Chapter 41: Where the Breeze Held Her Name
The scent of lemongrass floated through the late afternoon air as I leaned against the railing outside the music room, the warm wind teasing the edge of my sleeve. The sky was soft with the glow of golden hour, the sun lowering behind the hills in a slow, tender descent. Every sound around me — the distant laughter of students, the low rustle of palm fronds — seemed muffled by the memory of her voice.
Oriana.
It had been only minutes since she left rehearsal, but the space she occupied felt vast now. I could still see the last flicker of her smile in my mind. The curve of her lips when she turned to say goodbye. The quiet mischief in her eyes that always lingered longer than it should.
I closed my eyes. Sometimes, it felt like I loved her in silence even when she was right in front of me.
"You're quiet today," a voice said gently beside me.
I opened my eyes to find Nana, her long black hair pulled into a loose braid. She offered me a water bottle and leaned on the railing next to me.
"I'm just thinking," I said, accepting the bottle with a small smile.
"Thinking about her?"
I looked away, slightly embarrassed, but nodded. "She laughs like it's the only thing keeping the world from breaking."
Nana smiled softly. "Then maybe it is."
We stood in silence for a moment. The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of rain even though the sky remained clear.
"Do you think she knows?" Nana asked, not unkindly. "How much she means to you?"
"I don't know," I whispered. "Sometimes it feels like she sees through me. Other times… like I'm just one of the many people in her orbit."
"She always looks at you differently. I've seen it," Nana replied, her voice gentle. "Like you're not just part of the world — like you are the world."
I felt heat rise in my chest. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that the moments between us were real — not imagined, not borrowed from dreams.
"Then why does she feel so far sometimes?"
"Maybe she's afraid," Nana said. "Afraid of what it means to care that much."
Later that evening, I wandered past the pond near the back of the school grounds, where the lotus flowers were beginning to close for the night. The air had grown cooler. I sat on a low stone bench and pulled out my journal — the one where I only ever wrote about her.
I let the pen move on its own.
Her laugh is not a sound, but a breeze that moves through me, untangling every knot I thought I had to live with.
Sometimes, when she stands in the sun, I think the light bends around her, not because she's trying, but because it knows she deserves it.
And I… I don't know how to tell her that the world feels less real without her in it.
As the sun melted into twilight, I felt a presence behind me. I didn't have to turn to know it was her.
"You always find the quietest places," Oriana said.
I turned, heart stuttering.
She was wearing a simple white blouse, the collar loose, her sleeves rolled slightly as though she'd rushed to get here. Her eyes met mine, and something soft passed between us. Like the moment before a monsoon—charged, waiting.
"I like the quiet," I said, closing my journal carefully.
She walked closer, her shoes barely making a sound on the stone path.
"Can I sit?" she asked.
I nodded, sliding to the side of the bench. She sat beside me, just close enough for our shoulders to brush if either of us moved the tiniest bit.
We didn't speak for a long time. We just watched the water, the slow drift of ripples under the moon's growing reflection.
"I heard you humming earlier," she finally said. "You were near the staircase."
I smiled shyly. "Old habit. Music helps me think."
"I liked it," she said quietly. "It made me stop walking. Like… like the sound had something to say to me."
My breath caught.
"I always hope it reaches someone," I said.
"It reached me," she said. "It always does."
Her words wrapped around me like silk. The hush between us turned into something warmer.
She turned her head slightly, eyes focused on the pond, but her voice dropped. "Do you remember that first time we talked? Really talked?"
"Under the banyan tree," I said.
"You were sketching something in your notebook, and I asked if it was a bird."
"And I said it was a mistake that turned into one."
She laughed softly. "I thought that was the most poetic thing I'd ever heard."
"I didn't mean to be poetic," I said, looking at her.
She finally turned her face toward me. Her eyes were glassy with the reflection of the stars.
"I think… you don't realize how much of yourself ends up in the things you do."
"I think I'm scared of showing too much," I admitted.
"Why?"
"Because what if someone sees everything, and walks away anyway?"
She was silent.
Then she whispered, "Then they were never meant to stay."
The breeze moved through the trees, swaying the branches gently above our heads. Fireflies had begun to gather along the edge of the pond, their light blinking like soft laughter between the reeds.
Oriana leaned back, her hand brushing the space between us.
"I'm not walking away," she said. "Not from you."
My heart stilled.
"I don't want to be just a chapter in your story, Anya," she continued. "I want to be the part you don't skip. The part you reread when the nights get too long."
I didn't know how to breathe.
So I did the only thing that felt real. I reached out and gently took her hand.
Her fingers closed around mine instantly, warm, steady.
"You're not a chapter," I whispered. "You're the ink."
She blinked, and I saw tears gather at the edge of her lashes. But she smiled.
Then she leaned in — not rushed, not hesitant. Just real. The kind of closeness that only comes after countless almosts.
Our foreheads touched. My eyes closed. Her breath was a tremble against my lips.
When she kissed me, it was soft, like a petal brushing against the skin of a heart that had waited too long. She tasted like sunlight, like jasmine and unsaid words.
And I kissed her back like she was the only line I had ever needed to write.
Later, we lay side by side on the bench, hands still linked, heads tilted toward the stars. The moon had risen higher, casting silver light across her cheek. Her hair spilled behind her like a story being written in real time.
"I used to be afraid of needing someone," she said.
"And now?"
She looked at me. "Now I think needing you feels like breathing. Terrifying only if I imagine stopping."
I rested my head against her shoulder.
We didn't say another word that night.
We didn't need to.
The world had shifted — not dramatically, not loudly. Just enough to make room for a love that had always been waiting to bloom between us.
And when she laughed softly under the moonlight, I knew:
It was mine.
Always had been.
Always would be.