Chapter 9: The Day the Sky Looked Like Us
They didn't make big plans.
No trip. No fancy celebration. No dramatic declaration of Oriana's return.
Instead, they bought a bag of oranges from the woman at the corner market who always gave Anya an extra one "for luck," and they walked to the lake.
It was cloudy. The kind of gray that could've turned to rain, or cleared suddenly into sun. The sky hadn't made up its mind yet.
"It looks like us," Oriana said, holding the oranges like a small sun in her arms.
Anya smiled. "Uncertain?"
"Changeable."
"But still beautiful," Anya added, nudging her gently.
They found the same bench as always. The one with the chipped paint and initials carved into the wood. A bird watched them from the branches above, head tilted.
Oriana peeled the first orange slowly. She handed Anya a piece, then popped one into her own mouth.
It was sweet.
Sharp.
And perfect.
They talked about little things.
About how Anya had almost adopted a cat, but it ran away before she could name it. About the way Oriana's host mother in Kyoto made tea from roasted rice and laughed like thunder. About how everything had felt too loud the first week apart, and too quiet the second.
"You always talked to me in your head," Anya said, biting into another slice.
"Even in my sleep," Oriana said. "Sometimes I'd wake up thinking I'd heard you."
Anya leaned back, watching the clouds. "What did I say?"
Oriana paused. "You asked me if birds feel lonely when they fly alone."
Anya laughed. "That sounds like me."
"I didn't answer. I just woke up and cried a little."
She didn't say it with sadness.
Just truth.
And Anya reached over and held her pinky, their fingers barely touching.
"I think birds know they'll find someone in the sky again," she whispered.
Later, they walked along the water's edge.
Oriana slipped off her shoes and stepped into the cool shallows, jeans rolled halfway to her knees.
"Come in," she said, holding out a hand.
Anya hesitated. "It's cold."
"Only at first."
Anya stepped in beside her.
And for a while, they said nothing—just watched the water ripple around their ankles, watched the sky shift, watched a boy chase his dog across the sand.
Then Oriana asked:
"Do you ever feel like we're living inside something too good?"
Anya turned to her. "What do you mean?"
"Like we're in the quiet before something breaks. And part of me's always listening for the sound."
Anya was silent for a long moment.
Then she said, "I used to live like that all the time. Waiting for the storm. Preparing myself to lose something I loved before I even had the chance to love it fully."
Oriana looked down at her feet beneath the water. "And now?"
Anya reached out and touched Oriana's face.
"Now I'm not afraid of the storm," she said. "I'm afraid of not loving you enough before it comes."
That evening, they dried off in the sun and shared the last orange.
They walked slowly back to the house, arms brushing.
Halfway there, Oriana stopped.
"I got a message," she said quietly.
Anya turned. "From who?"
"The program director."
Anya's stomach tightened—not from jealousy, but from the echo of something she hadn't prepared for.
Oriana continued, "They asked me to apply for the spring semester. A mentorship. One-on-one. Paid."
She didn't say more.
She didn't have to.
Anya nodded slowly. "What did you say?"
"I haven't replied yet."
"Do you want to go?"
Oriana didn't answer.
She looked at the sky instead.
And Anya looked too.
It had turned the color of bruised lilac. The kind of color that only stayed for a few minutes before it became night.
"I don't want to leave you," Oriana whispered.
"But you want to grow," Anya said.
"Yes."
Anya touched her hand. "Then I'll help you pack. If it's what you choose."
Oriana closed her eyes.
And tears slid silently down her cheeks—not from fear, not from sadness, but from love that had grown enough to make room for goodbye again.
Even if it wasn't certain.
Even if it wasn't now.
That night, Anya wrote a letter.
But she didn't give it to Oriana.
She folded it and hid it in a drawer beside the old sketches. A letter meant for some future day, some distant hour.
It said:
If you leave again, I won't chase you.
I'll light the window.
I'll leave the tea warm.
And I'll wait—
Not because I need you to return to complete me.
But because the love I have for you is whole.
Even in absence.
Even in change.
Even in flight.
And downstairs, Oriana lay on Anya's couch, curled in a sweater that wasn't hers, thinking about birds, and skies, and the way some seasons returned without being asked.
She smiled.
Because this—
this love—
had not broken.
It had stretched.
And held.
And found its shape in the soft, brave way they still reached for each other,
even
when the wind
whispered
go.