chapter 12; The morning after light

The morning didn't arrive with noise. It spilled slowly across Ayana's apartment in ribbons of soft gold and pale warmth, the kind of light that seemed to hum rather than shine. It crept over tangled sheets, brushed against bare skin, and rested gently on the two women lying in the quiet aftermath of vulnerability.

Sky stirred first.

For a long moment, she didn't move. Her head rested against Ayana's collarbone, her arm draped loosely across the professor's waist. Ayana's skin was warm beneath her cheek, her heartbeat steady and unhurried. That sound, soft and human, anchored Sky like nothing else ever had.

Her fingers twitched but didn't pull away.

She lay there and simply… existed.

The ceiling above them had tiny cracks—imperfections that caught the light just right. The fan above was off, unmoving, the air between them heavy but not suffocating. No clock ticked. No phone buzzed. There was only the slow rhythm of two hearts learning how to rest near one another.

Sky exhaled quietly.

For once, the silence didn't echo with doubt. It held peace.

She turned slightly, just enough to watch Ayana's face.

There was something different about seeing her asleep. All the intensity Ayana carried during the day—the eloquence, the stillness, the precision—it melted in sleep. She looked younger, softer, more human than Sky had ever allowed herself to believe.

She didn't look like someone out of reach.

She looked like someone who had chosen to stay.

Sky reached up, letting her fingers barely graze Ayana's jaw.

Ayana stirred, lids fluttering open slowly, disoriented at first but then focused—on her.

There was no startle, no tension.

Just recognition.

"Hi," Sky said softly, unsure if her voice would work.

Ayana's mouth curved. "Good morning."

They held the moment between them, suspended like a breath. No awkwardness. No regrets.

Sky tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and grinned. "You snore a little."

Ayana raised a brow. "I do not."

Sky shrugged, teasing. "It was cute."

Ayana groaned and pulled the covers over her face. "You're lying."

Sky giggled—a real one, the kind she thought she'd forgotten how to make. "Maybe."

Ayana peeked out from under the blanket. "That's betrayal before breakfast."

"That's love," Sky replied, still smiling. "You'll get used to it."

Ayana's smile softened. "I hope so."

They lay in silence again, this time a comfortable one. Sunlight painted slow-moving shapes on the ceiling. Outside, distant voices and the low hum of city life served as a faint reminder that the world was still turning. But neither of them moved.

Sky eventually whispered, "Do you think it'll change now?"

"What?"

"Us. The way we look at each other. The way we move."

Ayana turned onto her side, propping her head up with one arm. "I don't want it to change. I want it to deepen."

Sky's eyes searched hers. "I feel like something inside me cracked open last night. Like I'm afraid to even breathe wrong and ruin it."

Ayana reached forward, brushing her knuckles gently down Sky's jawline. "You didn't ruin anything. You gave us something real."

Sky blinked. "You always say the right thing."

"I don't," Ayana said. "But with you, I try."

Sky let her body press into her again, this time holding tighter. "Can we stay here? Just for a little while longer?"

"As long as you need."

They didn't rise for another hour.

When they finally did, the kitchen filled with the soft clink of mugs and the low whistle of boiling water. Ayana moved barefoot on the tiles, her long shirt skimming her thighs. Sky trailed behind, wrapped in a blanket, her notebook tucked under her arm.

Ayana looked over. "Letters?"

Sky hesitated, then nodded. "I wrote another one this morning. It just… came."

Ayana poured the tea, her movements steady. "You don't have to explain. I think writing saved you before I ever got the chance to."

Sky looked down at her notebook. "I think it still is."

They sat across from each other, knees touching under the table. Ayana's hands were wrapped around her black tea; Sky's fingers tapped lightly against her cup of chamomile, eyes distant.

A strange peace had settled between them—like the air after a storm.

But Sky's phone buzzed once against the table.

A text.

She glanced at it out of instinct.

Then froze.

"You're a joke. She's only with you because you're broken. Because you're easy."

No name. Just a number. Unrecognizable. Sharp.

Sky's face shuttered.

Ayana noticed instantly. "What is it?"

Sky locked the screen and forced a smile. "Nothing important."

"Sky."

"I just need some air."

She slipped out to the balcony before Ayana could press further.

The chill outside bit her cheeks, and the sky was shifting into gray. She gripped the balcony railing and focused on the people far below—cars like insects, voices like wind.

For all her courage, some words still found the cracks in her armor.

She closed her eyes.

"You're only easy to love because you don't expect much."

That voice—that old wound—whispered back into her.

And yet… something resisted.

She wasn't the same person who used to flinch at those words. She had made it to now. She had Ayana. She had herself. She had writing.

Still, it hurt.

She didn't cry. But she did let the pain settle.

Behind her, the door opened.

Ayana didn't speak at first. She just came to stand beside her.

Sky didn't look up. "It's not fair. How people can say things like that and just go on with their lives."

Ayana's voice was steady. "It's not fair. But it's not truth either."

Sky clenched her jaw. "It still finds a way to stick."

"Only if you let it."

Sky finally turned to her. "But how do you not let it?"

Ayana didn't answer right away. Then, quietly, "By building louder truths."

Sky's brows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Ayana stepped closer, took her hand. "It means we speak the things we know. We write them. We live them. Until they drown out the lies."

Sky looked at their joined hands. "What if I'm not strong enough to outvoice it?"

"You already are. You're standing here, aren't you?"

Sky let the tears come then—just a few. Not because she was breaking. But because she was still whole.

Ayana pulled her into a slow, grounding hug.

Neither spoke again.

Later that afternoon, Sky walked into campus alone.

This time, no hoodie, no downward glance, no headphones.

She wore a white blouse tucked into dark jeans, a soft green scarf around her neck—her version of armor. She walked through the center quad slowly, deliberately.

Some people looked. Some whispered.

But one girl—a freshman from the LGBTQ+ book club—nodded at her with quiet respect.

That one nod weighed more than a hundred stares.

Sky spent the next hour buried in the library, flipping through books on queer literature, poetry, and self-publishing. She scribbled notes in the margin of her notebook and found herself breathing a little easier.

She wasn't alone in this.

She never had been.

When she returned to Ayana's apartment, she found something waiting on the front door.

A post-it, written in Ayana's familiar script.

"You are not a phase. You are not a problem. You are poetry."

Sky closed her eyes, pressing the note to her chest.

Inside, Ayana was cooking. Something with ginger and lemon. The scent filled the apartment like memory.

Sky stepped inside and wrapped her arms around Ayana from behind.

"You always know," she murmured.

Ayana didn't turn around. She simply leaned back into her. "I just pay attention."

They stood like that for a long moment before Sky placed a folded poem on the table.

"I want you to read this."

Ayana dried her hands and opened the paper slowly. Her eyes scanned the lines, growing still.

"I used to speak in maybes, live in halves,

but you taught me the grace of full sentences—

the power of standing in my own name."

She looked up, eyes soft and glistening. "This is yours?"

Sky nodded. "I'm submitting it to an anthology. Under my initials."

Ayana stepped forward, cupping her face. "I'm proud of you. Not for being published. But for saying it out loud."

Sky blinked. "You're the first person I've ever wanted to say everything to."

"Then never stop."

They shared dinner at the table, knees touching beneath, laughter low and steady between bites. For dessert, Sky pulled out a pack of strawberry-flavored biscuits—Ayana's favorite—and placed one in her palm like a gift.

"You remembered," Ayana said, surprised.

Sky smiled. "I remember everything about you."

Later, they lay side by side on the couch, a book open between them. Sky's head on Ayana's shoulder, Ayana's hand resting gently on her back.

At one point, Ayana whispered, "I told Dr. Lewis I'm not ashamed."

Sky looked up. "I'm glad. Because I'm not hiding either."

Ayana tilted her chin gently. "We're writing our story. No one else gets to hold the pen."

They undressed slowly that night—not out of desire, but devotion. It was different from the first time. Quieter. More anchored.

There were no scripts. No performance. Just bare skin, soft lips, and the warmth of being fully seen.

They moved in rhythm—not to chase pleasure, but to celebrate belonging.

Afterward, Sky rested her cheek against Ayana's chest again.

Ayana's voice was sleepy when she whispered, "Do you think people like us ever stop fighting to be loved fully?"

Sky thought for a long moment. "Maybe not. But maybe the fight gets easier when you're not alone in it."

Ayana nodded slowly. "Then let's never fight alone again."

They drifted into sleep with fingers clasped, hearts finally quiet.

And for the first time in both their lives, love didn't feel like a battle or a secret or a risk.

It felt like a beginning.