Chapter 10: I Choose You, Even If I Leave
It rained that night.
Not loudly, not in sheets—just a soft drizzle, the kind that whispered against the roof like someone telling a secret too gently to be heard.
Inside, Oriana and Anya lay on the bed, facing each other in the half-light of the lamp. The room smelled of lemongrass and skin, of warm breath and the clean cotton scent that always followed a shared bath.
Oriana reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from Anya's forehead. Her touch lingered.
"I've been trying to find the right words," she said softly.
"You don't need words right now," Anya replied. "You need space."
But Oriana shook her head. "No. I need you."
Anya's eyes softened, lids heavy with quiet emotion.
Then Oriana leaned in.
The kiss was slow—like a memory unfolding between their lips.
It wasn't rushed, or fiery. It was the kind of kiss that asked are you still mine? and answered I never left.
Anya's hand slid to Oriana's waist, fingers brushing bare skin beneath the hem of her shirt. Oriana kissed her again—deeper now, firmer—then pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against Anya's.
"I want to say I'll stay," she whispered.
"But you'd be lying," Anya said. Not cold. Not wounded. Just honest.
Oriana nodded, eyes glassy.
"I want both," she confessed. "I want this. You. Us. And I want to go back. For a while. Not forever."
Anya traced the outline of Oriana's jaw with one fingertip. "Then go."
Oriana blinked.
"But only if you promise to come back to me on purpose," Anya continued. "Not out of guilt. Not because you're afraid. But because… you chose to."
"I will," Oriana said.
And she meant it.
Not like a promise to be tested, but like something sacred that lived beneath her ribs.
They didn't talk much after that.
They kissed again. Slower. More searching. More certain.
Fingers brushing over ribs, over hips, over the small curve of a shoulder. Their breathing became a rhythm shared, like music no one else could hear.
Oriana let Anya unbutton her slowly.
She let her hands move where they wanted—soft and open, like an invitation she'd been waiting to answer.
Clothes slipped away like petals from a flower.
There was no urgency.
Just closeness.
Just the deep, wordless language two people speak when the space between them is no longer space at all.
When they moved together, it was like saying yes in a hundred silent ways.
Yes to the past.
Yes to the fear.
Yes to the return.
Yes to love.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, Anya's head resting on Oriana's chest, their hands still joined like a vow unbroken.
The rain was still falling outside, steady and gentle.
"I've always been afraid of goodbyes," Oriana whispered into the ceiling.
Anya turned her head, lips brushing Oriana's collarbone.
"Then let's not call it that."
"What then?"
"Call it a promise."
"To what?"
"To come home. No matter how far you go."
Oriana blinked hard.
Then she smiled.
And kissed the top of Anya's head.
The morning light came slowly.
The city outside their window shimmered with last-night's rain, and birds sang from unseen branches like the world hadn't been holding its breath for anything at all.
Oriana packed again.
But this time, it didn't feel like leaving.
It felt like carrying something with her.
Like she had become a traveler with a compass that only pointed in one direction—toward return.
She folded her shirt around a small photo Anya had taken of them weeks ago—just their feet, side by side, one bare, one in a sock. Nothing dramatic.
But everything about it was real.
At the train station, they stood beneath the same sign as last time.
But this time, Anya was smiling.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because pain had become something bearable when shared.
Oriana held Anya's hand tightly.
And before the train arrived, she kissed her again.
Not quick.
Not stolen.
A real kiss.
The kind that made people turn their heads and smile quietly, like they'd just witnessed something rare.
The kind that said, I'm yours, still.
When the train doors slid open, Oriana stepped back.
But she didn't let go until the last moment.
And when she finally did, Anya said, "Come home with new stories. But don't change so much that you forget the old ones."
Oriana laughed through tears. "Never."
And then she was gone.
But not really.
Anya walked home slowly.
No tears.
Just a quiet fullness in her chest.
Like something sacred had been spoken, and she was still echoing with it.
When she reached her door, she found a note in her coat pocket.
Oriana's handwriting.
For the days that feel too quiet:
Kiss the mirror like it's me.
Hold the pillow like it remembers.
Whisper your name into the air, and I'll hear it, even from a thousand miles away.
Anya held the note to her lips.
And smiled.
Because even in distance—
she had never felt closer.