Chapter 35: Everything That Doesn't Fade
There are days that live forever.
Not because of what happens in them, but because of how you feel inside them.
For Anya, this was one of those days.
It started simply—morning sun through her curtain, the soft rumble of passing motorbikes outside, and the scent of jasmine tea drifting up from the kitchen. Her mother had woken up early and was humming an old lullaby Anya hadn't heard since she was little. The melody curled into the edges of her memory and made her chest ache in a way that wasn't sad—just full.
She dressed slowly, carefully. Not because of vanity, but because she felt present. Alive in her own skin. She wore the navy skirt Oriana once said made her legs look like "they belonged in a painting." That had made Anya blush for a week. She added a pin to her bag—a small enamel flower with chipped paint—and smiled at the thought of Oriana pointing it out with that curious tilt of her head.
The walk to school was quiet, until she reached the corner past the old tea shop, and found Oriana waiting.
No umbrella. No headphones. Just standing there. Waiting.
"I thought you might want company," Oriana said, nudging her lightly. "Even if I'm technically late to club."
"I always want your company," Anya replied, and to her own surprise, didn't stumble over the words.
They walked the rest of the way together. Slowly. The kind of slow that says we don't want this to end yet.
The school was buzzing with a kind of light energy. The cultural festival was approaching, and everyone was whispering about class projects and rehearsals. The air felt filled with more than just chatter—it was full of anticipation. Of change.
During break, Oriana tugged Anya by the hand and led her to the empty music room.
"I have something for you," she said, almost shyly.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small wrapped box. It wasn't store-bought—just brown paper tied with thread and a sprig of dried lavender tucked under the knot.
"I didn't mean to make a big deal," Oriana added quickly. "It's not your birthday or anything. I just saw it and thought of you."
Anya opened it carefully.
Inside was a ring made from thin silver wire, wrapped into the shape of a small star. It was delicate and imperfect—slightly bent in one corner—but it made her chest feel full and wide and impossible.
"I made it," Oriana whispered. "I know it's silly."
Anya stared at it, then at her. "It's perfect."
She slid it onto her pinkie finger. It fit snugly, like it was meant to live there.
"Now you have something of mine," Oriana said, laughing lightly. "Like a charm."
Anya didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She simply leaned forward and kissed her—just a brush of lips, slow and warm, like gratitude made physical.
That afternoon, their class met to plan the festival project. The teacher had suggested a café, but Oriana had another idea.
"Let's do a photo exhibition," she said. "Real stories. Real faces. Our lives—like pieces of a collage."
Anya froze.
She knew what Oriana meant. Not just surface smiles or posed shots. But truth. Identity. The beautiful, sometimes aching honesty that most students never let the school halls see.
To her surprise, several students agreed.
"Yeah," one girl said. "We can do something that actually means something."
"Can we include sketches too?" someone else asked.
Anya raised her hand slowly. "I can help with that."
Oriana beamed.
In the weeks that followed, the project took shape. Students brought in photos—of their homes, their families, their favorite hiding spots. Some wrote short notes to go alongside the images. Others painted, collaged, or doodled in the margins. The exhibit became something living, breathing. A reflection of who they were beneath their uniforms.
One afternoon, Oriana pulled Anya aside. "We should include us."
Anya blinked. "Us?"
"Our story. A photo. A drawing. A note. Something. Because we exist too. And we shouldn't pretend otherwise."
Anya looked around. No one was paying attention. But the old fear pressed at her ribs like cold fingers.
"What if it's too much?"
"It's not," Oriana said. "We're not too much. We're exactly enough."
A week before the festival, they stayed after school to help arrange the display boards. The classroom had been transformed into a soft gallery—strings of lights, printed photos, handwritten labels on small cards.
Oriana crouched down near one corner and held up a picture.
It was one Anya hadn't seen before.
It showed her, sitting by the greenhouse window, sketchbook open, light caught in her hair.
"When did you take that?" Anya whispered.
"I didn't. Mina did."
Anya's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"She gave it to me a few days ago," Oriana explained. "Said maybe she'd been wrong. That sometimes, you don't see the beauty in something until someone else teaches you how."
Anya didn't know how to respond. So she looked at the photo again. The way her own face appeared—peaceful, focused—made something loosen in her.
They added the picture to the wall. Beneath it, Anya wrote:
"This is how she sees me. And for the first time, I believe her."
Next to it, Oriana added a drawing—an abstract swirl of sky, hands, stars, and music notes, all orbiting a single small figure with a silver ring on her finger.
And finally, a small label card that simply read:
"This is us."
On the morning of the festival, Anya stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself longer than usual.
She wore a soft blue dress shirt, tucked into her pleated skirt. The ring still rested on her finger. And on her collar, she pinned the small lavender flower Oriana had left in the box.
Her mother appeared in the doorway.
"You look beautiful," she said softly.
Anya blushed. "Thanks."
There was a long pause before her mother added, "I'm proud of you. You've… changed, this year."
"I think I've just… found something worth holding onto."
Her mother nodded. "Sometimes, that's all it takes."
The exhibition room was full of people—students, teachers, even some families. Everyone wandered slowly, whispering, reading, smiling. Some cried. Some stood still for long minutes in front of photos that clearly touched something deep.
Anya hovered near the back, watching reactions. Watching her drawing. Watching their corner—her and Oriana's corner—become something no one could erase.
Then she felt Oriana's hand slip into hers.
"We did it," Oriana whispered.
"We're doing it," Anya corrected, smiling.
They stood like that as the room moved around them. Still. Together.
And for the first time, Anya didn't care who saw.
That evening, after the festival ended, they returned to the music room. Just the two of them.
It was quiet again, the golden light slanting through the windows.
Oriana sat at the piano and played a soft melody—something simple, unpolished. But beautiful.
Anya watched her, watched the way her fingers moved like water across the keys.
Then Oriana turned.
"You know what I wish?" she asked.
"What?"
"That time could pause. Not forever. Just for now."
Anya walked over and sat beside her.
"Maybe," she said, resting her head on Oriana's shoulder, "we don't need to pause it. Maybe we just need to be in it."
Oriana turned her face.
Their kiss this time was slow. Familiar. Home.
When they pulled apart, Oriana whispered, "I love you."
Anya closed her eyes.
"I love you too."
And that was the truth.
The kind that didn't need to shout to be real.
The kind that stayed, even after the music stopped.