Chapter 47: We Spoke Without Sound
The hallway to the headmistress's office was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet that floats through early mornings or temple courtyards, but the cold kind — the kind that presses against your ribs and makes your heartbeat sound like a drum no one asked to hear.
Oriana walked beside me, her fingers brushing against mine only once, as if to say: I'm here. I haven't left.
The paper in my pocket still felt warm from her touch, even though we'd folded it hours ago. The notice had come suddenly — short, stiff, impersonal:
"Anya and Oriana,
Please report to the headmistress's office at 3:00 p.m. sharp.
– Academic Affairs"
No explanation.
But we already knew.
The secretary outside the office gave us a glance that held too many meanings. I felt like she was trying to peel something off us — an expression, a confession, a crack in the calm we wore like armor.
"You may go in now," she said, her voice flat but her eyes too sharp.
Oriana went first.
I followed.
The office was filled with framed certificates, gold-painted trophies, and the smell of old air-conditioning. Headmistress Niramol sat behind her desk, hands folded carefully, her mouth pressed into a line too straight to be neutral.
She didn't smile.
"Sit," she said.
We did.
She looked at us one by one, as if measuring us. Not just as students. But as… something else.
"I have received concerns," she said, her voice crisp like dried leaves. "From multiple sources."
I said nothing.
Oriana sat perfectly still.
"These concerns," the headmistress continued, "relate to behavior between the two of you. Specifically, excessive time spent together during and after school hours. Public displays of intimacy. Disruption of peer environments."
I felt Oriana stiffen beside me.
Still, we said nothing.
The silence grew.
She leaned forward slightly. "Are you two… involved in a relationship?"
Her voice didn't rise, didn't tremble. It was controlled. Practiced. But underneath it, I heard what she wasn't saying: Are you something I don't want in this school? Are you going to make this institution uncomfortable?
I looked at Oriana.
She looked at me.
And in that moment — we spoke without sound.
I saw the fear in her eyes. But also the defiance.
I took her hand.
Right there, in front of the headmistress.
And I said, "We care for each other."
She didn't flinch.
She just stared at our joined hands.
Oriana added softly, "We haven't broken any rules."
"That is debatable," the headmistress replied coolly. "You've been observed being physically affectionate. Leaving school grounds during class hours. Disturbing other students' concentration. Whether or not this is a formal 'relationship' is irrelevant if it affects the school environment."
I wanted to speak, to protest. But Oriana beat me to it.
"Are we allowed to sit beside each other?"
"Yes."
"Are we allowed to walk home together?"
"Yes."
"To share books? To talk during breaks? To smile?"
The headmistress's jaw clenched.
"Then perhaps," Oriana said, voice shaking but strong, "what bothers them is not what we do, but who we are to each other."
There was a long pause.
The headmistress sighed.
"I am not here to pass moral judgment," she said. "But as educators, we must be mindful of what students perceive and emulate. Your closeness — romantic or not — invites… speculation. And speculation creates distraction."
"Then teach them better," I said before I could stop myself. "Teach them that love, if it is kind and gentle and honest, should never be treated like a threat."
She looked at me, and for a brief moment, her eyes softened.
But only briefly.
"This is your verbal warning," she said. "You are not being punished. But consider this a recommendation to exercise discretion. I will not tolerate escalation. Is that understood?"
I nodded. Slowly.
Oriana, too.
But in our silence, we were still saying no.
No, we will not shrink.
No, we will not pretend that something beautiful is ugly just because the world fears what it doesn't understand.
When we left the office, the air outside felt different — thicker, more aware.
We didn't speak until we reached the back of the school near the old stairwell, where ivy crawled up the concrete like veins seeking light.
"I wanted to scream," Oriana said finally.
"I know."
"I wanted to grab your hand and shout that I love you."
I turned to her.
"Then why didn't you?"
She blinked.
And then, quietly: "Because I knew I already had. Just by sitting beside you. Just by not looking away."
She exhaled, and the tension left her shoulders slowly.
"We're not wrong," she said.
"No," I whispered. "We're just louder now. Even in our quiet."
That night, she called me.
We didn't say much.
She just kept the line open as she sat on her balcony, legs tucked under her, staring at the same stars I was staring at.
"Do you ever think," she asked softly, "that maybe we were born to find each other even if the world wasn't ready for us?"
"Yes."
I imagined her nodding, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"Then I won't apologize for this," she said.
"Don't."
"I won't run."
"Never."
She paused.
"I wrote something," she said. "It's not finished. But… do you want to hear it?"
"Yes. Always."
She read slowly, her voice a little hoarse from holding back too much emotion all day:
"They said we were too close,
like two books placed on the same shelf.
But no one asked if our pages needed each other—
if her words filled the silence in mine."
I pressed the phone to my ear, closed my eyes, and whispered, "Finish it. For me."
"I will," she said. "For us."
The next day, everything looked the same — but felt different.
People glanced. A few girls whispered behind notebooks. A teacher hesitated before calling on me.
But Oriana?
She found me by the school gate.
And she smiled.
The same soft, radiant smile she wore when we first met beneath the rain tree.
And in front of everyone, she slipped her hand into mine.
Not with bravado.
Not with defiance.
But with grace.
With the quiet power of someone who had chosen love without apology.
And as we walked together through the gate and into the world beyond—
We didn't speak.
But we had never said more.