Chapter 60: The Place Where I Found You
The rain came softly that morning.
Not in torrents. Not in storm.
Just a gentle, rhythmic tapping on the windowpanes — like the sky was whispering a secret it didn't want anyone to forget.
Oriana stood in the middle of my room, barefoot, dressed in my oversized white shirt. The sleeves fell past her wrists, and her hair was damp from the morning mist. She looked out at the gray, silver-lit world beyond my window, her fingers tracing circles on the fogged glass.
"You always said the world felt softer when it rained," I said from the bed, pulling the blanket to my chest.
She turned to me, smiled. "It does. Like everything remembers how to be kind."
Outside, the rain kept singing.
Inside, the world slowed.
It had been one year since the first time she spoke my name.
Not in a crowd.
Not in class.
But softly — just for me — beneath the rain tree after school, her voice trembling as if she didn't yet know it was allowed to be held so gently.
That day, the wind had smelled like warm leaves.
And now, a year later, the air carried the same scent.
"It's our day," she whispered.
I nodded. "It's always been."
She came back to bed, slipping beneath the blanket, her skin cool from the window's breeze. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close until her nose was tucked beneath my chin.
Her fingers slid against my wrist, softly tracing the curve of bone, the pulse, the fragile rhythm beneath.
"I used to think love had to be loud to be real," she murmured. "But then I met you."
"And what changed?" I asked, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.
"You whispered," she said. "And I heard you louder than anything."
We lay there in the silence, letting the rain talk for us.
My hand rested over her waist.
Her hand pressed over my heart.
We didn't speak for a long time.
We didn't need to.
Because love had grown quiet in us — like a secret garden only we knew how to enter.
She tilted her head, looked into my eyes.
And kissed me.
Not urgently.
Not with need.
But with reverence.
The kind of kiss that says: Thank you for choosing me when you didn't have to.
I kissed her back. Slow.
Soft.
Then again.
Longer.
And when our foreheads pressed together, her breath warm against my lips, she whispered, "Touch me like you mean forever."
The rain kept falling.
The light grew dim.
But everything inside that room began to glow.
We moved slowly — like two notes of the same song, finding harmony one breath at a time. Her fingers unbuttoned my blouse with trembling gentleness, like she was peeling away a layer of fear I hadn't even known I was still holding.
My hands slid beneath the curve of her back, drawing her closer, until nothing existed between us but warmth.
Closeness.
Willingness.
She kissed the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her collarbone, her shoulder, the soft skin where her heart lived closest to the surface.
When we looked at each other, something unspoken passed between us.
Something like: We've waited. We've earned this.
The world beyond the windows faded — no school, no whispers, no pasts to answer for.
Just the rhythm of rain.
And the two of us, wrapped in it.
Her body moved with mine like a slow dance we'd memorized in dreams. We laughed once — soft and breathless — when our legs tangled and we had to pause.
But even that felt like love.
Every touch felt like a word we didn't need to speak.
Every kiss felt like a vow.
Later, when our breaths slowed, and the hush settled around us again, we stayed tangled in each other.
My head on her chest.
Her fingers stroking my hair.
"Is this what it's supposed to feel like?" I asked, voice sleepy.
"What?" she murmured.
"Love."
She smiled.
"Yes," she said. "But only because it's you."
We stayed like that all afternoon.
Wrapped in linen sheets.
Bathed in gray light.
The rain softened into drizzle.
The world exhaled.
She kissed my knuckles, one by one, like they were sacred.
I traced the line of her jaw with my fingertip and whispered, "You are my favorite story."
She looked at me, eyes shining.
"And you're the ending I didn't think I deserved."
Evening came with a soft hush. We made tea in silence, her wearing my shirt, me in her cardigan, our bare feet echoing softly against the tile.
She pulled a small wrapped bundle from her bag.
"What's this?" I asked.
"A gift," she said. "For us."
Inside was a little scrapbook — hand-bound with twine, the pages filled with copies of our letters. Photos. Drawings. Pressed flowers from the frangipani tree.
I turned the pages slowly, my throat tight.
And at the very back was a note:
No matter how far time carries us,
May this always be our beginning.
I closed the book, held it to my chest.
And kissed her.
Not because I needed to.
But because love asks for nothing — and still gives everything.
That night, as we curled back into bed, limbs tangled, hearts steady, Oriana whispered something I'll never forget.
"If this is the last chapter, let's write it slowly."
I kissed her forehead.
"No," I said. "Let's write the epilogue every day we wake up beside each other."
And she smiled.
The kind of smile that makes you believe in things again.
Even forever.