Her Laugh, My Heart

Chapter 54: Where Prayers Don't Need Names

It was Oriana's idea.

She said it quietly over the phone one evening, just as the sky outside my window began to bruise into night.

"Let's go to the temple."

I blinked. "Tomorrow?"

She hesitated. "Yes. Not to ask for anything. Just to sit. To… breathe. I think we need a place where no one is whispering."

I smiled softly. "Then I'll meet you by the old bell tower. Ten o'clock?"

"Yes."

And that was all.

The next morning, I wore my softest skirt — the pale beige one that reached my ankles — and a linen blouse that Oriana once said made me look like the beginning of a poem. I braided my hair and tied it with the green ribbon, still as bright as the first time she gave it to me.

When I arrived, Oriana was already waiting.

She wore a white blouse tucked into a soft navy skirt. Her hair was loose, swaying gently as the wind passed through the leaves above.

She turned and smiled when she saw me.

That smile.

That quiet, certain smile.

The one that never asked for permission.

"Ready?" she asked.

I nodded.

The temple sat at the edge of town, past the rice fields and sleepy streets, tucked behind a line of tamarind trees. It was old, peaceful, and bathed in gold that never needed to shine loudly. The bells didn't ring unless the wind moved just right. The monks never stared. The koi fish in the pond moved like forgotten wishes.

We removed our shoes at the gate and stepped inside, barefoot on warm stone. A soft breeze rustled the prayer flags overhead, their faded reds and greens and yellows fluttering with stories no longer remembered.

"I used to come here when I was little," Oriana whispered. "With my grandmother. She always said the Buddha already knows the things you carry, even if you don't say them out loud."

We walked in silence toward the small inner courtyard, where a Bodhi tree spread its shade over stone benches. There was no one else there. Just the sound of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the gentle echo of water trickling from a nearby spout.

We sat.

Not to pray.

Not to hide.

Just to be.

For a while, we didn't speak.

Oriana closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sunlight. Her hands rested quietly in her lap. I watched her — not to memorize, but to remember.

This girl who had been called strange. This girl who had been misunderstood. This girl who had kissed me under frangipani trees and taught me that silence didn't mean shame — only choice.

She opened her eyes slowly.

"They don't know the shape of us," she said.

I leaned against her shoulder. "They don't have to."

We sat like that for a long time.

Later, we lit two incense sticks and placed them gently into the sand by the prayer altar. We didn't say wishes. We didn't need to. Our hearts had already whispered them into the smoke.

Then Oriana reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in silk — two folded paper cranes, one white, one green.

"You kept them?" I asked, surprised.

"I found them in your locker once. Thought I should protect them."

I touched one gently.

"We should leave them here," I said.

"Here?"

"Under the Bodhi tree. Not as a secret. As a… thank you."

She nodded.

And so we tucked them beside the roots, where the tree's long heart-shaped leaves curled toward the earth like blessings.

On our way out, we passed a monk sweeping the stone path. He looked up as we bowed politely. His eyes lingered gently on the ribbons in our hair. He said nothing.

But he smiled.

And in that smile, something loosened.

As if the world had decided — just for a breath — that we didn't need to defend our softness.

We stopped by a quiet café on the way home. A place with only four tables and windows that framed the world like paintings. We sat by one of them, watching the wind pass through a line of drying laundry.

"I want to tell her," Oriana said suddenly.

"Who?"

"My mother."

I felt a slow flutter in my chest. "Are you sure?"

She stirred her tea. "No. But I'm tired of love being a secret I only hold at the edge of everything."

I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers.

"Then tell her your way. Not the world's way."

She smiled. "I'll write it."

That evening, we sat at my desk.

Oriana wrote by hand — slow, careful Thai script on creamy paper.

Ma,

There are things I've carried that you've only seen the outline of. But I think you've always known — in the way you look at me when I laugh too suddenly, or when I fall too quiet.

I love her.

Not like a storm. Not like something reckless.

But like the first sound of rain on a dry morning. Like warmth coming back into fingers that were cold too long.

Her name is Anya. You'd like her.

She listens when I don't know how to speak. She never makes me feel like I'm too much. Or not enough.

I'm not asking for permission. I'm not asking for understanding, even.

I just want you to know the truth. Because I love you too. And love, when true, doesn't want to hide from the people it comes from.

I'll wait.

Your daughter,

Oriana

When she finished, she folded the letter carefully and placed it in a pale blue envelope.

Then she pressed it to her heart.

"I'll send it in the morning."

The sky outside had turned a soft violet.

We stepped out to the porch.

Oriana reached for my hand.

"Even if she doesn't write back," she said, "I'll know I gave her the truth."

"You gave her your heart," I said.

"No," she whispered. "You have that."

And under that soft sky, with our hands tangled and our love resting where no one could undo it, I realized something:

We were no longer waiting for the world to make space for us.

We were making it ourselves.

With ribbons.

With letters.

With silence that was sacred, not afraid.