Chapter 37: Things the Sky Keeps
The sky was pale that morning, a kind of white-blue that reminded Anya of paper left too long in the sun—soft and worn, but still holding space for something to be written. She sat on the rooftop of the school with her knees drawn up, sketchbook in her lap and a pencil between her fingers, chewing gently at the eraser. Wind played with the strands of her hair, tugging them in playful little spirals.
Oriana sat beside her, legs stretched out, arms behind her for balance. She looked like she belonged there, like this spot had been waiting just for her. She was staring up at the clouds, eyes half-closed, her lips curled faintly in a smile.
"Do you think the sky keeps secrets?" Anya asked quietly.
Oriana turned to her, the breeze lifting her bangs. "What kind of secrets?"
"The things people say when no one else is listening. Or feelings they don't know how to say. Do you think the wind just… holds them?"
"I hope so," Oriana said. "That way they're not wasted."
Anya nodded and returned to her drawing. She was sketching the way the light hit Oriana's shoulders. Not her face this time—just the quiet strength in her posture, the way the sunlight lingered like it wanted to stay a little longer.
They had started coming up here almost every lunch break now. It was quieter than the courtyard and warmer than the library. And the sky above them felt like permission to dream a little bigger.
"Can I ask you something weird?" Oriana said, turning toward her.
"Always."
"If we were seasons… what would we be?"
Anya thought for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You'd be summer. But not the hot, dizzy kind. The kind with cool breezes and ocean air. The kind people wait for all year."
"And you?"
Anya hesitated. "Maybe… early spring? When things are still waking up."
Oriana leaned forward, brushing her fingers against Anya's. "I think you're autumn."
"Autumn?"
"Yeah. Gentle. Warm. A little sad sometimes. But full of color. Full of meaning."
Anya smiled at that. "You make me sound like poetry."
"You are," Oriana said simply.
Their scrapbook was beginning to fill.
Every page was a chapter, each corner taped with small memories. A leaf from the shrine, a movie ticket stub, a sketch of Oriana's laughter captured mid-tilt. Between the pages, their world grew—a space that was theirs and no one else's.
One page held a simple photo Oriana had taken on Anya's birthday—a blurry image of her blowing out a candle, eyes wide in surprise. Beneath it, Oriana had written in her loopy handwriting:
"You didn't wish for anything. You already had it."
Another page was covered in little hearts, each with a word inside: quiet, safe, warm, brave. All words Oriana had used to describe her when Anya said she couldn't find any for herself.
On Friday afternoon, they sat on the train headed to the outskirts of town. Oriana had promised a surprise. Anya leaned against her shoulder, drowsy from the lull of the tracks.
"Where are we going?" she mumbled.
"You'll see."
The train pulled to a stop near a small riverside village, and they walked hand-in-hand along a narrow path lined with sunflowers. Oriana wore a woven hat, and Anya couldn't stop stealing glances at her—at the way her eyes squinted in the light, at the way she laughed with her whole body.
Eventually, they reached a wooden dock jutting into the river.
"This is it," Oriana said. "My uncle's boat. He said we could borrow it."
Anya looked at the small rowboat uncertainly. "You can row?"
"No," Oriana grinned, "but you can help me figure it out."
They wobbled into the boat, nearly toppling into the water with laughter. Oriana took one oar, Anya the other, and after several clumsy turns and minor splashes, they drifted out into the gentle current.
The town grew small behind them.
Around them, only water, wind, and sky.
"It's like the world paused," Anya whispered.
Oriana rested her chin on her knees, looking out across the shimmering surface. "I wanted us to have one day that felt like forever. Just ours. Just… untouched."
They floated quietly for a long while. At one point, Oriana began humming a melody Anya didn't recognize—soft, almost sad, but strangely comforting. It wasn't a song made for crowds. It was made for moments like this.
"Sing it again," Anya said.
"I wasn't singing."
"You were."
Oriana blushed. "It's something my mom used to hum. Before she left."
Anya looked up, surprised. "She left?"
"When I was eight," Oriana said. "I don't talk about it much. Not because I'm ashamed. Just… it still aches, sometimes."
Anya reached out and took her hand. "Thank you for telling me."
Oriana leaned into her touch. "It's funny. I never felt whole growing up. Not really. Like a page missing from a book. But when I'm with you… I don't even think about the missing parts."
"You make me feel… written," Anya whispered. "Like I'm finally part of the story."
Oriana's eyes were wet, but she smiled. "You're the most important part."
They kissed in the middle of the river, the sky above them holding no judgment, only light.
On the way back, Oriana snapped a picture of Anya sitting at the front of the boat, hair tousled by the breeze, sketchbook balanced on her lap.
"That's going in the book," she declared.
Anya laughed. "Don't forget to caption it."
"Oh, I've already written it in my head."
Later that night, they sat cross-legged on Oriana's bedroom floor, scrapbook open between them.
Oriana glued the photo onto the newest page and wrote beneath it:
"She looked like she belonged to the wind. But she stayed."
Summer break approached slowly, like a train you could hear long before it arrived. Their classmates buzzed with plans—vacations, cram schools, summer jobs. For Anya and Oriana, it meant more time. More freedom. More days unmeasured by bells.
One day, as they sat by the river sketching dragonflies and reeds, Oriana turned to her and said, "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"When the world gets loud again—when school starts, or people stare, or life pulls us in different directions—promise me you won't forget what this felt like."
Anya nodded. "I won't."
Oriana reached out and tapped the ring still on Anya's pinkie. "Then I won't either."
The next morning, Anya found a note tucked inside her sketchbook:
"I've loved many things quietly. But not you.
With you, I want the world to know.
With you, I want to live out loud."
It wasn't signed. It didn't have to be.
Anya closed her eyes and pressed the note to her heart.
Outside, the sky was wide and endless, like a promise.
And above it all, the wind whispered something the trees leaned in to hear.