Chapter 55: The Sound We Make Together
The letter was sent on a Monday morning.
Oriana slipped it into the postbox outside the bakery near her grandmother's house — the one with orange tiles and the smell of warm taro buns. She didn't say anything as she dropped it in. Just stood there for a second after, like she was listening for something.
Like silence might answer back.
I stood beside her, quiet.
"You okay?" I asked gently.
She looked at me and smiled — not the bright kind. The soft, brave one.
"I am," she said. "Now that it's gone, I feel like I can breathe."
The days that followed passed like soft wind. The kind that brushes against your cheeks but doesn't push.
There was no reply.
No letter.
No call.
No message.
But Oriana didn't crumble.
Each morning, she tied the white ribbon in her hair. Each afternoon, we sat in our favorite spots — under the rain tree, on the edge of the music room steps, sometimes just beneath the sun where it filtered through glass.
And sometimes, she looked toward the street, toward the direction of home, as if waiting for something unseen.
But she didn't stop smiling.
Not at me.
It was Thursday when the announcement came.
An intercom buzz after lunch. A voice that belonged to no face, floating across classrooms like a bird.
"To all students, a reminder that Open Talent Night sign-ups close tomorrow afternoon. Whether you sing, dance, paint, or share poems — the stage is open to you. No auditions. Just heart. See Ms. Ladda in Room 2A."
The class buzzed with murmurs. Someone shouted, "I'm doing a rap!" Another girl joked about reading her math notes as performance art.
But across the room, Oriana turned slowly toward me.
And smiled.
We sat under the old frangipani tree after school, sharing a small bag of honey-roasted peanuts.
"Should we?" I asked.
"I want to," she said. "But not for them."
"For who then?"
"For us."
I nodded.
"What would we do?" I asked.
Oriana leaned back, eyes flickering toward the clouds. "I've been writing something. A piece for piano. But it feels like it needs something else."
"Words?"
She looked at me. "Your voice."
We practiced every afternoon in the unused music room behind the auditorium — the one with the dusty piano and creaky stools, where light slipped through slanted blinds and lit the room like a secret.
Oriana's song was delicate — like rain on still water. Minor chords that bent toward longing, then rose into something softer. Hopeful. Not loud, but brave.
I wrote the words in the quiet between.
"I once thought love had to whisper,
Had to live behind curtains and sighs.
But then she smiled —
and suddenly, the sky forgot how to lie."
We practiced barefoot. We laughed when I missed notes, and she playfully scolded me when I forgot my timing. Sometimes, we stopped playing altogether and just listened to the silence between our breaths.
"You're scared," she said one afternoon.
I nodded. "A little."
"Me too," she said. "But let's be scared together."
Friday arrived like a breath held too long.
We signed up during break. Ms. Ladda looked surprised, but not unkind.
"Both of you?" she asked.
"Yes," Oriana said.
"And you'll… perform together?"
"Yes."
She hesitated for a moment. Then wrote our names.
Anya & Oriana — Duet.
That night, we stayed up late texting.
Oriana: We don't have to prove anything. Just share something true.
Me: What if they laugh?
Oriana: Then we'll make the truth louder than their laughter.
Saturday evening arrived with slow golden light and soft thunderclouds curling at the edge of the horizon.
The auditorium was full. Students, teachers, parents. Paper lanterns hung along the walls. The stage was small, but it shimmered — lit by warm amber lights and the weight of so many hearts hoping to be seen.
Backstage, I paced.
My hands trembled.
"What if my voice shakes?" I whispered.
Oriana reached out and took both my hands in hers.
"Then let it," she said. "Let them hear your truth tremble."
When they called our names, the world tilted for a moment.
We stepped onto the stage.
The murmurs hushed.
Some eyes widened.
Others narrowed.
But we were already there.
Already seen.
Oriana sat at the piano.
I stood beside the mic.
She glanced at me once — her silent Are you ready? — and I gave the smallest nod.
She began.
Soft notes.
Then slower.
Then deeper.
And I spoke.
"There are two kinds of silence.
One that hides.
And one that heals."
My voice trembled. But I kept going.
Oriana's melody caught me like wind beneath wings.
"This is a story written without fear,
A song without apology.
A ribbon in the hair of the girl I love—
Tied not for approval,
But for remembrance."
I sang the next lines. My voice cracked once.
But she didn't stop playing.
And I didn't stop singing.
Because somewhere in the crowd, I imagined all the girls who once had to be quiet.
And I thought:
This one's for you.
The last note lingered in the air like breath held too long.
And then—
Applause.
Not roaring.
But steady.
Like rain on a temple roof.
A few cheers.
A voice near the back: "Beautiful!"
I looked at Oriana.
She was already smiling, eyes shining, cheeks pink.
We bowed.
And walked offstage hand in hand.
Backstage, a girl from the art club pressed a paper flower into my palm.
"For the both of you," she whispered.
Someone else left a folded paper crane on Oriana's bag.
And then — as we stood near the back doors, ready to leave — a woman approached.
Tall.
Wearing a pale blue dress.
Hair tied in a low knot.
Oriana froze.
"Ma," she whispered.
Her mother looked at her.
Then at me.
Then back at her daughter.
She stepped closer.
And placed something gently in Oriana's hand.
A white envelope.
"You were brave tonight," she said.
Oriana didn't move.
But her fingers clenched around the letter.
"I didn't come to stop you," her mother said. "I came to listen."
Then, before we could reply, she turned and walked away.
Outside, under the moonlight, Oriana opened the envelope with shaking hands.
Inside was a folded letter. Neat. Short.
You looked like your grandmother tonight. She would've been proud.
I'm still learning. Still unlearning.
But I saw the way you held her hand.
And it didn't look wrong.
It looked like something I used to believe in.
Come home. Let's start from here.
Oriana read it once.
Then again.
Then she looked at me.
And for the first time, her tears came without hiding.
I wiped them gently.
Then kissed her, right there under the stars.
No one watching.
Or maybe everyone watching.
But we didn't look away.