Chapter 44: The Song Between Our Hands
The day after we returned from the clearing, I couldn't stop replaying every detail in my mind. The quiet moments. The way her fingers found mine in the tall grass. The letter. The promise. All of it sat softly in my chest like a lullaby that refused to end.
Oriana and I didn't speak much at school that morning. We didn't need to. Our eyes met across the courtyard, and something passed between us — a kind of golden stillness, as if we were holding hands in silence even while surrounded by the world's noise.
At lunch, we sat under the tamarind tree together, our shoulders brushing occasionally. The wind carried the faint scent of grilled coconut rice and hibiscus. I peeled a tangerine while she read aloud softly from a poetry book she borrowed from the library, her voice delicate and clear.
"'There are two silences,'" she read, "'one when no word is spoken. The other when perhaps a torrent of words has been spoken, and everything is still…'"
I looked up, and she was already gazing at me, her eyes holding the second silence.
"That one feels familiar," I whispered.
She nodded. "Because we've lived in it."
She reached for a segment of the tangerine, brushing my fingers as she did. A quiet warmth bloomed through me like ink through water.
That evening, Oriana invited me over.
Her voice on the phone had been soft and shy. "Just come," she said. "We'll do homework. Maybe listen to music. I just… I want you near."
I arrived just as the sun dipped behind the horizon, turning the sky into an endless ribbon of orange and violet. Her house was already glowing with warm lights, the scent of lemongrass and steamed jasmine rice drifting from the kitchen.
Her grandmother greeted me with a smile and a wink, as if she already knew everything without needing to ask.
"She's upstairs," she said with a knowing tone. "Try not to distract her too much from her homework."
I blushed. "I'll try."
But I knew I wouldn't.
Oriana's room was small but full of stories. Paper cranes hung from the ceiling. Shelves filled with music sheets, books in three languages, and tiny glass bottles that held dried petals. On the windowsill, a worn music box stood next to a faded photo of her as a little girl — already smiling like she knew how to carry joy in secret.
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing a soft cotton T-shirt and shorts, her hair pulled into a loose braid. When she saw me, her whole face lit up.
"You came," she said.
"I'd always come to you."
I sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth from her skin. She handed me a notebook, half-filled with her slanted handwriting.
"Help me with this essay?" she asked, her voice playful.
I glanced at the topic — "What makes a moment unforgettable?"
I looked at her.
"You do."
She rolled her eyes, blushing. "Anya…"
But I meant it.
We worked on the essay together for a while, her head occasionally bumping against mine, her laughter bubbling whenever I suggested something overly poetic. Every moment felt like it had weight — not heavy, but meaningful. Like time itself was taking notes.
When the homework was done and the sky had gone dark, she pulled out her small speaker and connected her phone. Soft music filled the room — gentle Thai indie ballads, full of quiet longing and tender metaphors.
"I want to dance," she said suddenly.
I blinked. "Here?"
She stood and held out her hand. "Why not?"
I hesitated, heart racing.
"I don't really know how," I admitted.
"You don't need to. Just follow me."
Her fingers wrapped around mine, and she pulled me into the center of the room. We swayed slowly, bodies close, our feet moving more from emotion than rhythm. Her other hand rested on my waist, and I felt her breath against my neck.
"See?" she whispered. "It's just a song between our hands."
We kept dancing. Song after song.
At one point, she laid her head on my shoulder and murmured, "I wish this could be every night. Just us. The music. Nothing else."
"I'd build a world for that," I said.
She looked up, eyes glassy.
"You already have."
Later, we sat on the floor, backs against the bed, surrounded by pillows and soft laughter. She pulled out an old photo album and handed it to me.
"My mom gave this to me years ago," she said. "It's mostly pictures of when I was small. Before things got… hard."
I turned the pages slowly. There she was, laughing in a plastic kiddie pool. Then hugging a giant stuffed rabbit. Then holding a sparkler with both hands, her eyes wide like they were catching stars.
"She was beautiful," I said, pointing to a photo of Oriana's mother.
"She was," Oriana said quietly. "But she left. And sometimes I worry I'll leave too. Not physically… but the way people drift."
"You won't," I said firmly.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I'll be the gravity that keeps you here."
Tears welled in her eyes.
She leaned forward and kissed me — a long, slow kiss that didn't ask for permission because it already knew it was welcome. It wasn't about heat. It was about truth. About two souls finally believing in the space they were creating together.
When she pulled back, she cupped my cheek. "You make the hard days feel like stories I survived just to find you."
We lay curled in her bed, fully clothed, fully awake, yet drifting. Her hand rested over my heart.
"It's fast," she murmured.
"Because it knows you're near."
She smiled and closed her eyes.
For a while, I watched her sleep. The way her breath slowed. The way her fingers twitched slightly as if still holding mine in her dreams. I had never seen anything more beautiful than the peace she carried when no one was watching.
I kissed her forehead gently.
"I love you," I whispered into the silence, unsure if she heard.
But she stirred, smiled in her sleep, and whispered back, "I know."
The next morning, we sat on her porch sipping warm soy milk. The sunrise painted her skin gold, and the breeze tangled itself in her hair like it was trying to remember her.
"We should go back to the clearing," she said. "Bring sketchbooks. Fruit. Maybe even stay until the stars."
"I'd stay until the end of time," I replied.
She reached for my hand, and I let her hold it.
And just like that, another page in our unwritten story turned, sunlight soaking through the ink.