Chapter 27: A Place the World Can't Follow
Saturday mornings used to be quiet.
Anya would wake slowly, the scent of jasmine from the neighbor's window drifting in through the cracks in her curtain. She'd sip warm tea from her favorite chipped mug, the one with the hand-painted koi fish, and write in her notebook with the hum of the fan as background music.
But this morning, everything was different.
Because Oriana was coming.
And she wasn't just coming over.
She was coming into Anya's space—her private little world of silence and softness and solitary patterns.
It was terrifying.
And thrilling.
Anya had changed her shirt three times, pulled her hair up then let it fall again, finally deciding on nothing in particular. She wasn't trying to impress Oriana.
She just wanted to feel… seen. But without trying too hard to be.
When the doorbell rang at exactly 9:02 a.m., her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.
She opened the door to find Oriana standing there in an oversized white shirt with loose sleeves, her hair half-tied with a pale pink ribbon. In her hands: a box of mango sticky rice, warm and fragrant.
"For your mom," Oriana said with a grin. "But mostly for you."
Anya smiled and stepped aside. "She's out at the market."
"Then I guess we get to eat both portions."
Inside, the house was as quiet as a pond at dawn. Anya watched as Oriana removed her shoes neatly and glanced around with quiet reverence, as if she understood the sacred hush of the place.
"This is exactly how I imagined it," Oriana whispered, trailing a finger along a shelf of worn books. "Your world. It feels like breathing."
They sat on the floor beside the low coffee table, eating mango sticky rice with little wooden spoons and giggling when the coconut cream dribbled too much on one side.
"Do you bring everyone food when you visit their homes?" Anya asked, licking a bit of rice from her thumb.
"Only the ones I dream about," Oriana said softly.
Anya froze. Her eyes lifted slowly to meet Oriana's.
"You dream about me?"
"Almost every night."
The sentence lingered in the space between them. Anya set down her spoon.
"What do you dream?" she asked.
Oriana tilted her head. "Sometimes you're laughing. Sometimes we're running through rain again. Sometimes you're sleeping, and I'm just watching you."
Anya swallowed. "That sounds… intense."
"It is," Oriana said. "But so are you."
Anya didn't have a reply for that. Not one that could be spoken aloud. So she stood up instead and reached for a small box near the bookshelf.
She returned with it carefully, then opened it to reveal photographs—old ones, faded at the edges. Some were of the neighborhood when it used to flood, others of a little girl with uneven bangs and missing teeth.
"That one's me," she said, pointing at the photo.
Oriana leaned closer, laughing. "You were adorable."
"I was awkward."
"You still are."
Anya stuck out her tongue.
Then Oriana saw a photo tucked underneath the others—a picture of a teenage boy with long hair and kind eyes.
"Who's he?"
Anya paused. "My brother. He passed away three years ago."
Oriana's breath caught. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Anya said gently. "He's the one who taught me how to listen to silence. He used to say, 'There's music even when nothing plays. You just have to want to hear it.'"
Oriana reached for her hand. "You talk like him sometimes."
Anya gave a small smile. "I hope so."
There was a long, thoughtful quiet.
Then Oriana said, "Can I show you something?"
She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the gallery, flipping through a series of blurry sketches. One showed a girl sitting beneath a tree, knees tucked to her chest, looking up at the stars. Another showed two girls walking in the rain, holding the same umbrella, their heads almost touching.
"I drew this after that day," Oriana said. "The rain day."
Anya looked at the sketch, then up at Oriana.
"You remember it so clearly."
"I don't ever want to forget it."
Her voice cracked slightly at the edge, not from sadness—but from how full it was. Full of that delicate emotion that had no name in any language. The kind that sat in the chest and bloomed quietly.
Anya leaned forward, brushing Oriana's hair behind her ear.
"Come with me."
She stood and took Oriana's hand, guiding her through the narrow hallway to the back garden.
It wasn't much—just a small stone path, two ceramic frogs, and a plum tree her mother had planted years ago. But the leaves glistened from last night's rain, and the world smelled like green things, and the light here was soft, the kind that forgave imperfections.
Anya pointed to the corner of the garden where two cushions rested near the wall.
"This is where I sit when I want to disappear."
Oriana nodded, sitting down beside her, knees brushing. "Let's disappear together, then."
They didn't speak for a long time.
They just listened.
To the leaves. To the birds. To the soft rhythm of water dripping from the edge of the roof.
And to each other's breath.
Anya reached out and laced their fingers together.
"I've always been afraid that if I let someone into this place—this quiet—everything would fall apart."
"But I'm here," Oriana said. "And nothing's broken."
"Not yet," Anya murmured.
"Then we'll be careful."
A breeze passed, lifting the ends of their hair like a blessing. Oriana turned slightly to face her.
"I'm falling in love with you."
The words landed gently, like petals.
Anya didn't blink.
She didn't look away.
She just whispered, "I think I already fell."
Oriana touched her cheek, and Anya leaned into it.
They kissed again—this time slower, deeper, with the full weight of everything they'd said and everything they couldn't say.
It was a kiss that carried silence. A kiss that listened.
When they parted, Anya whispered, "This feels like a dream I never asked for. But one I never want to wake from."
Oriana smiled against her. "Then let's stay asleep. Just a little longer."
And so they stayed.
In a garden too small to matter to the rest of the world.
But big enough to hold everything between them.