Chapter 14 : "The Shape of a Morning"
When Anya opened her eyes, she didn't know where the morning ended and Oriana began.
She was still there — her arm slung across Anya's waist, her breath a soft rhythm against Anya's collarbone, her leg draped over her like a tether. The blanket had slipped down to their hips, exposing skin marked only by the night before — not in bruises or scratches, but in warmth. In presence. In love.
Anya smiled quietly, brushing a stray curl from Oriana's forehead.
How could one body feel like home so quickly?
The golden morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting the room in soft amber. Outside, birds called gently across the hills. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. The village was waking — but inside their shared breath, time stayed slow.
Oriana stirred, shifting closer with a sleepy hum.
"Still here," she murmured.
"I thought you might be a dream," Anya whispered.
"If I am," Oriana said, still half-asleep, "don't wake up yet."
Anya kissed her shoulder. "Never."
They lay like that, not speaking. Not needing to. It was the kind of quiet that filled the soul instead of echoing loneliness — the kind that needed only touch, the brush of fingertips, the curve of a smile barely formed.
Eventually, Oriana opened her eyes, blinking against the sun.
"I had another dream."
"Tell me."
"You were painting on a wall. Huge flowers. You didn't speak — you just painted. And every time I touched one, it turned into something real."
Anya tilted her head. "What kind of flowers?"
"Sunflowers. Daisies. And one I didn't recognize. White petals, but glowing in the dark."
Anya nodded slowly. "That's a real flower. Moonflowers. They only bloom at night."
Oriana smiled. "Like us, then."
Later, after tea and fruit in the garden behind the guesthouse, they walked to the temple on the hill.
The steps were uneven, worn smooth by generations. Anya counted each one beneath her breath, while Oriana told stories about the monks who used to chase each other barefoot as boys.
"I came here once as a child," Oriana said as they reached the top. "I thought it was magic. I touched every bell and made a wish for each one."
"What did you wish for?"
She hesitated. "To be seen."
Anya's breath caught.
Oriana looked at her, eyes soft. "Not looked at. Not praised. Just… seen. The way you see me."
"I think your wish worked," Anya whispered, reaching for her hand.
They stood before the old altar, candles flickering in the breeze, their smoke curling into the blue sky.
Anya lit a stick of incense and bowed her head.
"What did you pray for?" Oriana asked gently.
"A safe place for us to land."
Oriana leaned in. "We're already there."
On the way down, they stopped at a shaded clearing overlooking the lake. The water below shimmered, dotted with small boats, their oars moving like quiet heartbeat pulses.
Anya sat and rested her chin on her knees. Oriana sat beside her and reached into her pocket.
"I wrote something," she said, pulling out a folded piece of paper.
"You… wrote?"
"It's not much. Just a few lines. I don't write like you do. But I wanted to try."
She unfolded the paper and cleared her throat.
"If love was a season,
you'd be the pause between summer and fall —
when everything glows, and nothing has to last
to be beautiful."
Anya blinked hard, suddenly overwhelmed.
"You wrote that… for me?"
"I wrote that because of you," Oriana said. "Because that's what you feel like. Something beautiful even if we only had now."
Anya reached for her hand. "But we have more than now."
"I know," Oriana whispered. "But even if we didn't… I'd still choose this."
That evening, they returned to the porch, where cushions waited and the sky began to soften into evening. Crickets sang. The air smelled of lemongrass and jasmine.
Oriana rested her head in Anya's lap. "I used to run from feelings like this."
"And now?"
"Now I run to you."
Anya stroked her hair. "I used to write about love as if it was far away. Like a lighthouse I could see but never touch. But now it's here. It's you."
Oriana smiled, turning her face into Anya's palm.
"We should go swimming tomorrow," she said suddenly.
"In the river?"
"No. Somewhere quieter. There's a hidden cove past the far rice paddies. Locals call it The Mirror. The water's so still it reflects the sky."
Anya grinned. "Promise to take me?"
Oriana sat up and kissed her. "I'll take you anywhere."
That night, they lay close again — the room dark, the window open to the stars.
But neither reached for the other with urgency.
Instead, they held hands and let their legs brush. Let the silence speak.
It wasn't about proving love now.
It was about breathing in it.
Existing in it.
As Oriana drifted into sleep, Anya whispered, "You are the poem I've waited my whole life to write."
And this time, even the moon seemed to listen.