Chapter 25: The Color of Rain
The rain came without warning.
Not the kind that tiptoed in with gentle whispers or soft apologies—but sudden, heavy, like the sky had been holding something in for too long and could no longer bear the weight.
Anya stood by the edge of the school building, watching the first fat droplets splatter against the concrete. Her cardigan was too thin for this kind of weather, and the frayed sleeves clung to her wrists like they didn't want to let go.
Across the courtyard, Oriana ran.
No umbrella. No hesitation. Just her, arms spread wide, like she was catching the whole sky in her hands.
Anya's heart did something strange then—like it remembered something before she did. A memory she hadn't lived yet. A flash of sunlight on skin, of rain in eyelashes, of warmth that didn't come from the sun.
"Oriana!" she called out, her voice barely rising above the downpour.
But Oriana didn't stop.
She twirled once, hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks, the ribbon from her braid fluttering loose like a white flag of surrender.
And then—she turned. Met Anya's eyes through the curtain of rain and smiled.
That smile again.
The one that had started everything and refused to end.
Anya stepped forward. Hesitated. Then ran too.
By the time she reached Oriana, her clothes clung to her like second skin, hair matted down, glasses fogged up with tiny beads of water.
"You'll catch a cold," Anya muttered, out of breath, half-laughing and half-scolding.
"I don't care," Oriana said, breathless with joy. "This is the kind of rain that doesn't ask for permission. It just… happens. Like you."
Anya blinked. "What?"
"You," Oriana said again, slower now, "You happened to me. Without warning. Without asking."
The words made Anya forget the rain, forget the wetness, the cold.
She only heard the thunder inside her chest.
"I… I didn't mean to," Anya whispered, brushing wet strands from her eyes. "I didn't plan any of this."
"I know," Oriana said, stepping closer. "That's what makes it beautiful."
They stood like that for a long moment—just two silhouettes beneath a world that had turned gray and soft. The rain was steady now, gentle, almost kind. The school courtyard was empty. The world, for a moment, felt paused.
"I used to hate the rain," Anya admitted, her voice barely audible. "It made everything heavier. The books in my bag. My steps. My thoughts. But now…"
She looked at Oriana. At the girl who had made gray days feel like poetry.
"Now it feels like it's cleansing me."
Oriana reached up, touched Anya's cheek with fingers trembling not from cold, but from something unspoken. Her thumb brushed across the edge of her jaw, soft and slow.
"You always say things like that," Oriana whispered. "Like your heart is a book you left open in the rain."
Anya gave a small, shaky laugh. "Maybe I just want someone to read me."
"I am," Oriana said. "I always have."
There was silence then—not the absence of sound, but a quiet so deep and full it could only mean one thing.
Oriana leaned in, her forehead resting against Anya's. The rain threaded between them like silk, cool and damp and utterly alive.
"If I kissed you right now," Oriana asked, voice barely more than a thought, "would you run?"
Anya shook her head. "No. I'd stay."
Oriana smiled.
And then she kissed her.
It wasn't dramatic or wild or something out of a movie. It was soft. Careful. Like the first time you touch something fragile and realize it's been waiting for you all along. Their lips met gently, like a secret only they were meant to share. The rain fell around them, unbothered, unchanged.
When they finally pulled apart, Anya was crying. Not from sadness. Not even from joy.
Just because.
Because sometimes hearts overflow, and the only way they can tell the truth is through tears.
"Was that okay?" Oriana asked, voice barely audible.
Anya nodded. "It was… perfect."
Oriana reached up and brushed her thumb across Anya's damp cheek again, this time drying what the rain hadn't washed away.
"We should get out of the rain," Anya said after a while, though she didn't move.
"Eventually," Oriana agreed.
But neither of them moved.
Instead, they sat down on the stone bench near the trees, soaked to the bone, the air between them warm despite the chill.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" Anya asked.
"In the library," Oriana said. "You dropped your pen, and it rolled under my chair."
"And you gave it back with a look like I'd just ruined your day."
Oriana laughed. "You did. I was in a bad mood. But then you smiled at me and said, 'Sorry for intruding.' Like I had a throne and you were knocking on the door."
"I didn't know how to talk to people."
"You talked to me."
"I didn't mean to."
Oriana looked at her. "You keep saying that. But maybe you did. Maybe we both did. Maybe it was always going to be you and me in the rain, like this."
The rain was starting to let up now, the sky turning a shade lighter, a soft dove-gray.
Anya looked up at the clouds.
"Do you think people can belong to each other?" she asked.
"Not in a way that cages," Oriana said. "But in a way that says—I see you. I hold space for you. I choose you."
Anya turned to her. "Then I choose you."
Oriana smiled. "Even if the sky falls again?"
Anya nodded. "Especially then."
A bell rang in the distance—third period. Life resuming.
But for them, time had already shifted.
They stood, slow and quiet. Walked back toward the building hand in hand. Not afraid of being seen. Not anymore.
As they passed the doors, Anya looked over her shoulder once more at the now-empty courtyard, rainwater pooling in silver reflections.
"I want to remember this," she whispered.
"You will," Oriana said. "I'll make sure of it."
And just like that, they stepped inside.
But the color of the rain stayed with them—like a promise.