Chapter 34: The Way Light Leans Toward Her
The following week unfolded with quiet urgency—like the steady bloom of petals unfolding after days of silence. For Anya, everything felt a little softer now. Lighter. Even her footsteps seemed to carry less weight, as though the earth had remembered how to hold her.
But she still didn't tell anyone.
Their relationship—if she could call it that yet—was something fragile and radiant. A new kind of secret. Not born out of shame, but out of reverence. It wasn't about hiding. It was about protecting. Something too pure to be left out in the wind.
And Oriana seemed to understand.
They didn't hold hands at school. Didn't exchange kisses behind buildings or walk too close in the halls. But there were moments—so many—that held their own kind of closeness. A look across the classroom. A shared pencil passed beneath the desk. A note folded so neatly it felt like a gift, even if it only said:
"I missed you. Even though we just saw each other this morning."
Anya read them more times than she'd admit. She folded each one into the back cover of her sketchbook, as if afraid they might vanish if she didn't keep them close.
It was after art club one afternoon, while Anya was gathering her things, that she noticed something strange. The hallway outside the art room was usually empty this late. But today, someone was waiting.
"Hi," said Mina, the tall, sharp girl from class 3-A who was always surrounded by admirers. Her hair shimmered with dyed streaks of violet. Her uniform was perfectly altered, her posture unnervingly poised.
Anya blinked, startled. "Hi?"
"You're Anya, right? The quiet one who draws."
Anya clutched her sketchbook to her chest. "I—I guess?"
Mina smiled. But it wasn't kind.
"Interesting," she said, stepping closer. "You've been spending a lot of time with Oriana lately."
Anya froze. The air shifted. "She's… my friend."
"Is that what you're calling it?" Mina's voice was light, but edged like broken glass.
Anya looked down, unsure of what to say. Something heavy began building in her chest. That familiar sense that someone was about to take something precious and turn it into something shameful.
"She used to talk about you, you know," Mina said. "Before all this. Said you were sweet. Quiet. Pretty in an odd way. Guess I didn't realize she meant it like that."
Anya didn't answer.
"You don't belong in her world," Mina added, almost casually. "She shines. People see her. You—you disappear."
Anya tightened her grip on her bag. Her mouth stayed shut. But something inside her stirred—something that refused to wilt.
Oriana came into view a few seconds later, walking toward them with her usual bounce, her ponytail swinging like a banner in the wind. She slowed when she saw the two of them. Her eyes moved between Anya and Mina.
"Oh," she said flatly. "You."
Mina smiled wider. "Just catching up with your little friend."
Oriana stepped between them. Not with hostility—but with certainty.
"Don't talk to her like that," she said, her voice level but firm. "Not ever."
Mina raised her hands, mockingly innocent. "Just looking out for you."
"I don't need you to," Oriana said. "And I definitely don't want you to."
Mina shrugged and walked away, heels clicking against the tile like tiny exclamation points.
When she was gone, Oriana turned back to Anya. Her expression changed instantly—concern softening the lines of her face.
"Are you okay?"
Anya nodded, eyes still downcast. "She didn't do anything. Just… talked."
"I'm sorry," Oriana murmured. "She's… jealous, maybe. Or just cruel."
Anya's voice came out small. "Do you regret this?"
Oriana stepped closer, so close their foreheads nearly touched. "No," she said. "I'd only regret not defending you sooner."
That evening, Anya couldn't sleep.
She sat at her desk, light off, the only illumination coming from the quiet streetlight beyond her window. Her fingers hovered over the page, pencil suspended like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
And then she drew.
Not Oriana's face. Not Mina's glare.
She drew a girl standing in the wind, hair blowing back, eyes closed but unafraid. Around her, the trees bent and swayed—but she stood still. Small. But not breaking.
At the bottom, she wrote:
"The storm doesn't know how much I've survived."
The next day, Oriana found her during lunch and led her out to the school courtyard, where the stone benches were still damp from last night's rain.
"I was thinking," she said as they sat down, "maybe we don't have to hide so much."
Anya looked around nervously. "People will talk."
"They already do," Oriana said, brushing a strand of hair from Anya's face. "But let them. I'm tired of pretending you're just someone I pass notes to."
"But what if—"
"What if we let ourselves be happy?" Oriana interrupted gently. "What if we stop making ourselves smaller just because other people are scared of things they don't understand?"
Anya stared at her.
"Do you want to be with me, Anya?"
The words were not whispered. Not hidden. They hung in the air like something bright, something sacred.
"Yes," Anya said, barely above a breath. "I do."
Oriana smiled.
"Then let them talk."
They walked hand-in-hand to their next class. Nothing dramatic. No grand announcement. Just two girls walking side by side, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Some heads turned. Some whispers began. But no one stopped them. And more importantly—Anya didn't stop herself.
For the first time, she felt the fear without letting it own her. It still lived inside her, of course. But beside it now was something stronger. Something warm and breathing and real.
Love.
Later, in the library, when Oriana was helping her study for a test they both dreaded, she reached across the table and placed her fingers on Anya's wrist.
"You're braver than you know," she said softly.
Anya smiled.
"Only when I'm with you."
When Anya got home that evening, she found herself humming as she set her bag down. Her mother looked up from the sink, surprised.
"You're in a good mood," she said.
Anya paused. Then nodded. "Yeah."
She didn't say why. She didn't need to.
That night, she opened her sketchbook and, for the first time, started a new page not with fear or longing—but with joy.
She drew Oriana's fingers.
The ones that always found hers.
The ones that didn't let go.