Chapter 17 : "Where the Blue Doors Wait"
The sky was still wearing morning when Oriana tugged gently on Anya's hand and whispered, "Come with me."
No explanation. No rush.
Just sunlight brushing her cheek, and the soft promise of something in her eyes.
Anya followed without asking.
They packed water, rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, and a small notebook Anya had been sketching in lately — filled with daydreams and lines of poetry that only Oriana ever read.
They walked past the edges of the familiar village, through rice paddies painted in gold and green. Oriana took shortcuts Anya didn't know yet, leading them down small dirt trails lined with wildflowers and sleepy chickens. The day was warm and slow. The kind of day that asked you to savor it.
"Where are we going?" Anya asked finally, her thumb grazing the edge of Oriana's palm.
Oriana smiled. "Somewhere I've never taken anyone before."
Anya's heart skipped in the space between their words.
Eventually, the trail opened onto a hilltop that overlooked a quieter village — smaller, older. Houses were tucked beneath trees, their roofs sloping gently like they'd grown from the earth itself. And scattered among them… doors. Blue doors. Dozens of them.
Anya gasped. "Oriana…"
Oriana looked out over the roofs. "When I was little, I used to come here with my aunt. She said the blue doors were painted to welcome the future. Like magic. Like the people living inside weren't afraid of change."
Anya turned to her. "Is that why we're here?"
Oriana took her hand and nodded. "I want us to find something. Maybe not today. Maybe not even this month. But I want to look. For a place. For us."
Anya leaned her head on Oriana's shoulder.
"Then let's find the door that opens to the rest of our life."
They explored slowly, like dreamers do.
Some houses had fallen into quiet disrepair, windows shaded with vines and wind-chimes tangled in cobwebs. Others were still alive — blooming gardens, laundry dancing in the breeze, the sound of children's laughter echoing between alleyways.
At one small blue gate, a gray-haired woman sat weaving palm leaves into baskets.
She looked up, squinting into the sun. "You girls looking for something?"
Oriana smiled. "Maybe. A house."
The woman chuckled, brushing her hands on her apron. "Plenty of those. But be careful — this place doesn't just give homes. It gives stories. You'll end up living the one you choose."
Anya grinned. "That sounds perfect."
They wandered deeper, taking note of small porches, gardens with crooked fences, lemon trees growing wild over rooftops. Oriana took pictures with her old phone, capturing peeling paint and sun-faded shutters.
"Do you see us here?" she asked, pausing in front of a small cream-colored house with a royal blue door and a window shaped like a half-moon.
Anya nodded. "I see us everywhere I'm standing next to you."
They sat beneath a frangipani tree to eat.
Anya unwrapped the rice cakes while Oriana flipped through her notebook.
"You wrote this last night?" Oriana asked, pointing to a page.
Anya nodded shyly.
Oriana read aloud, slowly.
"I didn't know love could look like rice boiling in a shared pot,
like wet clothes hanging side by side,
like the pause between your laughter and my reply."
She closed the notebook gently and pressed her lips to Anya's temple.
"Write a whole book," she whispered. "And let me be every chapter."
By early afternoon, they'd walked nearly every corner of the village.
They found a shuttered house at the end of a narrow path — stone steps chipped and moss-covered, a balcony wrapped in ivy. The blue door here was pale, faded from years of sun. But it stood tall. Waiting.
Oriana paused, her fingers trailing the wooden frame.
"This one feels like it's been listening."
Anya stepped beside her. "Maybe it's been waiting too."
There was no "For Sale" sign. No advertisement.
Just a quiet welcome.
They didn't knock. Didn't try the door.
They simply sat on the steps and let themselves imagine.
A cat sleeping in the window.
Books stacked on the floor.
The smell of lemongrass and fresh paint.
A table set for two, every day, forever.
They returned to the guesthouse by sundown, their bodies tired but their hearts awake in a way they hadn't expected.
As they lay on the bed later, limbs stretched in comfortable silence, Anya whispered, "Do you think we're ready?"
"For what?"
"To have something real. A home. A routine. A forever."
Oriana rolled onto her side and traced small circles on Anya's wrist.
"We're not perfect," she said. "But we're ready enough."
Anya smiled. "I like that. Ready enough."
They kissed, soft and lingering, until the quiet around them blurred the edges of time.
The next morning, Oriana wrote the first list.
She did it in silence, hunched over a page in the back of Anya's notebook, her brows furrowed in that way that meant she was thinking carefully.
When Anya leaned over her shoulder, she read:
House Requirements:
– A blue door
– A tree outside (for a swing)
– A place to plant lemongrass
– Two bedrooms (in case we need space, but probably won't use both)
– A window that catches the morning light
Anya added beneath it in careful print:
– A place to laugh
– A place to cry
– A place to stay, even when it's hard
Oriana looked up, eyes damp.
"That last one's important."
Anya kissed her cheek. "So are you."
They told the guesthouse owner they'd be extending their stay — another week, maybe two. Enough time to breathe between possibilities.
Every evening, they returned to the blue-door village with a new layer of hope. They peeked through cracked fences, listened to stories from neighbors, even helped repaint a gate for an old woman who offered them mangoes in return.
There was no pressure. No urgency.
Only becoming.
Becoming girls who could build things.
Who didn't run.
Who believed that love could live in the same place every day — not just in weekend getaways and hidden coves, but in grocery lists and forgotten laundry and soft, habitual goodnights.
One night, as they lay curled together under the fan, Anya whispered, "Do you remember the first night we kissed?"
Oriana nodded. "Of course."
"I was terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of being too much. Too quiet. Too complicated."
Oriana kissed her jaw. "You're none of those things."
"You don't think I'm complicated?"
"You're a galaxy, Anya. You're allowed to be layered. You're allowed to be vast."
Anya turned toward her, burying her face in Oriana's chest.
"I want to be a simple kind of happy," she whispered. "The kind that feels like home."
Oriana whispered back, "Then let's build that home together. Even if we get it wrong at first. Even if the paint peels and the roof leaks. I'll stay."
And Anya believed her.
With every cell in her body.