Chapter 11: Love That Waits Without Counting
(from Anya's perspective)
It had been eleven days.
Anya knew, not because she was counting—but because every morning when she opened the curtains, her heart did something strange. Not a flutter. Not a break. Just a quiet folding-in, like a flower deciding to stay closed for one more day.
Kyoto was far.
But Oriana still felt close.
Sometimes, Anya swore she could hear her voice in the teakettle's whistle. See her shadow in the fog that curled outside the windows before sunrise. Feel her warmth in the dent the pillow still held.
It wasn't sadness.
Not entirely.
It was love reshaped into patience.
Anya had fallen into a rhythm since Oriana left again.
Mornings began with jasmine tea. A letter—either writing one or rereading the last. Then errands. She'd visit the flower stall where the older man always tucked in a stem of lavender "for the one you miss."
In the afternoons, she'd paint.
Not seriously. Just watercolors—mostly soft skies and faceless girls with wind in their hair. She didn't sign them. She didn't show them to anyone.
But she painted one almost every day.
She knew Oriana would understand.
Some things weren't meant for display.
Some things were meant just to feel.
The first letter arrived on a Thursday.
It was wrapped in pale blue paper and smelled faintly of rain and sakura bark.
Anya opened it carefully.
Inside, Oriana had written:
Today I watched two people hold hands across a stone wall. One was inside the temple. One was outside. Their fingers curled into the empty air between them, just barely touching.
That's how I feel with you right now.
Not apart.
Just separated by the shape of time.
I kissed a postcard and didn't send it.
Because it didn't feel right, sending lips through paper.
So I'm sending this instead:
Me. In these words. In my longing. In the way my heart folds like a letter only you know how to open.
Anya held the letter to her chest.
And for a while, she didn't move.
She just breathed.
And felt.
That evening, she went to the lake alone.
The sky was pale orange, as if someone had brushed it with honey and silence.
She sat on their bench.
The one with the initials.
And remembered Oriana's hand brushing against hers like it had always belonged there.
A soft breeze tugged at her sleeves.
And in that moment, Anya said aloud, "I miss you."
It wasn't dramatic.
No tears.
Just truth, spoken gently to the air.
Later that night, lying in bed, she found one of Oriana's earrings beneath the pillow.
A small silver stud.
Forgotten, maybe.
Or left behind on purpose.
Anya didn't ask.
She just held it between her fingers and pressed a kiss to it.
Then placed it in her drawer with the other quiet treasures: folded letters, a train ticket, the tag from a jasmine candle they'd burned halfway through, and a polaroid of them mid-laughter, half-blurry and whole-hearted.
The next few days passed quietly.
Each with a rhythm of remembering.
Some nights she dreamed of Oriana.
Not grand dreams—just small scenes.
A hand reaching for hers in a crowd.
A shared umbrella.
A laugh that echoed long after waking.
And on the sixth day, she woke to a storm.
It thundered from the sky without warning, rain slapping against the roof like a heartbeat run wild.
She made tea.
She curled under the blanket.
And she let herself cry for the first time.
Not from fear.
Not from loneliness.
But from the ache of wanting someone so fully that the missing turned beautiful.
Because even in absence, Oriana still filled the room.
That afternoon, another letter arrived.
Shorter this time.
But sweeter.
I saw a girl on the train with a sketchbook full of koi fish. She smiled at me. I thought: Anya would've asked her what they meant.
You always see the meaning behind things. That's one of the first reasons I fell for you.
I kissed the river today. Just with my fingers. Just in case the water carried it to you.
Anya reread that last line five times.
Then wrote back:
I saw the river here and whispered your name. I don't know if it reached you. But I sent it anyway. Maybe our voices meet somewhere mid-stream.
She added:
I still wear your sweater on cold days. I think it remembers your shape. Sometimes I sleep in it, and wake up with your name in my mouth.
A week later, they called.
Oriana's voice crackled faintly, but it didn't matter.
She said, "I was walking through the bamboo grove and suddenly—I needed to hear you."
Anya smiled into the phone. "I was painting your hands this morning."
"Do they look lonely?"
"No," Anya said. "They look brave."
Oriana was quiet.
Then said, "I want to come home early. Again."
Anya's heart clenched.
Not from hope.
Not from fear.
Just the weight of choice between them again.
"Do you want to?"
"I do. But I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That I'll always be choosing between love and becoming."
Anya said nothing at first.
Then gently:
"You don't have to choose."
"How?"
"Because loving you is part of who you're becoming."
That night, Anya lit a candle.
She placed it by the window and watched it flicker.
The flame moved like a heartbeat—steady, reaching.
She whispered:
"You're not lost. You're just learning how to find yourself."
And in her chest, she felt the quiet promise of love that didn't beg or cling or cage—
but waited.
With open arms.
And full belief.
That love which lets you leave…
is the kind you come home to.
Always.