Chapter Text
It had been years of wishes and dreams—years of carrying a flame that burned without warmth yet refused to extinguish. The ache was quiet, relentless, a shadow in her chest that Lingling had long since stopped trying to banish. It had become a part of her, like the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there, even as she fell into other relationships, hoping against hope that someone else might heal her. But love, true and consuming, had already claimed her.
It wasn’t fair, she knew, this endless tumble into an abyss where there was no light, no return, no reprieve. She had learned to navigate life with the burden strapped to her shoulders, even as it hollowed her out. To love Orm was to live in a state of quiet resignation, always on the edge of a precipice, knowing the fall would never lead to her arms.
Hers was a love that gave endlessly, willingly, openly—a force as boundless as the ocean and just as merciless. It was a cruel maze with no exit, a perpetual longing that twisted around her heart, binding her tighter with each passing year. She was the moon, caught in eternal orbit, always close yet never close enough. The stories of the sun and moon from her childhood—those whimsical tales of yearning and impossible love—now felt like a cosmic mockery.
In her reality, the sun never turned. Orm never noticed. And Lingling was forever outside, looking in.
She bore silent witness to Orm’s relationships over the years, each one a fresh wound on her already scarred heart. She watched from the sidelines as others held Orm’s hand, shared her laughter, and kissed her tears away. Lingling memorized the way Orm’s face softened when she was in love, the way her eyes lit up when someone else became her world. And Lingling stayed constant—the steady, reliable friend. She would always be there, but never in the way she longed to be.
Junji often saw through her façade, her exasperation barely masking her concern. “You’re killing yourself, you know,” she’d say, arms crossed as Lingling scrambled to respond to yet another one of Orm’s late-night texts or calls.
“It’s just who I am,” Lingling would reply softly, as though giving away the fractured pieces of her soul was as natural as breathing.
But it wasn’t who she was. Not really. It was who Orm had made her—this quiet martyr, this endless giver. She dropped everything when Orm needed her, sacrificing her own happiness with a selflessness that left her hollow. Every call, every moment spent by Orm’s side, was a bittersweet reminder of the love she could never have.
She wondered, sometimes, if Orm ever noticed the way her eyes lingered a second too long, or how her laughter softened into something fragile when they were alone. If Orm ever sensed the way Lingling’s heart quickened when their hands brushed accidentally. But Orm’s gaze always passed over her, searching for someone else.
For Orm, she was the lighthouse—steady, dependable, guiding her back to shore when life’s waves grew too rough. But a lighthouse could never leave its post. It could never join the ships it saved. And Lingling knew, deep down, that Orm would never see her as more than the light she followed when she was lost.
Each unspoken word, each unrealized hope, pressed against Lingling’s chest, making it harder to breathe. Yet, despite the ache, she stayed. Because Orm’s happiness, even from afar, was worth every shattered piece of her own.
And so, Lingling endured. For Orm, she would endure anything.
Her unrequited love wasn’t just a shadow over her life—it became a wedge in her longest relationship. Bam had been her girlfriend for four years, steadfast through the chaos of university life. They’d moved in together during their senior year, creating a shared space filled with warmth and small joys: late-night study sessions turned into cuddles on the couch, cooking experiments that often ended in laughter, and whispered dreams of a future they might share.
For Lingling, those years with Bam were among the happiest of her life. Bam was everything she thought she needed—warm, dependable, and so attuned to her quirks and habits that Lingling felt a rare sense of safety. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine forever.
But forever unraveled when Bam received a prestigious scholarship for her master’s degree in London. The announcement came abruptly, just days before Bam’s departure.
“We can make long distance work,” Lingling said, her voice trembling with desperation. She clung to the idea of them, of the life they’d built, as if holding on tightly enough could stop the unraveling.
Bam shook her head, her sadness evident in every line of her face. “Lingling, you know me. I need closeness, something physical, something real. And I can’t handle knowing Orm is always around you. It would drive me insane.”
The mention of Orm sent a jolt through Lingling. “What does Orm have to do with this?” she demanded, though deep down, she already knew.
Bam’s expression softened, pity and resignation mingling in her eyes. “Ling, you’re in love with her. I’ve known for years.” She hesitated, as if choosing her next words carefully. “I didn’t say anything because I hoped… I hoped you’d let it go. I thought maybe, if I loved you enough, it would be enough for both of us. But I can’t compete with someone who will always come first in your heart.”
The words were a dagger to Lingling’s chest, cutting with brutal precision. She stared at Bam, speechless, as the truth she had buried for so long was dragged into the light. Her mind scrambled for a response, a way to deny, to fix, to salvage. But there was nothing left to say.
When Bam walked away, she took more than her suitcases. She took Lingling’s fragile belief in the love they had shared, leaving Lingling to reckon with two devastating truths: the love she thought she had with Bam was over, and the love she couldn’t have with Orm had cost her more than she could bear.
The aftermath was catastrophic. Lingling spiraled, retreating into nights of heavy drinking, muffled sobs, and aching loneliness. Bartenders grew accustomed to her slumped figure at the bar, her pain as familiar as the dim light and stale beer. They would call Junji to collect her when the tears began to flow, and Lingling became too broken to carry herself home.
One night, after dragging her home yet again, Junji settled Lingling into bed. Her glassy, tear-soaked eyes looked up at Junji, her voice slurring with the weight of alcohol and despair. “Am I that unlovable?”
The words hit Junji like a physical blow. She knelt by the bed, brushing Lingling’s hair back with a tenderness that masked her own frustration. How could Lingling not see it? How could she not see how much she gave to others, how fiercely she loved, even when it left her broken?
“I think you’re too lovable,” Junji murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You love so much that you forget to save any for yourself.”
Lingling’s eyes closed, her face etched with pain even in sleep. Junji watched her, torn between anger at the world that had treated her friend so cruelly and admiration for Lingling’s resilience.
Because even now, even at her lowest, Lingling’s heart was still beating for someone else—someone who would never truly know the depths of her love.
But Junji wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Another late-night call from a bartender sent Junji rushing to the bar once again. By now, she had a routine: grab her coat, her car keys, and steel herself for the sight of Lingling’s broken form. But when she arrived, something was different. Lingling wasn’t slumped over the counter this time, and Junji’s eyes were drawn to a corner booth where Orm sat, cradling Lingling like she was made of glass.
Lingling’s head rested on Orm’s lap, her usually composed face soft and unguarded in her drunken haze. Orm’s fingers moved gently through her hair, her expression a mix of worry and something unreadable.
“How long has this been going on?” Orm asked as Junji approached, her voice tight with barely restrained emotion.
Junji froze, startled to see her. “When did you get back?”
“This morning,” Orm replied tersely, her eyes never leaving Lingling. “Now answer me.”
Junji sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. “A month,” she admitted quietly.
Orm’s brows knitted together, her hand pausing mid-stroke. “What happened?”
Junji hesitated. “Bam left,” she said finally. “She’s in London now.”
Orm let out a soft curse, her jaw tightening. “She never told me. We talk every day.”
“You know Lingling,” Junji said, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. “She didn’t want you to worry.”
Orm’s gaze dropped to Lingling’s peaceful face, her features softening with an ache Junji couldn’t quite place. “But I come back to this,” Orm murmured, gesturing to the fragile figure in her arms.
Junji swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. She knew Orm cared, but she also knew it wasn’t the kind of care Lingling so desperately wanted. “Let’s get her home,” Junji said instead, her voice thick with restraint.
Orm nodded, shifting Lingling gently. “Bee,” she whispered, shaking her awake with a tenderness that made Junji’s chest tighten.
Lingling stirred, her bleary eyes opening and landing on Orm. Despite the alcohol dulling her senses, a soft, sleepy smile spread across her face. “Baobao,” she murmured, the nickname slipping out like a habit.
“Let’s go home, Bee,” Orm whispered, and Lingling nodded like a child being led back to safety.
In the days that followed, there were subtle but significant changes. Lingling stopped drinking altogether, her nightly trips to the bar replaced with quieter evenings. When Junji invited her out, she found Lingling content with a plate of chicken wings and a glass of virgin piña colada in hand.
“What’s with the mocktails?” Junji asked one night, raising an eyebrow as they sat together.
Lingling shrugged, her cheeks tinged pink. “Orm told me I’m not allowed to drink for a while.”
Junji’s eyebrow shot up further, skepticism lacing her voice. “And you’re listening to her now?”
Lingling ducked her head, a sheepish smile playing on her lips. “It’s Orm,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
Junji leaned back, her drink untouched as she watched her friend. Lingling’s love for Orm was relentless, a force that carried her through heartbreak and hopelessness. It gave everything and demanded nothing in return.
And yet Junji couldn’t help but wonder, as she always did, how long Lingling could endure it. How long she could keep pouring herself out for someone who held her heart so carefully, so lovingly—yet without ever truly realizing it was theirs to begin with.