Chapter 43: A Place That Only We Know
The wind had changed.
There was a new scent in the air—one that whispered of blooming jasmine and the lingering memory of rain. As I walked through the familiar corridors of school, something inside me felt different. Like a river had shifted its course. Like the sun had tilted just a little closer to where I stood.
Oriana.
Since that kiss beneath the rain tree, the world had taken on a gentle glow. Her laughter had a new kind of weight to it—softer, like she was speaking directly to me, even when surrounded by others. Her glances carried more than curiosity now. They held meaning. Memory. The hush of secrets passed between breaths.
I found her that morning near the back field, crouched beside a puddle, her fingers making ripples in the still water. Her shoes were damp, her skirt slightly speckled with earth, and yet—she looked like a painting I wanted to live inside.
When she heard my footsteps, she looked up and smiled. Not the wide, performative smile she sometimes gave to others, but the quiet one. The one meant only for me.
"You're late," she said teasingly.
I sat down beside her without a word. The grass was still wet beneath me, but I didn't care. Her presence was enough to make everything else feel irrelevant.
"Did you dream about me?" she asked, plucking a small flower from the grass and twirling it between her fingers.
"Every time I closed my eyes."
She blushed. That soft, dusky pink that crept from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.
"I had a dream too," she said after a moment. "We were sitting by the ocean. Your head was on my shoulder. And we didn't say anything. Just listened to the waves."
"I'd like that," I whispered. "A place with no walls, no time, no one to interrupt."
She nodded. "Let's find that place."
We skipped the afternoon classes.
She tugged on my sleeve and led me past the school's outer gate, through the narrow winding streets of our sleepy town, past the temples with rust-red roofs and the old women selling coconut sweets by the roadside.
We didn't run.
We walked slowly, deliberately—as if we were writing our own path with each footstep.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"You'll see," she said, eyes glinting like sunlight on water.
Eventually, we reached the small forest behind her grandmother's house—the one we used to play in as children before life grew too heavy. The trees welcomed us like old friends, their branches swaying gently as we stepped into the quiet.
The world melted behind us.
There, hidden beyond the first line of trees, was a clearing neither of us had visited in years. The grass had grown long, dotted with wildflowers that swayed like dancers caught in prayer. A single stone bench sat in the middle, weathered by rain and time, moss growing in its cracks.
She let go of my hand and stepped forward, twirling slowly with her arms outstretched.
"I used to come here when I was little," she said, her voice distant, dreamy. "Before my parents divorced. Before I started pretending I was always fine."
I watched her. Even in stillness, she moved like music.
"This place feels like a secret," I said.
"It is," she replied, stopping to look at me. "And now it's yours too."
We sat on the bench. For a long time, we didn't speak.
The silence wasn't empty—it was full of things that didn't need to be said. The sound of leaves brushing against one another. The hum of cicadas. The occasional call of a bird overhead. And somewhere inside that quiet, our hearts aligned in a rhythm only we could hear.
"Do you ever think about the first time you realized?" I asked.
"Realized what?"
"That you… loved me."
She looked down, a smile growing slowly on her lips.
"Yes," she said. "It was the day you walked three kilometers in the rain just to bring me my forgotten sweater."
I laughed. "You were shivering like a ghost."
"You were soaked like a sponge," she teased. "But you still handed me that sweater and said, 'I don't want you to feel alone in the cold.'"
"I meant it."
"I know."
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It looked old, the edges softened from time.
"I wrote this that night," she said, handing it to me. "But I never gave it to you."
My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it. Her handwriting, slightly messy, danced across the page like scattered petals.
Dear Anya,
Thank you for remembering me when I forgot myself. For bringing warmth when I thought I deserved the cold. I don't know what kind of love this is—but it wraps around my ribs and makes it hard to breathe whenever you're near. If one day I'm brave enough, I'll tell you this out loud.
I looked up.
"You just did," I said, voice breaking a little.
She smiled and leaned in until our foreheads touched. Her breath mingled with mine, soft and slow.
"I think I've loved you for years," she whispered. "But I only started believing I could when you looked at me like I was worth choosing."
"You were always worth it."
We lay down in the clearing, side by side in the tall grass. The sun filtered through the branches, dappled light creating halos around her face. She turned to me, her fingers brushing mine lazily.
"Do you believe in soulmates?" she asked.
"I used to think it was just a word people used when they were afraid to lose someone."
"And now?"
"Now I think soulmates are the ones who remind you of the person you forgot you could be."
She smiled. "Then you're mine."
She reached up, plucked a blade of grass, and gently tickled my cheek.
"Promise me something?" she asked.
"Anything."
"Even if everything around us changes—if the seasons shift, if people talk, if we grow into different versions of ourselves—promise me we'll still meet here. In this memory. In this field. Just us."
I took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.
"I promise. A thousand times over."
Evening arrived in hues of lavender and gold. We didn't want to leave, but the shadows began to stretch long, and the air cooled with night's breath.
As we walked back, her head rested on my shoulder. The village lights twinkled in the distance like stars that had fallen just close enough to guide us home.
"We have a place now," she murmured sleepily. "Ours alone."
"I'll guard it like a treasure," I whispered.
She looked up, eyes gleaming. "You already do."
When we reached the edge of town, just before parting ways, she tugged at my sleeve again.
"One more kiss," she said.
I turned to her, and the world vanished.
Her lips found mine slowly, as if we were saying goodbye to something but also welcoming something deeper. The kind of kiss that lingered long after it ended. The kind that pressed its mark not on the lips, but the soul.
When she pulled away, she whispered, "Every time we kiss, I remember who I am."
"And every time we touch," I said, "I remember why I'm alive."
She smiled, stepped back, and disappeared into the dim street, her silhouette swallowed by shadows and streetlight.
And I stood there, heart blooming like a lotus in the rain, knowing—
That day, she gave me more than her time.
She gave me a home in her memory.
A place that only we know.