Chapter 24 : "The Places We Return To"
The sky was pale blue, like a washed silk scarf, when they left the village behind.
No plan. No map. Just a blanket, a basket of food, and a pair of bicycles that creaked with every bump in the dirt path.
Oriana had scribbled a note and left it with Mair:
"Gone to remember who we are when we're not taking care of everyone else."
Mair had only grinned, handing them a jar of pickled mangoes as a farewell.
Now the trees whispered above them as they rode — tall and swaying, their leaves catching sunlight in little bursts. The breeze smelled like lemongrass and the first bite of the dry season.
"I think the bikes are falling apart," Anya laughed, gripping her handlebar as it wobbled on a rut.
"Good," Oriana shouted back. "That means we'll have to walk them home. More time to talk."
They found the river around midday.
Wide and slow-moving, its surface mirrored the sky and the arching trees above it. Dragonflies hovered lazily above the water. The sound of the current was a hush, a kind of kindness that wrapped around everything.
They parked the bikes under a banyan tree and laid the blanket in the grass. Oriana kicked off her sandals and collapsed onto her back with a groan of delight.
"This," she said, "is what I imagine heaven sounds like."
Anya lay beside her. "You mean birds, breeze, and you sighing dramatically?"
"I am dramatic," Oriana said proudly.
"And perfect," Anya whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Oriana's forehead.
The world stilled around them.
Not silent — just slowed. Like even time had decided to take a breath.
Lunch was rice wrapped in banana leaves, sweet mango slices, boiled eggs sprinkled with salt. They ate slowly, feeding each other from their fingers, laughing when mango juice dribbled down their chins.
Oriana leaned back on her elbows and looked at Anya.
"You've been quieter lately."
Anya didn't deny it.
"I've been full," she said simply. "Not the bad kind. Just… filled. With everything."
"Too much?"
"Maybe. But not heavy. Just… deep."
Oriana reached for her hand. "You don't always have to hold everything alone."
"I know," Anya said. "That's why I'm here. With you. So I can put it down."
They sat in silence a while, their hands still entwined, the sun dappling their arms through the shifting leaves.
Later, they walked barefoot along the riverbank.
The water was cold, shocking at first, then delightful — a reminder that they were alive, young, and in love. Anya waded in deeper, lifting her dress with one hand, splashing at Oriana who shrieked and nearly dropped her notebook.
"You're a menace!" Oriana shouted.
"You bring a notebook everywhere," Anya countered.
"It's a sacred tradition."
"It's also very wet now."
They chased each other like children, laughing so loud the birds startled from the trees.
Eventually, breathless, Oriana dropped to the ground and pulled Anya down with her. They lay in the grass, their clothes damp, skin warm, hearts wild.
Oriana turned her head and whispered, "Do you know what I love most about you?"
Anya shook her head, smiling.
"You don't just stay. You choose me. Even now. Even in all the quiet, ordinary days."
Anya closed her eyes.
"I will keep choosing you. Even when our hair is grey and we forget why we went into the kitchen."
Oriana laughed. "You already do that."
"I'm practicing for the future."
The afternoon curled softly into gold.
They sat on the blanket again, watching the light move across the water.
Oriana pulled out her notebook — only slightly smudged — and began writing. Anya sketched beside her: the curve of the riverbank, the bend of Oriana's knee, the delicate way her fingers moved when she wrote something tender.
"Do you ever miss who we were?" Oriana asked, without looking up.
"No," Anya said. "But I remember them. Those girls who were scared to ask for more."
"I think they'd be proud."
"I think they'd be amazed."
Oriana set her notebook down. "We didn't know forever could feel like this."
"We didn't know it didn't have to hurt," Anya whispered.
As the sun began to dip, they packed up their things and stood hand in hand, watching the river one last time.
Oriana turned to Anya.
"Let's make a rule."
"I'm listening."
"Every season," Oriana said, "we come back here. Just us. No planning, no fixing, no teaching, no worrying. Just... remembering."
Anya smiled. "And what shall we call it?"
Oriana thought for a moment, then whispered:
"The Season of Us."
Anya kissed her then — slow, deep, unhurried — like a leaf floating on water, like a page that knows it has nowhere else to turn but forward.
The ride back was slower.
The bikes squeaked. Their hair was windblown. Oriana hummed some wordless tune, and Anya rode beside her, one hand gently brushing against hers every few minutes like punctuation.
When they reached the edge of the village, the lights were starting to flicker on. The smell of soup and firewood greeted them. Saffron sat waiting on the porch, tail curled, eyes blinking as if to say, You were gone a long time.
They stepped inside, feet dusty, cheeks glowing.
Everything was the same.
But they had returned as something new.
Not changed.
Just more whole.
That night, they curled up together in bed, the blanket warm, their legs tangled.
Oriana traced lazy shapes into Anya's palm.
"I wrote a new piece," she murmured. "Want to hear it?"
Anya nodded, eyes closed.
Oriana recited:
"We found the river not to run,
but to remember stillness.
You laughed and the trees bowed.
You kissed me and I remembered
I had a body.
You loved me,
and I forgot the shape of alone."
Anya pressed her forehead to Oriana's.
"You write like your heart has hands."
Oriana smiled. "That's because it does. And it's always reaching for you."
The lanterns outside danced in the breeze.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and was silent.
Inside, two women loved each other the way rivers love banks — returning, flowing, shaping.
Not loudly.
Not suddenly.
But always.