Chapter 16: When the Wind Carries Her Name
The breeze that passed through the school courtyard that morning felt different—not because it was stronger, not because it carried the scent of fallen rain from the night before. But because, in its soft whisper, Oriana swore it spoke one name.
Anya.
She hadn't seen her since the incident by the art room—since Anya had leaned in with trembling lips and eyes too full of emotion to be safe. That kiss, soft and brief, had haunted Oriana's dreams for days. She still felt it in her bones—like a note that refused to fade, echoing in her bloodstream, curling in her throat when she tried to focus on anything else.
Oriana had never realized how loud the world could be when someone was missing from it.
She moved slowly down the hallway, hugging her books to her chest, her eyes flicking to the corners where Anya used to linger, her sketchpad half open, her smile crooked, like it was hiding something beautiful. But there was no Anya. Just empty spaces where she should have been.
Class blurred. Words became noise. Laughter grated against her skin.
After school, Oriana found herself walking without thinking—past the soccer field, past the tree where they'd once sat sharing strawberry milk and secrets, past the old bike shed where Anya had once painted tiny butterflies no one noticed but her. She ended up at the abandoned greenhouse behind the science block, the place where Anya liked to go when the world got too heavy.
The door creaked as she opened it, and warm, damp air greeted her, thick with the scent of old soil and moss. It was here, weeks ago, that Oriana had watched Anya carefully tend to a wilted orchid, whispering encouragement to the fragile thing like it could understand.
"Why do you do that?" Oriana had asked.
"Because everything grows better when it's loved," Anya had said, not looking up.
Now, standing in that same place, Oriana saw the orchid again. Still alive. Still blooming. Pale violet petals curled open toward the light.
Anya had come here recently. Oriana could feel it.
She crouched beside the plant and whispered, "Where did she go?"
The wind rattled the glass gently. No answer.
That night, Oriana couldn't sleep. The ceiling above her bed pulsed with imagined shadows, each one shaped like a memory: Anya's fingers brushing hers during music class. Her laugh, light and sharp, when Oriana tripped over her own words. That night at the school festival, under the lanterns, where their eyes had met and neither of them had looked away.
She finally sat up and reached for her phone. There were no messages.
Oriana opened her notes app and typed:
I miss you like a season that ended too soon.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she deleted it.
Saturday morning came soft and gold, and Oriana walked to the town market, not because she needed anything—but because it was where she and Anya had once gone together. She remembered the way Anya had walked ahead, stopping to touch every piece of fabric, every necklace, every weird little carved cat that caught her eye.
Oriana passed a stall selling secondhand books and stopped.
She didn't know why.
Her fingers traced the spines without looking, just feeling. And then she saw it.
A tiny post-it stuck to the cover of a poetry collection. In blue ink, unmistakable handwriting:
"This one reminded me of you. Always reaching. Always glowing."
Oriana's breath caught. She grabbed the book and flipped it open. Another note, inside.
"Love isn't always loud. Sometimes it's the quiet that stays."
Her hands shook.
Anya had been here.
She ran back to the stall owner, a kind old woman with gray hair tied in a bun.
"Did a girl with black hair and paint on her sleeves leave this here?" Oriana asked.
The woman squinted, then smiled. "Ah, yes. A week ago. She bought three books, left notes in five. Quiet girl. Sad eyes."
"Do you know where she went?"
The woman shook her head. "Sorry, love."
Oriana thanked her and stepped back, gripping the book like a lifeline. It was proof. A message, even if unspoken.
Anya hadn't disappeared. She was just… waiting.
But for what?
For Oriana to say it first?
For her to be brave?
It rained that evening. A soft drizzle that painted the windows in silver. Oriana sat at her desk with the book open, tracing every word Anya had underlined, wondering which ones had made her heart skip.
She thought of the poem that said:
"I did not know I was a garden until someone said I bloomed."
Anya had underlined it three times.
Oriana's chest ached.
She pulled out her sketchpad—something she hadn't done in months—and began to draw.
Not perfectly. Not like Anya would.
But honestly.
She drew a pair of hands reaching toward each other but never quite touching.
She drew a girl walking through wind, her hair full of petals.
And then she drew Anya. Eyes closed. Lips parted slightly. Like she was waiting for something soft to land on her mouth.
Oriana didn't sleep. But she felt closer.
Sunday morning, Oriana got up before dawn.
She dressed in quiet colors and packed the book with Anya's notes, the drawing she'd made, and the smallest daisy she could find from the garden outside her house.
She walked the whole way to Anya's neighborhood.
Her heart beat so loud she thought the trees might hear it.
When she reached the house, her courage almost broke.
She stood there for ten minutes.
Then she rang the bell.
It took a moment. Then the door creaked open.
Anya stood there in an oversized hoodie, her hair a little tangled, paint on her fingers again.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Oriana stepped forward and held out the book.
"You left me notes," she said.
Anya blinked, her voice barely a whisper. "I didn't know if you'd find them."
"I did," Oriana said. "And I… I found something else too."
Anya tilted her head.
Oriana opened the book and slid her sketch between the pages. Then she reached out and gently tucked the daisy into Anya's hair.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I was scared. But I'm not anymore."
Anya's eyes glistened.
"You still want to be… us?" she asked.
Oriana stepped closer, placed her hands gently on Anya's hips.
"I want to be yours," she whispered.
And then, slowly, like the world was holding its breath, she kissed her.
Soft.
True.
Everything Anya had painted into her smile.
When they parted, Anya rested her forehead against Oriana's.
"I waited for you," she said.
"I know," Oriana whispered. "I heard it in the wind."
And there, under a sky just beginning to warm, with the quiet rain still on the leaves, two girls stood together.
Not broken.
Not lost.
Just in love.
At last.