Chapter 18 : "The Place We Chose Each Other"
The morning light spilled across the wooden floor, warm and soft as silk. It caught in the strands of Oriana's hair, turned her lashes gold. Anya watched her sleep for a while, not because she needed to, but because something about that quiet breath between them felt sacred.
When Oriana stirred, it was with a slow sigh. Her fingers reached for Anya even before her eyes opened.
"You're staring again," she murmured, voice low and sleepy.
"You're beautiful when you're not trying," Anya whispered.
"I'm never trying," Oriana teased, eyes still closed. "That's the trick."
Anya kissed her brow. "Let's go see it again today. The one with the pale blue door. I keep thinking about it."
Oriana opened her eyes then, slow and full of meaning.
"I've been thinking about it too. I think it might be… ours."
They packed food and water, brought their sketchbook and Oriana's old camera. It had become a ritual now — the journey down winding paths, past the rice paddies and whispering trees. A walk of hope. Of becoming more real with each step.
The village beyond the hill greeted them like an old friend.
Chickens clucked along the fence lines. A little girl waved from behind a clay pot. Someone was singing while scrubbing a mat near a well. The world moved around them, steady and unbothered — as if it already knew what they were about to decide.
When they reached the little house with the pale blue door, Oriana stood still for a long time.
The ivy on the balcony had crept further down since they last saw it, curling around the wooden rail like green lace. The wind chime above the door creaked gently, tapping a soft melody in the stillness.
Anya reached out and touched the doorframe.
"It feels like it's breathing," she whispered.
Oriana nodded. "Like it's been waiting for someone to come home."
They didn't need to knock. The house was empty, the property untended but not unloved. A neighbor — the same old woman who'd given them mangoes — appeared again across the fence.
"You girls again," she said with a smile.
"We keep ending up here," Oriana replied.
"Then maybe this is where you're meant to stay."
The woman leaned over the fence, arms resting on the top rail. "You want to look inside?"
Anya blinked. "Can we?"
"I've got the key," she said. "Belonged to my cousin. She passed two years ago. No children. The house has been quiet since. I've been keeping an eye on it."
Oriana looked at Anya.
Anya's heart pounded. "Yes, please."
The key turned with a soft click, and the door creaked open like it was exhaling.
Inside, the air was still — but not stale. Dust shimmered in the light coming through the windows. A table stood in the kitchen, worn and sturdy. The walls held faint outlines where pictures had once been. The floor creaked under their bare feet, but it felt solid.
Safe.
Anya walked to the window and opened the shutters. The breeze rushed in, lifting the curtains. Outside, the sound of leaves rustling, a bird singing, a motorbike in the distance.
Oriana ran her hand along the edge of the counter. "It's simple," she said.
"But it's enough," Anya replied.
They explored the back — two small bedrooms, a bathroom with pale blue tile, a closet with an old sunhat still hanging inside. Oriana laughed when she saw it.
"It suits you," Anya said, placing the hat on her head.
"I feel like I should be holding a watering can and humming a lullaby."
"You could."
"I will."
They ended back in the main room, standing in the center as if waiting for something to tell them it was right.
It didn't speak in words.
But it felt.
The house felt like a held breath. Like it had been paused, mid-sentence, waiting for someone to write the ending.
"I can see it," Anya said softly. "Our things here. Your books stacked by the window. My brushes in the corner. That little table set for breakfast."
Oriana stepped into her arms, resting her head on her chest.
"Me burning rice again."
"Me pretending to like it."
They laughed. And then the laughter faded into something quiet. Something fuller.
Anya kissed her hair.
"Let's ask about it. See what it takes. Let's try."
Oriana nodded. "Even if it's hard. Even if it takes time."
Anya looked down at her. "We'll do it together."
That afternoon, they returned to the guesthouse not with the weight of uncertainty, but with the soft lightness of decision.
They spoke with the village contact — the old woman called Mair — who promised to connect them to the family who held the deed.
"She'd have liked you two," Mair said. "My cousin. She believed in second chances. In starting over."
"She sounds like someone we would've loved," Oriana said.
Mair placed a hand over Oriana's. "Then honor her with laughter. With softness. That house deserves joy."
That evening, as dusk stretched its fingers across the sky, Anya and Oriana sat under a lantern-lit tree near the village temple. Locals gathered with food, children weaving between legs, incense thick in the air.
A local boy sang with a small guitar. People clapped along. No one was in a hurry. No one was watching them. And still, they held hands like it was a declaration.
"Do you ever think about what you would've missed if we never met?" Anya asked.
"All the time," Oriana said. "I think I would've kept looking for something without knowing what it was. A face. A voice. A softness I hadn't felt yet."
Anya smiled. "You saved me. Even when you didn't know it."
"You saved me back," Oriana whispered. "You made my life a place I want to stay in."
They leaned into each other as the stars began to gather.
That night, back in bed, the windows wide open and the breeze cool on their skin, Oriana spoke into the dark.
"Will it be enough?" she whispered. "Just us, in a small place, away from everything?"
Anya turned to her. "Do you feel full when you look at me?"
Oriana didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Then it'll be more than enough."
She pulled Oriana close, and their bodies curved into each other like notes in a song.
No rush.
No need to prove anything.
They kissed like they already lived there. Like they were already home.
The next morning, they woke to birdsong and the smell of fried bananas from the neighbor's window.
Oriana stretched. "Do you think they'll let us paint the walls?"
"I think they'll let us write poems on the ceiling if we ask kindly enough."
"Then we should start planning. Room by room."
Anya reached for her sketchbook. "Tell me what you see."
Oriana leaned her chin on Anya's shoulder.
"In the kitchen: hanging herbs. Laughter."
"In the bedroom: windows open, rain on the roof."
"In the garden: a swing. Lemongrass. A cat named Saffron."
"In the living room," Anya said softly, "us. Every day. Choosing each other."
Oriana closed her eyes and whispered, "Yes."