Chapter 52: The Space Between Our Names
The wind that afternoon carried the scent of dust and frangipani.
It was the kind of day that made the sky seem too big for the world. The clouds were stretched thin, like someone had painted them in watercolor and forgotten to stop.
We sat beneath the rain tree by the back fence of the school — the one that had long since cracked along the bottom, letting sunlight spill in crooked stripes over the weeds.
Oriana had taken off her shoes.
Her knees were pulled to her chest, chin resting on them, arms loosely wrapped around herself.
I sat beside her, legs crossed, hands folded in my lap.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
And yet…
Everything was being said.
"It's strange," Oriana said softly, "how something can feel empty and full at the same time."
I turned to her. "Like what?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached down and pulled a blade of grass from between her toes.
Then said, "Like this moment. Like… I don't know what's going to happen next. And somehow that feels terrifying. But also — exactly right."
I smiled gently. "Maybe that's what growing up is. That exact feeling."
She looked at me.
And her eyes were softer than I'd ever seen them.
"Anya," she whispered. "Do you ever feel like there's a version of yourself you only show to me?"
I inhaled.
Then nodded.
"Yes," I said. "And sometimes I think that's the real one."
The silence between us settled again — but this time, it wasn't heavy.
It was soft.
Almost comforting.
The kind of silence that feels like a blanket pulled up to your chin.
I reached over, slowly, and touched her hand.
Not to hold it.
Just to be near it.
She didn't pull away.
She let her fingers curl slightly toward mine, not quite meeting, but enough to make my breath catch.
"How long do you think we've been falling into this?" she asked.
I tilted my head. "This?"
She didn't say the word.
But she didn't need to.
There are moments that don't need to be spoken aloud.
Moments that hum beneath your skin.
That make your heart skip not because it's startled, but because it's suddenly… awake.
This was one of them.
We didn't kiss.
We didn't touch any more than fingertips brushing grass.
But something shifted.
And once it did, it couldn't shift back.
That night, she sent me a voice note.
Not a message.
Not a letter.
Just her voice, quiet and bare.
Anya. I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the way your hand almost touched mine. And how my whole body noticed it. Not in a loud way. Just… the way a tree notices light. Slowly. Fully. Like something waking up.
I listened to it three times before sleeping.
And still heard it in my dreams.
The next day, we didn't talk about it.
Not directly.
But there was something different in how we stood beside each other at the school gate.
Something softer.
She took the hairband from her wrist and tied it around my hand like a bracelet.
"Keep this today," she said. "Just because."
I nodded.
Didn't let go of it once.
During lunch, we walked to the back of the art building, where the wall was painted with a mural of clouds.
She leaned against it, head tilted back, eyes closed.
"You know what I miss?" she said suddenly.
"What?"
"The way things felt before we had to be careful."
I swallowed.
"You mean before… us?"
"No. I mean… before the world made us afraid of being too close."
I stepped closer.
"Are you afraid now?"
She opened her eyes.
Looked straight at me.
"Yes," she said. "But I still want to be close."
I reached out.
Took her hand.
For the first time — fully.
No half-holds. No brushing.
Just fingers intertwined.
Her palm was warm against mine, slightly trembling.
We stood there like that for what felt like hours.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Just… being.
And it felt like flying without needing to leave the ground.
That evening, she met me outside my house after dinner.
She didn't say why.
Just looked at me, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed from the walk.
"I didn't want the day to end without this," she said.
And then —
She kissed me.
Not with force.
Not with uncertainty.
But with something that felt like remembering.
Like finding home in a place you never knew you'd lost.
Her lips tasted like tamarind candy and something sweeter — something only hers.
When she pulled away, I couldn't speak.
She smiled shyly.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I just… couldn't not."
I shook my head. "Don't be sorry."
She nodded.
And kissed me again.
Longer this time.
Softer.
We didn't speak much afterward.
We just sat on the porch step, watching the moths dance beneath the porch light, our shoulders pressed together.
She rested her head on mine.
I closed my eyes.
And in that moment, the world was still.
And perfect.
And ours.