Chapter 51: We Didn't Need the Words
It was a Sunday when Anya returned.
Not because the week had ended, or because anything urgent had shifted—but because something inside her heart finally whispered:
Now.
The sky was a watercolor wash of soft blues and thinning clouds, as if even the heavens were taking a deep breath for her.
She didn't tell Oriana she was coming.
Not out of mischief, but something gentler—a quiet longing to see her again without preparation, without fanfare. Just as they were. Real and unguarded.
The bus ride was quiet.
Each stop felt like a heartbeat closer. The kind that didn't rush, but throbbed softly behind her ribs like something hopeful remembering how to grow.
Anya carried no suitcase.
Just a small backpack. A book she never opened. And the note Oriana had sent, folded like a treasure in her inner coat pocket. She didn't even need to read it anymore. The words had already rooted in her.
The sky waited. Just like me.
As she stepped off the bus, the air smelled faintly of rain and rice. Of wet pavement and something green and honest. The kind of scent that always reminded her of home—though that word had never really made sense until Oriana.
She reached the apartment just after four. The light on the balcony was off, but the windows were open.
Wind tugged softly at the sheer curtain panels. There was music playing inside—faint, muffled, familiar. Piano. One of Oriana's favorite instrumental pieces.
And that was enough.
That was the welcome.
No need for doorbells or footsteps.
Anya climbed the stairs slowly. Each step a silent echo. Her hand paused just before the door, hovering—
But then it opened.
And there she was.
Oriana stood barefoot in loose linen pants and a pale green shirt, her hair tied loosely at the back. Her eyes widened at first—just slightly. But she didn't gasp. Didn't say "you came." She didn't have to.
Instead, her smile bloomed like something shy and slow.
"I was just thinking about you," she said.
"I know," Anya replied. "I heard it."
Oriana stepped aside, and Anya walked in, the familiar scent of tea and soft citrus wrapping around her like a shawl.
For a long time, they just stood facing one another.
Then, without needing to ask, Oriana reached out and took her hand. Not quickly. Not tightly. Just enough. As if to say:
You're here. You made it. I'm still yours.
They sat together on the floor beside the low table where so many quiet moments had happened before. The same space. But something felt different now. Not heavier. Not lighter. Just more true.
Oriana poured tea—warm jasmine. The scent drifted upward in soft spirals.
Anya didn't speak. She couldn't yet.
And Oriana didn't make her.
She just passed her a cup, their fingers brushing, and sat close enough for their knees to rest together.
Minutes passed like music with no lyrics.
They sipped. They breathed. They existed.
And in that existence was everything.
Finally, Anya set her cup down.
"I kept waiting," she said, "for something to pull me back."
Oriana looked at her gently. "And did it?"
Anya shook her head. "No. I pulled myself."
Oriana's lips curved slightly. "I'm proud of you."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
They smiled at each other—half smiles, shy and tired and grateful.
"I thought about you every day," Anya admitted.
"I thought about you in the spaces between days," Oriana replied. "In the moments when nothing was happening. That's when I missed you most."
Anya reached into her coat and pulled out the folded note—the one Oriana had sent. She placed it on the table, smoothing the creases with careful fingers.
"I didn't answer," she whispered. "Not with a letter."
Oriana tilted her head. "You didn't need to."
"I did write one," Anya said. "I just didn't send it."
Oriana's voice was warm. "Can I hear it?"
Anya hesitated.
Then nodded.
She pulled a small piece of paper from her journal. It was wrinkled from being read and refolded a dozen times. She opened it and read softly, her voice just above a breath:
"Even when we're apart, you're still the closest thing to home I've ever known."
"Wait for me."
Oriana listened without blinking.
When Anya finished, Oriana reached out and placed her hand gently over hers.
"I did," she whispered. "I waited."
They didn't move for a long while.
Just the sound of the wind slipping through the window, and the faint clink of ceramic when Oriana refilled her own cup.
Anya leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. "You make it easy to be quiet."
Oriana turned to her. "Quiet with someone is different than quiet alone."
"How so?"
"When you're quiet alone, you're hiding. When you're quiet with someone, you're seen."
Anya looked at her, something soft breaking in her chest. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like they're simple truths. But they stay with me for days."
Oriana leaned her head gently onto Anya's shoulder. "Then let's fill each other with the kind of truths we want to keep."
Anya leaned into her. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"That even if we don't always get to be here… like this... we'll still be us."
Oriana nodded against her shoulder. "The kind of 'us' that doesn't need the room to remember."
Anya smiled, eyes glassy but not falling. "I don't want to lose this."
"You won't," Oriana said. "This isn't something the world can take. It's something we planted. And it's still growing."
They lay down side by side on the floor, just like the first time. The blanket still folded neatly on the couch from last week.
Oriana pulled it over both of them.
Outside, the light softened further, fading into gold. The city breathed.
Anya closed her eyes, one arm curled around Oriana's waist.
"I brought a book," she said sleepily.
"Are you going to read to me?" Oriana murmured, her fingers trailing up Anya's arm.
"No," Anya whispered, smiling. "I want you to fall asleep first. So I can pretend I'm in a story you dreamed up."
Oriana chuckled lightly. "I couldn't have dreamed you. Not even in my bravest dreams."
They were still speaking when they drifted into sleep—no endings to their sentences, just breaths trailing off, hands finding each other in the space between dusk and memory.
And in that room where time softened, where no one had to be loud to be heard—
They didn't need the words.
Because everything they'd waited for…
Was already here.