pressing gently against her chest.
The next morning came grey and soft.
A single text appeared on her phone.
Oriana: Are you free today? I'd like to see you.
Anya's heart stirred, not with relief, but with something steadier—hope woven with understanding.
She replied: Always.
When she arrived at Oriana's apartment, the door opened before she could knock.
Oriana stood there in her soft sweater, her eyes red-rimmed but calm. "Hi."
"Hi."
There was a pause.
Then Oriana stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Anya tightly—like she'd been holding her breath all night and finally remembered how to exhale.
"I'm sorry," Oriana whispered into her hair. "I didn't know how to explain the ache. I just needed to sit in the dark for a while to remember why I was reaching for the light."
Anya held her close. "I'm here. I never left."
They sat on the couch, side by side, no barrier between them now. Oriana took a deep breath.
"When I asked for space," she said, "it wasn't because I wanted to be alone. It was because I didn't know how to let someone love the parts of me I don't understand."
"You don't have to understand them right away," Anya said. "You just have to let me stay when they visit."
Oriana looked at her then, something unspoken passing between them—something sacred.
"Sometimes I still hear my mother's voice," Oriana whispered. "Telling me not to cry. Not to trust. Not to be too soft."
"And sometimes," Anya replied gently, "you'll hear mine instead. Telling you it's okay to feel. To lean. To rest."
Oriana exhaled. "Can we be quiet together today? Just exist in the same space?"
Anya smiled. "Nothing would make me happier."
And so they did.
They lay on the couch, Oriana's head on Anya's chest, fingers lightly drawing patterns against each other's skin. Outside, the rain returned, tapping gently against the windows like a song with no words.
There were no grand declarations that day.
No fireworks.
Only the sound of two hearts learning how to hold each other, even in the pauses.
Because love was not only kisses in the sun.
It was also hands reaching in the dark.
It was the softest "I'm still here."
And that—Anya realized—was the most beautiful sound of all.