Chapter 47: The Way She Says My Name
The first full day they spent together after Oriana's return didn't rush anything.
It didn't need to.
The world had waited long enough. It was allowed to be slow now.
They woke late—sunlight already slipping past the curtains like a shy visitor. Anya turned first, blinking away the blurriness of sleep, only to find Oriana already looking at her.
"You watch me sleep now?" Anya murmured, voice thick with morning.
"You talk in your sleep," Oriana replied, grinning.
Anya flushed. "What did I say?"
"You mumbled something about miso soup and shoes."
"That tracks."
But then Oriana's smile softened.
"And you said my name."
Anya's breath caught.
Oriana leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Anya's.
"It was the way you said it," she whispered. "Like it belonged."
They moved through the day gently, like they were walking through a memory they didn't want to disturb.
Anya made breakfast while Oriana stood beside her, peeling oranges and sneaking wedges into Anya's mouth between spoonfuls of rice. She hummed a soft tune Anya half-recognized—an old song they used to share through earbuds during long train rides.
After breakfast, they curled up on the floor, thumbing through old sketchbooks. Oriana traced the drawings with her fingertip, stopping at one of herself beneath a winter tree.
"You drew this while I was gone?"
"I needed to remember how your mouth curved when you looked up."
Oriana looked up then, just to prove it hadn't changed.
Anya smiled. "Still perfect."
That afternoon, they left the house for the first time.
The town looked both exactly the same and impossibly different. The shops were still tucked in the same corners, the lampposts leaning just slightly, the shrines dusted with falling leaves. But every shadow felt warmer. Every breeze seemed to whisper:
She's back. She's here. Look.
They stopped by the old café, the one with the bell that never rang properly.
The owner, a round-cheeked woman in her sixties, blinked twice when she saw them.
"Oriana-chan?" she said, voice rising. "Is that really you?"
Oriana bowed slightly. "Yes, ma'am."
"You were gone so long I thought you floated away."
Anya laughed. "She almost did."
Oriana grinned. "But she pulled me back."
They sat by the window, sipping tea, a shared dessert between them—a simple chiffon cake with whipped cream and strawberries. Oriana fed Anya the first bite.
"You always did that," Anya murmured.
"Because I always wanted the first taste to be with you."
Afterward, they wandered through the covered market. The stalls were decorated with pine sprigs and red paper charms for the New Year. Children ran ahead of their parents, tugging at sleeves and begging for candied fruit.
Oriana paused at a stand selling secondhand books.
She picked up a thin volume with a cover of pressed violets.
"Poetry," she said. "The old kind. Simple words that sound like wind."
Anya leaned over. "Get it."
Oriana hesitated. "Would you read it to me?"
Anya took the book from her hands, flipped to the first page, and read quietly.
"I found a petal in my tea.
It must have fallen from your voice."
Oriana stared.
"You're going to kill me," she whispered.
"Not yet," Anya teased. "We have time."
They walked home as the sky began to dim.
Streetlights buzzed softly. A few snowflakes drifted lazily down from the pale violet sky. Oriana held Anya's mittened hand in hers like it was a secret.
"What did you think about," she asked, "while I was gone?"
Anya tilted her head. "Everything."
Oriana squeezed her hand. "Tell me one."
Anya took a breath.
"There was one night," she said, "when the wind howled so loud I thought it was going to take the house apart. I curled up under your blanket and tried to remember what your voice sounded like when you said my name. I kept saying it to myself. Over and over."
Oriana stopped walking.
She turned, slowly.
"Say it now."
Anya blinked. "What?"
"My name. Say it."
Anya swallowed. Her breath curled in front of her mouth like smoke.
And then, softly—so softly—it could've been a prayer:
"Oriana."
It came out like music. Like breath through a reed. Like warmth finally spilling back into her bones.
Oriana kissed her.
Right there on the street. No hesitation. No preamble.
Just one soft, unshaking kiss.
And the world didn't stop.
But it did open.
They spent the evening in Anya's room again.
Wrapped in the green flannel blanket, their knees pressed together, the poetry book between them.
Anya read aloud.
Sometimes Oriana read too, tripping on the words, laughing, starting over.
At one point, Anya stopped reading.
She watched Oriana's profile as she mouthed the poem silently to herself.
"You're so beautiful," Anya said.
Oriana turned. "Even after all these months?"
"Especially after."
Oriana leaned her head on Anya's shoulder.
"I feel like I'm learning you all over again," she murmured.
"I hope you do."
"Why?"
"Because I'm still changing. I want you to know every version of me."
Oriana looked up. "Even the ones that hurt?"
"Especially those."
Oriana cupped her cheek. "Then stay close. Even when I'm slow."
"I will."
They fell asleep with the poetry book between them, like a third heartbeat.
No dreams that night.
Only breath.
Only peace.
Only the long, quiet joy of being known again.