Chapter 48: The Thread Through Her Name
Oriana invited me over again the following Saturday. She didn't say why in her message — just, "Come after lunch. I need to see you. Bring that poem you marked in the green book."
I arrived with the poem folded in my notebook, tucked like a secret between the pages. The sun was high, casting warm, sleepy shadows across the courtyard of her grandmother's house. The frangipani tree beside the fence was blooming again. The same blossoms that once drifted down while she read poetry aloud in the fading light. I remembered the way they caught in her hair — soft white petals against dark strands.
I knocked gently, and it was her grandmother who opened the gate.
She greeted me with a small, thoughtful smile — the kind adults give when they're watching closely but pretending they're not.
"She's in her room," she said. "But come sit first. I made chrysanthemum tea."
It would've been impolite to refuse, so I sat across from her on the wooden bench near the orchid pots. The air smelled of lemongrass and sun-dried laundry.
We sipped tea slowly.
"I hear you and Oriana spend a lot of time together," she said casually, eyes never leaving mine.
I nodded. "She's… someone I care about."
She watched me for a long moment.
Then, quietly: "I was her age once. And I remember what it felt like — to love someone the world didn't have language for."
My heart paused.
I looked at her.
She gave a faint, almost bittersweet smile. "The world's grown louder, but not kinder. Be gentle with my girl."
"I will," I whispered.
She reached forward and squeezed my hand once before rising.
"She's waiting. And I've already steeped the second pot."
Oriana's room smelled of jasmine and warm pages. She sat cross-legged on her floor, barefoot, her cheeks flushed like she'd just woken from a dream.
She didn't rise when I entered — just held out her arms.
I went to her.
Our hug wasn't desperate.
It was deep.
Steady.
Like we were pressing our hearts together and reminding them to beat for the same things.
"You look tired," I murmured into her hair.
"Not tired. Just full."
"Full of what?"
She pulled back and looked at me.
"Words. Questions. Wanting."
She smiled and kissed my cheek before motioning for me to sit.
"I told her," she said after a moment.
"Your grandmother?"
She nodded. "I told her we love each other."
"And?"
"She said she already knew. She said love like ours leaves a scent. That it lingers on our fingers and eyes and voices. That anyone who's ever truly been in love can smell it."
I blinked.
"She used to love someone," Oriana said. "A woman. A long time ago. Before she married my grandfather. She said they were together for three years. Quietly. Fiercely. And then it ended — not because they stopped loving, but because the world demanded it."
I reached for her hand.
"She said she still dreams of her sometimes."
Oriana's eyes were wet now, but her voice didn't break.
"She told me not to waste time pretending. That if I love you, I should love you out loud. Even if it's quiet. Even if it's risky."
I felt my chest ache — in the best way.
"Oriana…"
She leaned forward and kissed me — a soft, sure kiss. One that tasted of tea and tears and relief.
Later, we lay on her bed, limbs tangled lazily, the green poetry book open between us.
I handed her the poem I'd folded.
She read it silently, her lips moving without sound.
When she reached the last stanza, she read it aloud:
"And if I never learn the shape of forever,
let me at least know the sound of your name
spoken by the rain,
remembered by the trees."
She looked at me.
"I want to write my name into you," she said.
"You already have."
She placed her hand over my heart.
"Then write yours into me."
So I did — not with a pen, but with my fingers, slowly tracing the curve of each letter against her back. She shivered, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
"A-n-y-a," I whispered.
She smiled.
"I feel it now."
As the afternoon wore on, the sky dimmed into soft grey. Rain threatened, and soon we could hear it — tapping gently against the windowpane, like fingers searching for something lost.
Oriana sat up, brushing her hair over her shoulder.
"Let's write letters to each other," she said suddenly.
"Now?"
"Yes. Real ones. Ones we won't send until we're ready. Maybe not for years. Maybe never. But I want there to be something written. Something solid. So if the world forgets us, the page won't."
I nodded.
She brought out two pieces of creamy stationery — pale lavender, with a faint leaf pattern in the margins.
We sat side by side, knees touching, and began.
I wrote slowly.
Carefully.
Every word tasted like a secret.
I didn't write about the headmistress. Or the whispers. Or the ache I sometimes felt when people looked at us like we were something shameful.
I wrote about the first time I saw her smile.
The way her voice changed when she read aloud.
The way she touched my hand like it was an answer.
"If love is a thread," I wrote, "then yours is the one that stitched me back together."
When I finished, I sealed it without rereading. The words were already in me. I didn't need to see them again.
Oriana did the same.
She handed me hers with both hands, then took mine.
We didn't open them.
We simply placed them in a small wooden box on her bookshelf.
"Someday," she said. "We'll open them when we need to remember the beginning."
I smiled. "We'll open them when we've built the middle and made it safely to the end."
That evening, we sat in the kitchen while her grandmother sliced mango and sprinkled it with chili salt. The house was quiet except for the soft patter of rain and the clinking of porcelain plates.
"You'll stay for dinner?" her grandmother asked.
"If it's alright."
She looked between us and nodded once. "Love needs feeding, too."
After dinner, Oriana and I stood by the door, hesitant to part.
Her fingers clung to mine, her eyes soft and a little sad.
"I wish the world didn't need us to explain ourselves."
"It doesn't," I said. "Only the loud parts of it do."
She leaned her forehead against mine.
"Then promise me — no matter what happens — we'll always come back to that clearing. The one behind the trees. The one that remembers our promises."
"I promise."
She kissed me once.
Then again.
And as I stepped out into the rain, I felt the poem in my chest still humming.
Because I carried her name like a thread—
Woven into every step I took.