Chapter 14: The Future in Her Fingers
The morning after the rain smelled like possibility.
Anya woke first. The sun painted faint stripes across the walls, casting soft shadows on the floor. Oriana was still asleep beside her, one arm draped over Anya's waist, her face tucked into the curve of her neck like it belonged there—like it had always belonged there.
Anya didn't move.
She simply watched the light shift across Oriana's face. The soft rise and fall of her breath. The way her fingers curled slightly, even in sleep, like she was still holding on.
She was.
And Anya was grateful.
For every inch of her presence.
For every breath they got to share now, not in memory—but in now.
They made pancakes together.
Well—Anya tried. Oriana laughed.
"You flipped it too early," Oriana said, peering over her shoulder.
"I was impatient," Anya confessed.
"Impatient pancakes are still pancakes," Oriana replied, stealing a piece of half-browned edge with her fingers.
They sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in their laps, syrup pooled in the corners, laughing at nothing in particular.
Afterward, Anya leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and asked:
"So now that you're staying, what do we do?"
Oriana looked at her, brow raised. "You mean today?"
"I mean... in general. What's next?"
Oriana didn't answer right away.
She set her empty plate aside, stood, and walked to the small window above the sink. Outside, two birds danced from one wire to another—always together, never still.
"I want to create something with you," she said finally. "Not just live beside each other. I want us to make something."
Anya tilted her head. "Like what?"
"I don't know. A book. A gallery. A little café where the mugs don't match and we hang your paintings on the walls."
Anya smiled, wide and warm. "And your poems printed on napkins?"
Oriana laughed. "Exactly."
She turned to Anya then—serious now, but still soft. "I want to build a life that looks like both of us. Not just mine. Not just yours. Ours."
Anya stood and crossed the kitchen in two steps.
She kissed Oriana.
Deep.
Full.
Not rushed.
And said, "Then let's start today."
They walked to the bookstore first.
Anya said they needed journals.
"New ones," she insisted. "Ones that don't hold old worries."
Oriana picked one with a soft grey cover and a string to wrap it shut. Anya chose one the color of cherry blossom petals.
They sat in the café attached to the store, two mugs of green tea between them, and began to write.
Not lists.
Not plans.
Just thoughts.
Dreams.
Fragments.
Oriana wrote:
I want a home with more windows than walls.
I want mornings where you're still beside me.
I want a future that holds your laugh in it every single day.
Anya wrote:
Let's have a shelf just for our favorite cups.
Let's kiss before dinner, after storms, in the grocery store.
Let's grow old without ever stopping to wonder when it happened.
They didn't show each other yet.
Not everything.
Some parts needed to stay warm inside for a while longer.
But they smiled. And they knew.
Later that afternoon, they visited the flower market.
Oriana held up a pot of baby's breath. "These always look like soft secrets."
Anya nodded. "They remind me of the day we first kissed."
Oriana blushed. "I remember that day."
"You dropped your umbrella and I picked it up and couldn't breathe when our fingers touched."
"You kissed me behind the bookshop," Oriana said.
"And I tasted like fear," Anya added.
"You tasted like spring," Oriana corrected.
They bought the baby's breath.
And a cactus, "for balance."
That night, the lights were dim.
Music played softly from the corner speaker—something gentle, barely there, more like memory than melody.
Oriana pulled Anya into her arms.
They danced slowly in the middle of the room.
No steps.
No rhythm.
Just closeness.
"I used to wonder what real love felt like," Oriana whispered against Anya's cheek.
"And now?"
"Now I think it feels like this. Like holding the future in your fingers, and knowing it's not slipping."
Anya kissed her.
Then whispered, "You'll never have to wonder again."
They wrote letters that night—not to each other, but to themselves.
To their future selves.
Oriana wrote:
Dear Me,
Don't forget how her smile looked when she opened the door the day you came back. Don't forget the way you almost cried when she kissed you without asking any questions. Don't forget that you are loved, not in theory—but in truth. In arms. In quiet. In pancakes and flower markets and pink journals.
Love like that doesn't fade. You just have to choose it, every day.
Anya wrote:
Dear Me,
When you feel doubt creeping in, remember the way she traced your name into your spine like a prayer. Remember the way she made tea and let you cry into her collarbone. Remember her poems, and her socks, and her hand reaching for yours without hesitation. This isn't a dream. This is yours. Keep it gentle. Keep it safe.
They folded the letters, tucked them into a box beneath the bed.
Just in case one day they needed reminding.
Before they fell asleep, Oriana whispered:
"Do you think love like this lasts?"
Anya turned to her, curled her fingers into Oriana's shirt.
"I think it grows," she said. "Like ivy. Like time. Like truth."
And that was enough.
That was everything.