Archive of Our Own

She doesn’t remember the first time she kissed Orm.

Or maybe she does, in some half-formed way, but it’s all blurred now, softened like sea glass—smooth, familiar, but distant. All the sharp edges dulled. The angles, now, are only echoes.

It was after an event, she thinks. One of those endless red carpets where the lights are too bright, the compliments too sweet, too hollow. Lingling remembers sitting in the car, heels abandoned in the footwell, her legs curled sideways, head resting against the cool glass of the window. Orm beside her, laughing at something the host had said. Something silly. Something that didn’t matter, not really. Lingling doesn’t remember the words.

But Orm’s laugh? She remembers that. Always.

And she remembers the quiet, too. That strange, tender silence that settled between them in the space of a breath—just before it shifted into something more. A kind of soft click deep in her chest, like a gear finding its place in a machine that had always been slightly off-center. Like her body, in that instant, recognizing what had already been true, even if it hadn’t known how to say it: that this girl, this loud, laughing, warm girl, the one she had been smiling at across studio lights and dinner tables, was starting to feel like home.

Orm had looked at her then, with that knowing, sidelong glance and said, “You’re quiet.”

Lingling, not trusting her voice, had only tilted her head, unsure of what to say or if anything needed to be said at all.

Orm’s hand was warm on her knee—too warm. And when Orm leaned in, part question, part challenge, Lingling didn’t say no.

It wasn’t a kiss like in the movies. There were no sweeping strings, no orchestral crescendos. No fireworks. It was slower than that, smaller. Almost hesitant.

The car hummed quietly in the background, the vast night stretching beyond the windows. Orm’s lips brushed hers, a touch so tentative it seemed like Orm didn’t quite believe she could.

It would’ve been so easy to dismiss it. To call it a momentary lapse, something strange between two people who worked too closely, lived too publicly, and trusted just enough to blur the lines.

But they’d never been good at "once."

One night became two. Then three. Then four. And somehow, it never stopped.

Not when Lingling was halfway around the world filming. Not when Lingling was wrapped up in training, six days a week. Not when they were standing side by side in front of flashing cameras, their smiles too wide and eyes too bright, pretending their hands hadn’t touched just moments before, under the table, out of sight.

No one asked. So they didn’t tell.

After that, it was weekends. Shared drinks, a forgotten hoodie draped over Lingling’s shoulders, her favorite one, the one that smelled like Orm’s shampoo. It was waking at 5 a.m. to make Orm the tofu puffs she liked, cut just the way she pretended not to care. It was folding two towels instead of one.

It was Orm falling asleep on Lingling’s lap during a rainstorm, the dampness of her hair a soft weight against Ling’s thigh. It was the quiet way Orm would reach for Lingling’s hand when no one was looking— not possessive, not asking for anything, just holding on, grounded.

It was never talked about. Never named.

But there was a toothbrush in Lingling’s bathroom that wasn’t hers. And sometimes, Orm would leave behind a sock, a script, or a lip balm. Lingling never moved them. Not because she forgot, but because it felt... right. It felt like something unspoken, something fragile and necessary. That Orm’s presence lingered in spaces, even when Orm wasn’t there.

And in between everything—the shooting scripts, the wrap dinners, the press junkets and the polite lies—they found each other in those quiet, in-between moments. The dark car rides. The late-night phone calls. The laughter, soft and shared over food, when no one else was listening.

They were not dating.

They were not just friends.

What, then?

Lingling still doesn’t know.

She remembers the feel of Orm’s hoodie, tugged gently over her head after a shower, the fabric still warm from Orm’s body, smelling faintly of cherry conditioner and studio lights. She remembers the stillness of Orm’s apartment at 2:14 a.m., the quiet that settled like a blanket. And Orm’s fingers, curling into her side without asking, the soft, effortless way Orm melted into her without even realizing she was doing it.

She remembers how Orm mumbled, “Stay,” half asleep, the words drifting out like something unimportant, something too casual. But Lingling felt it, like a quiet crack in the wall, something sacred splitting open inside her, every single time.

She remembers cooking.

Not often. Lingling is not domestic by nature. She doesn’t have that soft kind of patience Orm carries with her for the kitchen. But sometimes, there had been mornings—those pale, whisper-soft mornings—when Orm would pad into the kitchen barefoot, her yawn slow and sleepy, and lean into Lingling’s shoulder with the kind of gentle weight that spoke volumes. Lingling would hand her a folded egg roll, as if it were nothing, and say, “Careful, it’s hot,” like the gesture didn’t mean more than the words that followed.

But it did.

Like her hands didn’t shake sometimes.

Like she didn’t tuck an extra serving into Orm’s lunch bag, even when they weren’t working together that day. Like she wasn’t building something in silence and hoping Orm would hear it.

She remembers the moment she asked. It had been foolish. She hadn’t meant for it to become a question, just a thought—half-formed, half-buried—that slipped out in one of those late-night conversations, the ones where everything felt a little more possible, a little more real, as if the darkness around them could hold things without judgment.

Orm was stretched out beside her, tangled in the blankets, her hair fanned out like a delicate halo against Ling’s chest. It had been so quiet. So still. Lingling had said it too softly. Barely a whisper, like if she didn’t let it escape fully, it wouldn’t count. “Do you ever wonder if we could be something… more?”

Orm didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. There was a stillness that hung in the air, a small eternity of space between them, and Ling could feel it—an ache in her own breath, the pause stretching too long, too heavy.

And then, Orm had said: “P'Ling…”

Just that.

Just her title.

Lingling had nodded, the beat of her own heart louder than the world around her. “It’s okay,” she said quickly, too quickly, as if saying it faster would erase the vulnerability. “I didn’t mean anything.”

Orm reached for her hand. Ling let her. That was the worst part.

Not the rejection. Not even the silence that followed.

The worst part was that Orm still touched her like nothing had changed. Still curled into her at night. Still held her wrist when they crossed the street. Still pulled her into dressing rooms with eyes too bright and mouths too quick.

Still kissed her like she wanted her. But now, the distance had been named. And Lingling, once she knows a thing, can’t un-know it.

Because every now and then, without thinking, she would fold a dumpling for two, just like she always had. She would make toast in pairs, as though there was still someone beside her to eat it. She would slip a snack into the studio bag she knew Orm would borrow, the way she used to, as if it was just another part of their rhythm, their routine.

Habit, maybe.

But she never said it aloud again. Never brought it up.

And in time, Orm stopped calling.

For a while, they still tagged each other in stories. Still laughed during table reads, those fleeting moments of shared humor. Still stood side by side when fans screamed for them to look at each other, the kind of closeness that existed for the world to see.

But Orm didn’t come over anymore. And Lingling didn’t cook too much food. And the extra towel in the bathroom stayed dry for months.

It was mutual, the silence. A truce, carved from the jagged edges of hurt. They still smiled in public, faces turned towards the light, as if everything was exactly as it had always been. Still posed for photos, their arms brushing but never quite touching. Still tagged each other in birthday posts, those little markers of something still there—but barely.

But the calls stopped.

The visits stopped.

The warmth—stubborn, hesitant warmth—stopped.

Lingling had let her go, with a grace she didn’t know she possessed. With a smile that barely reached her eyes. With her chin up, as if that could hold the cracks together, and her hands folded neatly in her lap—a stillness that felt like both surrender and finality.

She didn’t chase her.

She never would.

But sometimes, late, when the makeup is off and the lights are gone and she’s just a girl alone in the quiet of her room, Lingling wonders what would’ve happened if Orm had answered differently.

If she hadn’t been afraid. If Lingling hadn’t loved her first.

She doesn’t like to call what they had a mistake. That word—mistake—feels too sharp, too final. She could never call Orm that, not even now, when silence stretches between them like a curtain pulled too tight. Not even when, on the rarest nights, she wakes with the soft ache of a memory pressed against her back, faint and lingering like a bruise that never quite heals.

She never called it a relationship. She didn’t need to.

It lived between things. Beneath the surface, in the spaces they left unspoken. Behind closed doors, in the small moments between call sheets and late-night scripts, in the breath between laughter and something more. It slipped unnoticed through rehearsals, through weekend shoots, through the hum of a city that never really slept. Bangkok was too alive to hear the soft, secret ache of something never named.

What’s worse than heartbreak, Lingling thinks, is the heartbreak you can never show anyone. She can’t cry to her stylists, or her team. Can’t complain to her manager. Can’t even talk to her mother.

Because what would she say?. That she let herself fall for someone who never promised to catch her?. That she called Orm Babao, like it meant something?. That she wanted to be held without asking, to be chosen without having to explain?

No.

Instead, she swallows it whole. Chews it slowly. Smiles, but brighter—brighter than she feels.

For a while, it works. But then there are nights, still, when the weight of it presses down on her, when she forgets, if only for a moment.

She wakes up, bleary-eyed, her fingers already reaching for her phone before the morning has fully claimed her. She almost types a message to Orm, a meme, maybe, or a photo of a cat wearing a fake mustache, something silly, something that used to make her laugh. Or just a note, simple and easy: "Come over, the rain’s soft today."

But she never sends them. The impulse lingers though, stubborn and soft. A flicker of something that won’t burn out. She wonders if it ever will.

The last time Lingling truly saw Orm, outside the polished chaos of studio walls, was at a wrap dinner. They sat at opposite ends of a long, crowded table, a quiet distance between them that had nothing to do with space and everything to do with the months of unspoken things. Their eyes met briefly, across the clink of glasses, the soft hum of conversation. It was like a conversation all its own, only the two of them aware of it.

Orm smiled first just a flicker, as though she was unsure it was allowed. Lingling kinda smiled back, just as uncertain, as if she was still trying to remember how to. The world around them continued, oblivious, voices rising, glasses toasting, laughter spilling out over the edge of the evening.

No one noticed when they didn’t hug goodbye.

And for the first time in months, Lingling felt the weight of it. The silence between them, the absence of a touch, and she realized how utterly alone she was. How broken, in a way she hadn't let herself see before.

-----

In the mornings now, Ling still folds tofu.

But only for herself.

Most days, anyway.

Some mornings, her hands forget and cut too much—old habits stirring like ghosts at the chopping board.

She tells herself she’s still hungry. And eats every bite.

As if that might quiet the part of her that still waits for someone to come home.

---- ----

She’s on the treadmill when it happens—midway through her morning run, one earbud in, the other resting against her collarbone. The gym is still half-asleep: one person on a mat, another lifting quietly. Outside, morning light filters through Bangkok’s haze—gold softly frayed with grey. The sun, like her, hasn't fully decided to rise.

Then the clip auto-plays. No warning. A fan account, slicing out interviews before the PR team even posts them. Normally, she would swipe away. Not now. Not today. Not when it's Orm on the screen.

Orm sits against a pastel backdrop, legs crossed neatly, eyes darting down then up as the interviewer leans forward with the question that sets off something inside Ling. Orm smiles—too wide, too practiced, like she’s holding back something important.

The interviewer asks: “What’s it like working with P'Ling?”

Orm voice flutters, soft laughter, quick and a little unsure: “She takes care of me so well. Like… like a real Phi Sao, na ka.”

Ling’s throat tightens. Another heartbeat. Another echo of a title she once craved.

Lingling doesn’t stop running.

But the ache blooms instantly—sharp and low, like a pin threading itself through her lung with each breath.

Phi Sao.

Older sister.

Polite. Formal. Untouchable.

She presses her thumb to the screen and freezes the video. Not to save it. Not to study Orm’s expression again. Just to silence it. The words are still echoing anyway, laced into the rhythm of her steps, stuck between heartbeat and breath.

She knows exactly what the phrase means.

Worse—she knows what it doesn’t.

And what unravels her isn’t cruelty, or indifference.

It’s that Orm meant it.

Meant it in a quiet way. Gently. With that careful smile she always used when she didn’t want to hurt anyone.

That’s what makes it cut deepest. Sweetness, offered in place of something more.

She finishes the run without flinching.

Showers in silence.

Drives home with the window rolled all the way down, the wind too warm to be sharp but still welcome—whipping against her face like maybe it could strip something from her. A layer of memory. A voice.

But it doesn’t.

It stays.

Phi Sao.

She’s heard it all her life. On set. In passing. In polite interviews and fan signs. It’s the easy title, the one people give without thinking. The safe distance wrapped in respect.

But never from Orm.

Not when Lingling was folding dumplings and setting aside the ones Orm liked best. Not when Orm had curled into her in the quiet, pressed her cheek against Ling’s collarbone like she belonged there. Not when Lingling had reached under the rehearsal table, fingers trembling, and Orm had met her hand—held it—like it meant something they didn’t have to say aloud.

Phi Sao.

Not Ling.

Not love.

Just the name you give to someone you admire. To someone you never intended to stay.

⸻

By the time she gets home, the apartment feels too large. The shoes by the door are lined up too perfectly. The air smells like citrus and sterilized hope.

She doesn’t sit down.

She goes to the kitchen and makes tea.

Burns her fingers on the kettle.

It takes her a moment to realize she’s set out two cups.

She stares at the second one.

Then places it gently in the sink, like it might break if she breathes too hard.

The fans love it, of course.

Within an hour, the video has subtitles. Dozens of them.

“Orm calls Lingling ‘Phi Sao’ and says she always takes care of her 💖”

“Siblings but make it sweet 😭 #LingOrm #OnlyYouSeries”

She doesn’t blame them.

They don’t know the weight words can carry.

They don’t know what it means to ache for someone who looks at you with reverence, not tenderness—to be wanted for your steadiness, not your heart.

They don’t know what it is to love someone who calls you sister.

They didn’t see the way Lingling stopped breathing—half a second, barely a hitch in her stride—when she heard it. Not because it surprised her. But because it didn’t. Because it confirmed the quiet dread she’d been nursing in the back of her throat.

That Orm had chosen the safest word. The word that rewrote what they were.What they had been.

Past tense.

And with it, erased the softness they’d once shared in the dark, in the pauses, in the spaces between words. As if naming it differently could make it untrue. As if calling her sister could undo the way Lingling had once been held her.

She tells no one.

Not her manager, who’s too busy fielding press requests to notice the silence between Ling’s sentences.

Not her makeup artist, who beams as she pulls up the clip on her phone—Orm’s laugh, that pastel set, the moment that’s now everywhere.

“You two are so cute,” she says, nudging Ling’s arm like it’s a compliment.

Ling smiles.

It’s almost real. Just enough to pass. Just enough that the tiny tremor in her jaw goes unnoticed. Just enough that no one sees how long she holds her breath before she speaks.

“I’m glad people are enjoying it,” she says.

Then she turns back to the mirror. Lets the powder brush sweep over her skin like a soft kind of forgetting.

She says nothing else.

But at night, she rewinds everything.

She tells herself not to.

She always fails.

She lies in bed, the fan whispering overhead, the blanket pulled up to her chin like it might be enough to keep the past from touching her.

And she remembers—

—Orm’s hand closing gently around her wrist on that rooftop during their first shoot, both of them too close, the hush of Orm’s voice: “It’s cold, Ling, come here,” like she already knew the door would be open.

—The morning she woke to the scent of rice porridge, still warm on the stove, a note resting beside it in Orm’s handwriting: take care, today is long.

—The way Orm used to say babe, low and unhurried, like it was a name meant only for kitchens and half-slept mornings.

Phi Sao.
Older sister.

As if none of it had meant what Ling thought it did.

As if closeness was just convenience. As if tenderness could be unintentional.

As if she’d been mistaken all along.

Ling presses her face into the pillow. Breathes through the salt behind her eyes.

And gives herself five minutes.

Only five.

Then she rises. Washes her face in cold water. Unpacks her gym bag like it’s just another evening.

As if moving forward could be that simple.

She doesn’t block Orm.

She doesn’t mute her stories or unfollow the fan page where their names are still braided together like nothing ever unraveled.

She just… stops. Stops reacting Stops sending hearts at midnight. Stops refreshing the story views to see if Orm is still watching from the other side of the glass. She stops reaching.

And it doesn’t feel brave.

It feels like standing at the edge of something vast and cold, barefoot, watching a train disappear with someone you once loved still waving from the window. It feels like absence that never goes quiet. Like grief pretending to be composure.

The apartment turns on her.

The couch still dips where Orm used to curl up after long shoots. The charger by the bed is still bent from where Orm used to borrow it and never plug it back in properly. The air smells like jasmine, though she hasn’t lit that candle in weeks.

It’s too much. Too full of ghosts. Too loud with memory.

So she leaves.

The drive is empty, Ling doesn’t bother with the music. Doesn’t roll down the windows. Bangkok presses against her, too loud, too full of everything she’s still not ready to meet—its heat and metal and the constant hum of a world she’s too tired to touch.

It’s been six hours since the video went up. Four since the edits started their slow, painful spread.

Two since Prig messaged, “Phi, you okay? You don’t have to say anything. But I saw. I know what happened before, Phi. Orm told me some things. You don’t call someone ‘Phi Sao’ like that. Not when she knew it would hurt you.”

And just one since Lingling packed her things, grabbed her keys, and ignored the fourth call from Orm.

She doesn’t turn her phone off.

She just flips it face down, into the cupholder.

There’s only so much silence a person can carry before it becomes too heavy. Too loud.

The road to her mother’s house is lined with flame trees.

They don’t bloom this time of year, but their bare branches stretch against the sky like a memory of something once vivid, now quietly fading.

Lingling turns into the driveway. Cuts the engine. And for a moment, she doesn’t move. Just sits there, letting the silence settle around her like a soft fog.

The sun is low now, a dying ember, casting a muted glow on the gate, the bougainvillea crawling lazily up the porch steps. The light above the door flickers to life, casting a pale yellow hue, as if it’s been waiting for her, for this moment, all day.

She exhales, slow and soft, like it’s the first breath she’s taken in hours.

And then, with the weight of something unspoken, she opens the door.

Her mother doesn’t greet her with surprise.

She simply materializes in the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her eyes not wide with shock, but narrowed—an old kind of knowing, the kind only a mother can possess. It’s not confusion she wears, but something deeper. Recognition, perhaps. Or the quiet ache that lingers in the bones of all mothers, a pain they carry without needing to say a word.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” she says, her voice soft but steady.

Lingling sets her bag down by the door, the weight of it insignificant now, compared to the weight in her chest. “Sorry,” she mutters, not looking up, her gaze drifting past her mother, past the room, to anywhere but here.

Her mother regards her for a moment, studying her the way mothers do—like they can see all the cracks behind your smile.

After a pause, she speaks again, voice almost too gentle. “You’ve lost weight.”

Lingling’s shoulders shift in the smallest of shrugs, as if she can shake off the heaviness of the observation. “Work’s been busy.”

The lie tastes flat in her mouth. But she says nothing more. She doesn’t need to. Her mother doesn’t press. She never does. Instead, she simply nods, the silence between them filled with something softer, more familiar.

She knows. She always knows. Then turns. “There’s rice. You hungry?”

They eat in near silence.

The kitchen is warmer than she remembers, the soft yellow walls glowing with the fading light, holding onto the last traces of the sun’s warmth.

Her mother’s handwriting still clings to the fridge—“Don’t forget the gas,” a simple, everyday command that feels more like a ritual now. The spoon, the one with the broken handle, still rests on the counter, as if time itself had forgotten to move it.

Her childhood mug is still tucked away in the cupboard, green and chipped, as it always was—its edges softened by years of use, but never replaced.

Lingling doesn’t speak.

Her mother doesn’t ask.

But the silence isn’t empty. It presses in, a weight she can feel in the quiet rhythm of her mother’s movements, in the way the light shifts across the room, in the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl.

Her mother’s eyes are steady, watching, always watching.

Lingling feels it—like heat against her back, a quiet presence she cannot escape, no matter how still she sits.

Afterward, her mother sets down a small bowl of mango fruit on the table. The sweet, faintly floral scent rises in the quiet room, a reminder of summers long passed. She says, softly, as if this is the truth neither of them need to question, “Sleep in your old room. I washed the sheets last week. You coming was late, not unexpected.”

Lingling doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

She only nods, just enough to acknowledge her mother, to acknowledge the unspoken understanding between them. Softly, as if any louder would shatter something fragile.

Almost grateful.

Her room feels smaller now, the corners a little tighter, the ceiling a little lower. Or maybe she’s just grown too large for it, too unfamiliar with its old dimensions.

The books are still there, lined up in uneven stacks, some with cracked spines, others untouched—silent witnesses to a past she’s not sure how to revisit. Her old uniform hangs, folded but faded, in the corner. The curtains stir slightly, as though they know something she doesn’t, as though they’ve held onto all the things she’s tried to forget.

Lingling sits on the edge of the bed, letting her hands rest on the blanket. She expects it to feel like home—expectations are simple that way. But the blanket is new.

Pale blue. Tightly tucked at the corners. So different from the one she left behind. She wonders, with a quiet suspicion, if her mother changed it on purpose. Maybe to reclaim this room from the version of her daughter who left it so long ago.

Lingling lies down. The mattress creaks under her weight, but the sound is more like a sigh. The ceiling above her seems to stretch endlessly, a canvas she can’t seem to focus on.

And yet, she doesn’t cry.

It’s as if she’s forgotten how to. But her chest aches, heavy and slow, like a door that’s never quite closed.

It’s the strangest feeling—being here, in this room she once called hers, knowing that it’s been untouched by the weight of Orm. There’s something about the stillness, the absence of her. Orm never came here. Not once.

Lingling had never offered this space. Not truly. It was always an unspoken boundary—one she kept to herself, like a secret she didn’t know how to share.

Now, lying here, she feels something shift, like she’s finally alone in the only place where the pieces of her don’t need to be stitched together.

The room holds its breath, still and quiet, and for the first time in a long time, Lingling realizes that this—this absence—feels like rest. She hasn’t been here in years, but it’s hers, in a way she’s forgotten she needed. But for the first time, she feels the possibility of rest, a kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled with anything.

A knock.

The door creaks open, tentative, as if the quiet is fragile. Her mother appears in the doorway, small jar of ointment in her hands, like she’s done this so many times before.

“I brought some ointment,” she says. “You’re tense again. Neck looks tight.”

Lingling doesn’t move. Her eyes flutter closed, as if she’s holding back something too soft, too sharp to be shown. She doesn’t want to feel right now. She doesn’t want to need this.

"Thanks," she murmurs, barely a breath, and the words hang between them like a quiet surrender.

Her mother places the jar on the bedside table. Her eyes linger, but say nothing. Then, after a long moment, she sits. Not beside her, not reaching. Just... nearby. As if the space between them is enough, as if it could hold them both in the silence.

Her hands fold carefully in her lap, the soft lines of age traced into her skin, like the gentle weight of a memory.

“You’re very strong,” she says, and the words carry the weight of something Lingling isn’t sure she’s ready to hear.

Lingling swallows, but the knot in her throat only tightens. But says nothing. Her mother nods once.

Not for reassurance, but for understanding, something far deeper than words. Then, almost too gently, as though she’s been holding this moment for years:

“Don’t turn brave into silence, bǎo bèi,” she says. “It doesn’t love you back.”

She leaves the light on, soft and steady.

And the door half-open, as if leaving space for Lingling to come back to herself.

Morning arrives like a slow breath, tentative and soft.

She rises slowly, as though reluctant to disturb the silence that has settled around her.

Lingling pads barefoot into the kitchen, where the air still carries the warm scent of oil and garlic, even though the pan has been washed and set aside to dry.

Her mother is bent at the waist, gathering the last of the dust with a brush, her movements measured and familiar. She looks up, offering a quiet nod toward the table.

“Hot water’s ready, xīng xīng,” she says, the endearment quiet but heavy with meaning.

Lingling pours herself a cup. No sugar. No honey.

They sit together in the stillness. Her mother folds the dust cloth with care, placing it beside her, the gesture somehow intimate. The fan hums low in the background. The windows are cracked, letting in the faint morning sounds—birds, distant scooters, the city stretching itself awake.

Lingling sips her water. It’s too hot.

But she doesn’t mind the sting.

It feels like something real. Something she can hold.

After breakfast, She helps with the laundry next. It’s not something she’s asked to do, but she follows her mother out to the courtyard anyway, carrying a basket that’s too light to be of much use. The clothesline is different now—stronger, more permanent than the one they once strung between two old chairs on lazy afternoons.

The sunlight falls in strips, slanting across the stone like a painting too unfinished. Her mother passes her the damp sheets, and Lingling shakes them open with a practiced flick of her wrist. One corner at a time, she clips them onto the line. It’s a quiet ritual they’ve shared since she was small, as familiar as the breath between heartbeats.

Her fingers know the rhythm, even when her mind has drifted far away. Maybe this is what grief is. A body moving through motions it doesn’t know how to stop, performing the shape of something it can’t quite remember how to hold anymore.

Do you still sing?” her mother asks, her voice barely louder than the rustle of sheets in the breeze, her eyes fixed on the basket in her hands.

Lingling pauses, the towel half-folded between her fingers. She turns the question over in her mind, like it’s something distant, something she’s misplaced. “No, not anymore” she says softly, a quiet finality to the word.

Her mother doesn’t look up, but the silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s just the weight of something understood.

She nods once, her hands never stopping their work. “You used to hum while you worked,” she says, as though the memory is hers as much as Lingling’s, wrapped in the quiet of their shared days. Lingling doesn’t respond. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because sometimes, words just don’t fit. And maybe this is one of those moments.

But later, when she’s washing the dishes, something small and familiar stirs inside her. She hears herself hum, just once, a faint echo of a song long forgotten, the melody slipping from her lips like a secret she didn’t know she still knew.

And she stops.

Not because it hurts. But because it feels too fragile to hold. Like a bird just perched on her palm, its wings trembling, waiting to take flight.

She doesn’t check her phone.

Not even once.

She imagines the messages. The ones she hasn’t read yet, but feels pressing against her thoughts.

Orm’s name, glowing bright on the screen, like a reminder she doesn’t want but can’t escape.

Pring’s, probably—cheerful and insistent, peppered with emojis too bright for the quiet she’s holding. Too loud for the space she’s trying to carve out. She doesn’t want any of it. Not yet. Here, in this room with her mother, no one asks who hurt her. Instead, her mother just pours hot tea when the sky turns golden, the kind of warm comfort that doesn’t need to be explained. She sets out sweets, the ones Lingling used to steal from the pantry, hiding them under the stairs like secret treasures no one else knew about. And later, when night falls, her mother sweeps the floor again. Not out of necessity, but because silence, like dust, can be kept clean if you tend to it long enough. If you make space for it. And so, Lingling doesn’t look at her phone.

Not yet.

That night, Ling lies in bed and watches the moon push its light across the walls.

It lands on her childhood bookshelf. On her old lamp. On the blue slippers tucked too neatly beneath the dresser.

Everything is exactly where she left it. Except for her.

She curls onto her side.

Wraps the blanket around herself. And thinks: I used to be someone soft. Not weak. Not small. Just open. Just willing.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most—

That she offered that part of herself to someone who didn’t know what to do with it.

Her mother knocks softly, a quiet punctuation to the evening.

Then, without waiting for an invitation, she enters.

She carries a folded towel, even though Lingling never asked for it. She places it at the edge of the bed, standing beside it like she doesn’t know what to do with herself either. Her arms are crossed loosely, not an accusation but a shield. Her gaze isn’t sharp, but it’s still heavy, as if it’s learned how to see things without asking.

“You haven’t cried. Not once since you got here.”

Lingling looks up at her, then quickly looks away. Her eyes settle on the cup she’s holding, her fingers tightening around it—just enough to remind herself she’s still there.

“I don’t think I can,” she whispers.

For a long moment, her mother says nothing, her silence weaving into the room like it’s been waiting its turn.

Then, softly, almost as if to herself: “That’s not strength, Ling.”

Ling’s chest tightens.

“That’s exhaustion.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. The word lingers in the air between them, unspoken yet full of weight.

Lingling gazes out the window, her eyes fixed on the leaf drifting from the flame tree. It flutters down, hesitant, before catching against the wet porch tiles and resting there, still.

“I tried,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

The words are brittle, like something that has been held back too long. But her eyes betray her—they’re soft and wet, gathering the quiet weight of everything unspoken.

“I tried to… ask for something more. I thought, maybe, if I said it gently enough, it wouldn’t break anything.”

Her mother remains silent.

She doesn’t rush to respond. Instead, she moves with deliberate care, as though the room itself might shatter if she doesn’t tread lightly.

She sits beside Lingling on the bed, but keeps a distance—just enough for Lingling to feel the space between them, just enough to let her breathe. Not pressing. Not forcing.

Just there.

Present in a way that is not about fixing, not about explaining. A kind of love that knows only how to be still and hold.

The word her falls between them, quiet and sharp, like a key dropped carelessly onto a floor. Small. Unnoticed. But somehow still unlocked.

Her mother doesn’t flinch. She simply nods, once, as though the weight of it is already known.

“I know,” she says softly.

Lingling looks at her, confusion knitting her brow. “You knew?”

“I didn’t need names,” her mother replies, her voice steady and even. “I saw your face change when you stopped smiling at your phone.”

Lingling swallows. The lump in her throat feels heavier than it should.

There’s no judgment in her mother’s words. No sharpness. No curiosity, either.

Just memory.

Just that quiet knowing that lives in a mother’s bones, when her daughter forgets how to say what’s broken out loud.

“She made me feel… like I could be softer,” Lingling says, her voice almost lost in the room. The words sound foreign, like something she’s just now discovering. “But then I asked her to stay. And she… she freaked out. Like she wasn’t sure. And then she called me ‘Phi Sao,’ in front of everyone. Like everything I’d felt was just... made up.”

Her mother listens, her eyes soft, not interrupting. She doesn’t flinch when Lingling’s voice cracks.

Slowly, her mother reaches forward and takes the cold mug from Lingling’s hands, cradling it like it might shatter.

“I didn’t teach you to be silent, Ling,” she says, her voice low, steady, like it’s always been there, waiting. “I taught you how to survive. But I also taught you to live. To dream big, to open your heart wide enough to welcome what’s meant for you.”

Lingling blinks, her eyes too tired to hold the tears she refuses to shed.

“But surviving without being seen,” she murmurs, her voice thin with grief, “it hurts more than anything.”

Her mother’s gaze holds her for a moment, understanding in every line of her face. Then, without a word, she reaches out and brushes the tangled strands of Lingling’s hair back from her forehead, a simple gesture that feels like a promise.

“Then,” she whispers, the words quiet but powerful, “let someone earn the right to see you again.”

Lingling’s breath catches.

“Not just call you soft. Stay long enough to understand why.”

Later, Lingling lies in bed, the house groaning softly beneath the weight of the weather. The rain continues its slow conversation with the roof, a low murmur that stretches through the night like a story too tired to finish. Inside, she exhales, feeling the soft echo of her mother’s hand still lingering in her hair.

She doesn’t cry.

But she lets herself ache.

Fully.

For the first time in weeks.

It doesn’t feel like healing, not exactly. But it feels like truth. Like letting herself be seen, even if just by the silence in the room.

The rain doesn’t stop that night.

It softens eventually, drifting from full rhythm into a hush, as though the sky had exhausted its words, too tired to finish its sentence. But it stays.

Lingling sits on the floor by her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, the curve of her back pressed against the cool wall. Her phone glows beside her on the pillow, its screen a faint pulse in the darkness.

She hasn’t touched it in over a day.

She should feel free.

She doesn’t.

When she unlocks the phone, the screen is an avalanche of notifications. Mentions. Tags. Edits. Fan posts. Orm’s name embedded in every other headline, like a weight that she can’t shake off.

She doesn’t look at any of it.

Only opens Line.

Koy Mae’s name sits at the top of the list.

One message.

Koy Mae:

You okay, kid?. I made your favorite rice the other day. Almost packed you a bowl by mistake.

Lingling stares at the message, her thumb hovering above the screen, unwilling to move. There’s no question mark, not even a dot. Just the quiet pulse of words that settle heavily between them.

But she feels it anyway.

The question. The care. The silence wrapped in warmth. And for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like too much to hold.

Mae had always been the quiet kind of observant.

Back when The Secret of Us was filming, back when Lingling was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, Mae was the only one who noticed the little things—like when Ling stopped drinking her second bottle of water. When she started slipping into looser jackets. When her shoulders slumped inward, the day Orm stopped walking beside her.

Mae never said a word.

But one evening, after a quick costume change, Mae had slid a rice cracker into her hand, soft as a whisper. "This one’s salty," she said, her voice low. "Not sweet. Just in case."

Lingling took it without a word.

Sometimes, being seen wasn’t loud. It was just that simple.

Her thumb lingers over the reply box.

She types:
I’m okay.

Then deletes it.

She tries again:
I’m at my mom’s.

Another delete.

Finally, she types:
I miss the salty one.

No explanation. No emoji. Just the words.

She presses send.

Mae’s reply is almost instant.

Still keep a pack in the drawer just for you. Come back when you're ready, not before.

Lingling closes her eyes. Takes a slow breath. There is a quiet between people who love you without conditions. It doesn’t ask for your best. Only your return. And maybe that’s the first thing Lingling lets herself believe. That even if Orm never calls her Ling again, even if the world decides to read her heartbreak like fiction, there are still people who’ll wait with their hands open and their mouths closed.

Not asking.

Just staying.

It’s almost morning when she finally opens the gallery.

The sky outside is just beginning to lighten—gray first, then pale orange bleeding through like a bruise. She hasn’t slept. She’s not tired, not really. Just worn in the way fabric gets after too many washes. Threadbare in places no one can see.

The house is silent.

Even the birds are waiting.

Her finger swipes slowly across the screen.

Past selfies. Press days. Fan events.

Until she finds it.

The folder.

“Real.”

She named it that. Months ago. Quietly. Without fanfare.

Just a word that meant this one was for me.

The first photo is Orm’s hand.

Not posed. Just resting across a white hotel bedsheet. The sleeves of her hoodie bunched at the wrist. A red string bracelet around her thumb—tied loose, fraying.

Ling remembers that night.

It rained then, too.

Orm had fallen asleep on her side of the bed and mumbled something about missing breakfast. Ling had laughed. Pulled the covers higher. Took the photo because it felt like something no one else would ever see.

Something gentle.

Something that belonged to her.

The next photo is blurrier. Orm’s eyes half-lidded, squinting at the camera. Lips pulled into a sleepy frown. “You’re always filming me,” she’d said that night. Voice soft, half-annoyed, half-pulled from dream.

“You’re always pretty,” Ling had answered.

She doesn’t remember what Orm said after. Just the silence that came next. And the feeling of her hand in Ling’s hair.

She scrolls slower now. Each photo a bruise she presses willingly. A video plays automatically—just seven seconds. Orm laughing, too close to the camera, her mouth wide, shoulders shaking. Lingling must’ve been the one holding the phone. You can hear her chuckle, low and surprised, just once.

She hadn’t meant to save that one. But she hadn’t been able to delete it, either.

Even when Orm stopped showing up in the ways that mattered. Even when she turned their names into PR, not history.

Even when she said Phi Sao with a smile that didn’t flinch.

She stares at the final photo.

A picture Orm had taken of her. Backstage. Hair pulled up carelessly. Barefaced. Eating pineapple from a plastic bag. It’s a moment that feels so small, so unimportant. No filter. No carefully crafted pose. Just Lingling, caught mid-bite, eyes tired but soft with something unfamiliar—almost like peace.

She hadn’t known Orm had even taken it.

Not until the airdrop came later.

Just one word. Mine.

The word hangs between them, simple, casual—but it lands heavy, like a promise unspoken. A word that had felt like a shift, like something had changed from the fleeting, hidden moments they’d shared into something real, something that could be defined, could be anchored, could be... theirs.

Lingling exhales, the weight of the word pressing in, but also pulling her toward something new, something more certain than she’d ever expected.

Mine.

The phone slips from her hand, the screen darkens. But the word stays, lingering in the quiet spaces between her breath.

Maybe she had read too much into it. Maybe it had meant nothing at all.

Her chest tightens. But it’s not sharp. It’s just weight. Like something settling where the wound used to be. She presses the phone to her chest, her fingers cold against the glass. Closes her eyes.

And thinks: I wanted to be the one she chose. Not the one she smiled at when the lights were on.

That was the difference. That was the wound.

And even now—here, with the quiet pulling at her— It’s the ache she can’t quite give a name.

The next morning is cool.

Not cold. Just enough to press lightly against her collarbones when she opens the window. The garden is still damp from the rain, and a single white sock is half-draped over the line, forgotten. Her mother’s already up—Ling can hear the soft clatter of plates in the kitchen. The smell of ginger and oil moves like memory through the house.

She finishes packing slowly.

There isn’t much to bring.

She hadn’t unpacked much to begin with.

Just a few shirts. The sweatshirt. Her toothbrush, still wet from the sink.

The drawer where she kept her phone stays closed until the last moment.

She hesitates.

Then opens it. Takes it. Still off.Still heavy in her hand.

At the door, her mother doesn’t ask where she’s going.

She simply hands her a small paper bag, the edges folded neatly, as though it holds more than just food.

Inside, a container of soup, carefully rubber-banded.

Lingling glances up, surprised by the gesture, but her mother’s expression is steady, tender in its quiet way.

“You always say you’re not hungry until two hours into the drive,” her mother says softly, almost as if the words themselves are a familiar lullaby.

Lingling almost smiles.

Almost.

Instead, she nods, her chest tight.

“Thank you,” she says, the words almost feeling like an apology, though she doesn’t know why.

Her mother touches her elbow then, just for a moment, a quiet reassurance, the weight of her palm a soft question in the air.

“Next time,” she says gently, her voice low, “don’t wait until you’re breaking to come home.”

There’s no judgment in her voice. Only the kind of love that comes from a mother who has seen the spaces between her child’s smiles, who has felt the weight of her silence.

Lingling doesn’t reply. She can’t. Not yet.

But she takes the bag, the small offering of comfort, and walks away, feeling her mother’s quiet love follow her with every step.

he drive back is quiet again.

But it's different.

This time, she plays music—soft, just enough to fill the empty space without crowding it. The melody drifts between the sound of tires on the road, like an unspoken bridge, connecting her to something she hasn’t fully figured out yet.

The city reappears slowly, the skyline creeping back into view—its sharp edges softened by the morning light. The streets grow narrower, the buildings more demanding, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for her return. The closer she gets, the tighter her chest feels.

Not with dread.

Just... readiness. Readiness in the way someone who’s been lying down too long finally pushes themselves up. Not because they’re finished resting. Not because it’s easy. But because they know the world will keep turning, with or without them.

And she wants to be seen again. To stand up, even if it feels too soon.

The car hums beneath her as the streets start to feel more familiar. Her mother's words echo softly in her mind—“Don’t wait until you’re breaking to come home.”

Lingling knows she won't forget them, even when the weight of them is too much to carry.

She doesn’t check her messages until she’s parked in the building’s garage.

The screen flickers to life like something startled from sleep, blinking back at her—unwelcome, but inevitable.

Twelve missed calls. Most of them from the manager group chat. One from Orm.

She doesn't open it. Not yet. Not today.

She doesn’t need to hear it. Doesn’t need to see the name light up the screen again.

But her eyes drift to the timestamp, and she reads it.

The message came two nights ago.

Right after the video went viral.

She exhales softly, a quiet resolution settling inside her. No. Not this time.

She closes the screen.

Locks the phone.

Steps out into the heavy air of the city.

And whispers, half to herself:

“Next time, I don’t fold first.”

Not as a threat.

Not even as strength.

Just… a truth.

--- --- ----

The space is too bright—blazing not from the sun, though it cuts through her T-shirt cleaner than she expected, but from the relentless circus of cameras. White flash after white flash. The shuffle of reporters. The buzzing energy of Channel 3 ceremonies clings to the air like thick humidity. Incense spirals into the heat. Gold cloth drapes over every surface. Folded offerings stand in silent rows, waiting like duties.

Lingling sits with her ankles tucked to the side, palms pressed together, giving the world the smile it expects when the cameras pause. She’s learned this dance—how much of herself to reveal and how much to hold back.

She knows exactly what the lenses seek.

And today...

She doesn’t give them more.

Not today.

Not when Orm stands three feet away, in white—hair pulled back like a halo, face glowing like redemption.

Not when Ling is still trying to un-hear what echoed in her mind just days ago.

Phi Sao.

She swallows once, the word pressing against her throat.

But her spine is straight. Rigid with purpose. Unbowed.

⸻

The ceremony is half over when it happens.

They’re all standing in line now—cast, crew, executives—palms pressed together, incense balanced between their thumbs. The abbot’s voice rolls over them in waves, low and measured. A translator follows, softer still, like a thread being pulled behind the chant. A breeze lifts through the courtyard, catches at Orm’s hair, sends a strand drifting across her cheek. She doesn’t brush it away.

Then the microphones come, as they always do. The ritual folds into performance. Blessings become soundbites. The cameras blink awake again.

An interviewer turns toward Orm with a bright, rehearsed smile.

“What’s it like, working with Khum Lingling again?”

Orm glances sideways. Not at Ling. At the ground.

Then Orm says it—just a little too fast, just a little too light: “She’s my bodyguard now.”

Wrapped in a joke. Dressed in charm.

The crew laughs. Lingling’s lips curve upward. Slowly. Precisely. Like she’s folding paper with a wound in her palm.

And then—because there’s a microphone in her hand, and flashbulbs in her eyes, and a thousand hearts listening for cracks— She smiles a little wider.

But only just.

“Our Nong Sao is growing up fast. Look at her.”

The words float easily. The crowd laughs again. Cameras flash, hands clap, someone makes another playful jab.

The moment moves on. But inside Ling, something doesn’t. It catches—like a thread snagged on the edge of a door.

Nong Sao.

Little sister.

She’d said it without flinching. Had tucked it into her voice with practiced ease. Smiled like it didn’t mean anything more than affection. Respect. Familiarity.

But it did.

It meant folding something real into performance. It meant taking the way Orm had once whispered Tee Rak in the dark, the way she’d leaned in close when no one was watching—and naming it something else. Something smaller. Safer. Easier to explain.

Ling feels it behind her ribs. A hairline fracture. Tiny. Almost nothing. But persistent. A truth she swallowed for the sake of peace. And now it’s sitting there, sharp in her chest, pretending not to be pain.

They line up for group photos after.

Orm stands beside her—of course she does, they always arrange it that way. Fan service, fan investment. The fantasy of closeness.

Ling keeps her hands at her side.

Orm’s elbow brushes hers once.

She doesn’t move.

But she doesn’t lean in either.

The cameras flash.

The moment is captured.

But the warmth never reaches her skin.

After the ceremony, there’s a light lunch set out beneath a white canopy. The tables are shaded, but the heat still lingers—clinging to the backs of chairs, curling at the edges of napkins. Ling can feel it gathering at her collar, a soft dampness that does nothing to loosen her shoulders.

Across from her, Orm is sipping cold water through two straws, laughing with Enjoy from makeup. The sound is familiar—bright, untroubled, just a little too loud. It floats easily over the bowls of noodles, the clink of silverware.

Ling doesn’t join in.

She peels her mango slices with deliberate care, fingers working gently, arranging the pieces like petals in a bowl that’s suddenly too quiet.

Then Orm’s laugh catches—trails off.

When Ling glances up, she finds Orm watching her.

Their eyes meet.

Ling holds the gaze. And then she smiles.

A practiced, pretty thing. Smooth at the edges. The kind of smile that makes everyone believe the storm has passed.

The kind that says: I’ve stopped waiting.

Orm looks away first.

In the van on the way back, the coordinator turns in her seat, cheerful and flushed from the sun.

“We’ve got five more interviews lined up,” she says, scrolling through her notes. “All the big ones. With both leads, of course. You two are selling the series better than anything we’ve touched this year.”

Ling nods.

She doesn’t turn around. Orm is behind her—close enough to touch, far enough to forget.

Her manager starts talking about press cycles, digital campaigns, trending hashtags. Ling nods again, eyes fixed on the window.

Outside, Bangkok is sliding past—sunlight on concrete, motorbikes darting between cars, lives rushing forward. Inside, she says nothing. Not because she doesn’t care. But because silence is the only thing she hasn’t rehearsed.

At home, the blazer slips off first—slowly, deliberately—like peeling away a layer of armor. Then the shoes, one by one, each step shedding weight she can barely carry anymore. The earrings follow, cold against her fingertips as they fall away.

She moves slowly—not because her body is heavy with fatigue, but because every motion feels like giving in.

Like surrender.

On the corner of her dresser, she lays down the string of offerings from the monk, still faintly damp with her sweat.

She doesn’t cut it loose.

But she doesn’t pull it tighter either.

It sits there—an unspoken tether, fragile and slack—just like the thread holding her together.

That night, Orm posts a group selfie from the blessing ceremony.

They sit side by side—Lingling’s smile soft and practiced, the kind she wears like a shield.

The caption is careful, polite, almost hollow:

“Blessings all around. Hope you all enjoy the series coming soon. #OnlyYouTheSeries #Channel3”

Comments pour in, flooding the screen with hope and teasing:

“Nong Sao and Phi Sao real or what 😭😭😭”

“They’re glowing. Like newlyweds at the temple lol”

“LingOrm supremacy 💙💗”

Ling stares at the glowing screen for a moment longer. Then, with a slow, tired breath, she turns off her phone. The silence that follows feels heavier than any words—like the weight of a smile stretched too thin, and a heart too worn to hope anymore.

She eats alone.

She does not fold extra tofu.

--- --- ---

There’s a strange ache in pretending to be close to someone you’re still trying to forget.

At first, it’s easy—familiar, almost comforting. Ling knows the angles: how to tilt her shoulder just enough toward Orm when the cameras flash, how to catch Orm’s eye when the questions come, how to smile with the kind of quiet meaning that suggests something unspoken beneath the surface.

Maybe once, there was something real beneath it all.

But now—it’s all just performance.

And Ling has never been able to love acting when it spills beyond the stage, when it’s not caught in the safe corners of a script.

Here, now, it feels like a mask she’s wearing too tightly, one that presses against the fragile edges of a heart still learning how to let go.

The Only You press cycle begins softly—like a slow unfolding.

Group photos. Costume teasers. A brief promo where blurred glances meet city skylines, voiceover thick with longing. The fans devour it all. Comments pour in. Edits spread like wildfire in the night.

Ling’s face is everywhere, framed beside Orm’s.

None of it matters—that their words are measured, their silences rehearsed.

That Lingling now walks to the car first, no longer lingering by the elevator like she used to. The cameras only capture moments. They never ask for the quiet truths that lie beneath. And Lingling carries that unspoken fracture with her, like a shadow folded beneath the bright glare of the spotlight.

Sometimes Orm tries.

A quiet hand brushing Lingling’s backstage, gentle but uncertain. A joke breathed low, fragile as a secret. Lingling doesn’t pull away—she can’t.

But she doesn’t lean in, either.

She offers just enough—barely a touch—to keep the illusion from cracking, to keep the silence from shouting.

She lets Orm believe there’s still something between them.

Not because Lingling wants it—no, not anymore.

But because she’s too exhausted to fight the ache of wanting what’s no longer hers.

At one of the interviews, the host asks if they still share food off-set.

It’s a light question, one that should carry no weight.

Lingling forces a smile—too tight, too practiced, a shadow of what it once was.

“Not really these days,” she answers quietly, her voice barely hiding the exhaustion beneath.

Orm glances at her—just a flicker in her eyes, a pause that lingers longer than it should.

“That’s true. Phi’s been more careful lately,” Orm says, her tone softer, almost hesitant.

Lingling keeps her gaze steady on the host, nodding once without meeting Orm’s eyes.

Her smile doesn’t reach them anymore.

The cameras catch the smallest cracks—the tired pull at her lips, the way her eyes flicker away too quickly.
No one else seems to notice.

Except Orm.

They have to film together — behind-the-scenes skits, challenge clips, whisper games.

Orm is effortless at pretending. Her laughter spills out too quickly, her hand reaching out before thinking. Sometimes she calls Lingling “Lingliiiing Kwooong,” as if those syllables could rewrite the script, undo the distance.

Lingling lets her.

She isn’t cruel. She just doesn’t follow back anymore.

When Orm offers her a shrimp ball during a livestream, Lingling bites with a practiced smile—but doesn’t return the gesture.

When Orm posts a throwback photo from their trip to Osaka, Lingling scrolls past without a word.

When Orm wears her old hoodie — the soft cream one Lingling left behind on a rainy night — Lingling sees, quietly, but stays silent.

Not even when the fans notice.

“Isn’t that Ling’s?”

“Lingorm canon confirmed 😭”

“Married behavior fr.”

Ling scrolls past.

Behind the smiles, Lingling’s laughter feels brittle, like cracking glass. She avoids the brush of Orm’s skin, shrinking away from any touch that might pull her back into a story she no longer believes.

She distances herself—careful not to fall again into Orm’s illusion, to protect what little remains of her own heart.

⸻

The lights in Studio 5 blaze too bright, exposing everything Lingling tries to keep hidden. Lingling blinks against them, lashes heavy with sweat she hasn’t quite earned yet. The air smells of setting powder and freshly unpacked lighting rigs—too clean, too artificial.

She rolls her shoulders once, a motion so practiced it feels like breathing.

“Mic check, Phi Ling?” Koy Mae’s voice floats softly at her left, clipped into the headset with the gentle care of someone who only raises her voice when it truly matters. Which, with Lingling, never happens.

Lingling’s breath catches—surprised to hear Mae’s calm presence so close, like a quiet anchor in this storm of harsh lights.

“Yeah,” she manages.

Then clears her throat. “Sorry. Yes.”

Mae steps closer, unclipping the mic pack from the belt loop Lingling forgot to fasten this morning. She doesn’t mention it.

“Stand still.”

Lingling obeys, feeling the small steadiness Mae brings—a brief, silent reassurance amidst the chaos.

Mae’s fingers are warm. Careful.

They brush her jaw, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Not for aesthetics. Just… because.

Did you eat?”

Lingling blinks, caught off guard.

“Hmm?”

Mae leans in, adjusting the mic closer to her collarbone, then steps back. Her eyes hold a quiet kind of disappointment—like looking at a plant you forgot to water—not angry, just tenderly concerned.

“You look tired.”

Lingling shrugs, trying to sound casual.

“Everyone’s tired.”

Mae doesn’t blink.

“Not everyone loses three kilos in two weeks.”

For a heartbeat, Lingling freezes—surprised, vulnerable.

Then she says too lightly, almost brushing it off, “It’s the gym.”

Mae’s voice is soft but steady, like a gentle truth breaking through the noise.

“It’s heartbreak.”

In that moment, Lingling feels the weight of Mae’s care—a rare warmth, unspoken but deeply felt. Even now, Mae sees her. And that means something.

Lingling doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Mae sighs softly, a sound like a quiet wind.

She steps forward again, gently tugging the hem of Lingling’s top—flattening a crease Lingling hadn’t even noticed.

Her fingers brush the collar, straightening it, even though it’s already perfect.

“I’m not asking,” Mae says at last, her voice low, steady.

Her hands hover a moment, hesitant—then fall away.

“I’m just watching. Like always.”

Lingling’s breath catches, surprised by the quiet kindness wrapped in those simple words.

In Mae’s gentle care, she feels seen—still cared for—though the world feels so heavy.

Lingling swallows hard.

Her throat tightens—not with tears, but with a deep, bone-weary kind of fatigue—the kind that settles only when someone truly sees you.

Not the way fans do, with their distant cheers. Not the way cameras pretend, capturing only a fragment.

But the way Mae does—the way someone does who knew you before all the masks and stayed anyway.

———

“I’m okay,” Lingling says finally, voice breaking on the second syllable.

Mae doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to fix it.

She just nods, gentle and sure.

And whispers,

“Then be okay slower, kid.

You’re allowed.”

In that small moment, Lingling’s heart aches with a quiet gratitude—surprised by the tenderness, warmed by the unspoken love Mae still carries for her.

The headset crackles softly—

“Ten minutes to taping.”

Mae steps back, just a small retreat.

“Call me if you want tea later.”

Lingling doesn’t nod.

Doesn’t promise.

But when Mae’s footsteps fade, Lingling finds herself standing a little taller—

And for the first time in days,

She breathes without flinching, without measuring if the air will cut her open.

The problem with familiarity is its silence.

It doesn’t arrive like thunder, fierce and loud.

It seeps in, a slow shadow, a scent burned into the walls long before you knew to notice.

Orm slips in during second rehearsal call. Lingling’s breath catches—not because she expects her, but because she can’t help it.

Orm’s presence, like a sudden bright light, still surprises her. Her beauty—effortless, sharp, luminous—still steals the air from the room. And Lingling, despite herself, still sees her as if for the very first time.

And everything inside Ling stills.

Not stiffens.

Just stills.

The way the tide pulls back before it crashes.

She doesn’t look at her directly.

She doesn’t have to.

Orm is wearing the same navy jacket she wore in Chiang Mai—the one with the frayed sleeves she always refused to replace. Hair up. Lip tint fading. Phone in one hand, unread script in the other.

She laughs at something a staffer says.

The sound doesn’t reach Ling’s ears the way it used to.

Koy Mae turns her back.

Just slightly.

Moves toward the light panel.

Starts fidgeting with cables that don’t need adjusting.

It’s not subtle.

But it’s kind.

Lingling feels it like a hand placed gently over her ribs.

You don’t have to perform pain just because someone else walked in.

They haven’t spoken in twelve days.

Not since the blessing ceremony. Not since Lingling called her Nong Sao, her little sister, with a smile so sharp it could cut— And Orm laughed it off, trying to fold the weight of those words into a joke.

“Phi always so formal when there are cameras, na?” she’d said.

Lingling’s heart twists—a tangle of wanting and not wanting, of a fierce, aching love she’s trying desperately to forget.

She doesn’t want Orm. But still, when she thinks of her, something stirs—a slow, quiet ache that won’t be silenced. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

⸻

Now, Orm shifts to the other side of the studio.

Not avoiding Lingling—no, not that—but not closing the distance either. A deliberate choice. A boundary drawn in the space between them.

Lingling doesn’t cross it.

Not from stubborn pride, but from quiet self-preservation. Some silences are fragile—too delicate to shatter with the clamor of regret.

Koy Mae returns a few minutes later, holding a drink Lingling never asked for.

She places it gently beside her. No words. But her eyes, quiet and knowing, flick toward Orm and then back to Lingling. After a long stretch of silence, Lingling speaks, the words breaking through the stillness for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

“She’s early.”

Mae lets out a soft snort.

“She’s always early when you’re on the call sheet.”

Lingling presses her lips together, fighting the weight of everything that wants to spill out.

Then, barely a whisper, a memory slipping through the cracks:

“She used to be early for me.”

Mae looks at her, really looks at her. Soft, patient, like she understands more than Lingling is saying. She reaches out—just a touch, barely a gesture, but enough to say what words can’t. Adjusts a thread on Ling’s sleeve.

Whispers:“Don’t shrink just because she stopped reaching.” “She wasn’t the only one who held you.”

And Lingling thinks, maybe the reason grief feels so much heavier when Orm is in the room isn’t because she misses her. It’s because she misses the version of herself that existed when Orm was there beside her.

And that, that loss doesn’t have a name.

It’s something quieter, more insidious. A hollow space she didn’t realize she had until it was too late to fill it.

“Ling, Orm......just walk the entrance together once. Camera two will track you.”

The direction is light.

Casual.

Like the air hasn’t shifted since Orm stepped onto the mark beside her.

As if Ling’s breath isn’t lodged in her throat, trembling just under her collarbone.

She doesn’t look at her.

But she can feel Orm glance sideways.

A soft sweep sideways, twice— like she’s waiting for something to fall back into place, for some door to open. Lingling doesn’t move to unlock it.

They walk once. Then again. Their steps fall into rhythm too easily. Familiar.

The kind of familiarity that aches, like muscle memory dragging you back into something you’ve sworn off but can’t quite let go.

It’s effortless.

Almost too effortless.

Like a dance they performed without needing to rehearse, their bodies remembering the movement long after the music stopped playing.

On the third take, Orm speaks.

Not loud.

Just enough for Ling to hear, and for the words to settle between them, quiet and sharp.

“You cut your hair again.”

Ling’s response is automatic. She doesn’t think about it. She just says it, the words slipping out like a rehearsed line. “I always do in July.”

It’s the truth. It’s not the truth. She doesn’t know anymore. A beat of silence stretches between them.

Orm’s voice softens, almost too light. “Oh… right. I forgot.”

Ling feels the shift—small, fleeting, but there. It hits her harder than she expected. The fact that Orm forgot. The way the words feel like an old wound opening again. Ling doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. There’s no warmth in her face. No flicker of recognition. Just a hollow space where something used to live.

She says, almost too quietly, “People forget things.” Her voice comes out colder than she intended, but it’s a shield. A way to protect whatever’s left of her.

She doesn’t look at Orm. Doesn’t want to. Because looking at her means seeing everything that’s still buried under layers of silence and time. So she keeps walking.

Not faster. Not slower. Just walking.

As if walking is the only thing that still makes sense.

She doesn’t mean it to hurt.

Or maybe she does.

But not in the way you’d expect—no deep gash, no cutting words meant to wound.

No.

It’s more like a mirror.

Quiet. Still. Reflecting back what’s been left unsaid.

Placing it between them, so Orm can see exactly where she left her.

Where she left herself.

—

They finish the walk-through.

Ling thanks the director, her voice smooth but empty, like it’s just another thing to do.

She steps off her mark, her feet moving before her mind can catch up, as if her body knows the motions without her heart in it.

Orm hesitates.

A breath of space between them. Not quite stepping forward. Not yet. But not walking away, either.

“Ling…”

The sound of her name, soft, as if it’s something precious she’s holding back—something fragile.

Not “Phi.”

Just “Ling.”

And in that one syllable, there’s more than Orm realizes. It lands too late. Ling doesn’t stop moving.

She bends slowly to unclip her mic, fingers steady, as if the act of taking it off is something she has done a thousand times before, and can do again without thinking.

She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, her voice low, even though she doesn’t look at Orm: “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

It’s almost a whisper. “We already know how the show ends.”

And it’s not sharp. It’s not cruel. It’s just— the truth. Orm says nothing. The silence settles between them, heavy. Familiar. Ling feels it like an old ache, one she’s learned to ignore but never really let go.

She doesn’t wait for Orm’s reply. This time, it’s her who walks away first.

Her footsteps are measured, deliberate, like she’s forcing herself not to look back, not to let herself hope for something more.

But the truth is, it’s already gone.

⸻

She rounds the corner.

She feels Koy Mae’s hand brush against her elbow—just a soft graze, a grounding touch that doesn't ask for anything but still offers something she didn’t expect.

Unspoken.

Unasked for.

But somehow, not unwelcome.

Ling doesn’t stop walking. She keeps her steps steady, like she’s walking through something rather than away from it.

But her breath leaves her chest in a soft sigh, something caught halfway between release and restraint.

It’s strange—this feeling that leaving doesn’t always have to feel like losing.

Sometimes, it’s just... stepping away.

And in that small, quiet moment, Ling thinks maybe that’s enough.

The van hums down half-empty streets, the hum of tired tires on well-worn asphalt.

Ling watches the city slide by through the window, her hand resting on the armrest, fingers half-curled, caught between the pull of something old and the space where she wishes she could forget.

Orm shifts in the seat beside her.

Clears her throat.

“Do you want to grab something to eat?”

Her voice is soft, but it trembles just slightly on the edges.

Unsure.

Ling doesn’t turn her head. Doesn’t meet her eyes. She keeps her gaze fixed on the dark streets, on the blurry city lights that pass by without slowing.

The question hangs in the air between them, and Ling feels it like a thread pulling taut. She wonders, briefly, if Orm even knows the weight of what she’s asking.

Ling hasn’t been the one to pull away. She hasn’t been the one to create the distance. But suddenly, Orm is reaching for it again, and Ling’s chest tightens with a mess of questions she doesn’t want to answer.

What does it mean—this sudden gentleness? This hesitation?

The softness in Orm’s voice that used to feel like home, now feels like something else entirely—like an invitation she’s afraid to accept.

Because what happens when the door opens again? What if the space she once called home has shifted in some imperceptible way, like a dream remembered wrong? What if she steps back inside and finds that everything—every shadow, every silence—has changed?

What if she’s changed?

Ling’s fingers curl tightly around the armrest, as though she’s bracing for something invisible. She doesn't look at Orm. She can feel him watching her, feel the shape of the question he won’t quite let go of.

Why now? Why speak now, after so long? She doesn't trust the way his voice has softened. It confuses her. Infuriates her. Like an old wound touched too gently.

And yet—she doesn’t move away. She smiles, faintly. A flicker, more ghost than warmth.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, though it isn't about food.

Orm nods, slow and deliberate, as if he’s heard something else entirely in her words. His gaze drops to her hands—those small clenched fists resting quietly in her lap.

He doesn’t press her. Doesn’t ask again.

But the question lingers, unspoken and unbearably loud, between them.

Later, when she’s home, Ling finds herself filling the kettle, her hands moving on their own, as though memory lives in her fingertips.

She boils water. Cubes the tofu. Adds just enough soy, a flicker of ginger. The small rituals of care, even when no one is watching.

She eats slowly, the silence pressing in close.

Alone.

And when she looks down at the second bowl—untouched, cooling beside hers—she tells herself she made too much out of habit.

Not hope.

Never hope.

--- --- ---

The gym isn’t a place where Lingling expects to feel anything.

It’s utilitarian, deliberately dull. Cold rubber floors, recycled air laced with disinfectant, a relentless churn of pop remixes that all sound the same. She comes here for the numbness—the sameness of it. Three sets, five machines, one hour carved out of her day where her body takes over and her mind, blessedly, goes quiet.

And then—on a forgettable Wednesday—Lena is there.

And something shifts.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just a flicker under the skin, like a nerve remembering how to feel.

They’ve crossed paths before, of course. Award shows, press junkets, dimly lit after-parties where everyone smiles a little too hard. Lena is younger, but not obscenely so. Just enough to still believe that people mean the compliments they give. Ling remembers the first time she heard Lena speak her name with reverence, with that earnest tone that always makes her uncomfortable.

She'd laughed too quickly. Changed the subject.

It’s easier that way.

But this Lena, this version of her, in the mirror, Ling hasn’t seen before.

Her hair is damp, clinging to her neck. Her skin shines with sweat, and there’s white chalk on her fingers, smudged into the seams of her palms. She’s mid-set, focused, breath measured. The weight of the barbell pulls her body down, then up again—clean, fluid, powerful.

Ling forgets to swallow her sip of water.

And just for a moment, she isn’t thinking about form or reps or how many minutes are left. Just the way Lena’s muscles move beneath her skin. The ferocity of her presence. The unguarded fire of her. It’s not desire, exactly.

It’s something older. Something quieter. Recognition, maybe.

Lena notices. She smiles, a soft curve of her lips that seems to stretch a little longer than necessary.

"Phi Ling," she says, her voice steady, no breathlessness, no hint of the shyness that used to follow them in their brief encounters. Just the bare, unguarded truth of it. Lingling lifts her hand in a half-wave, as though the gesture is meant to push away some unspoken weight. "Didn't know you trained here."

Lena shrugs, wiping the back of her neck with a towel, the movement smooth and unhurried. "Neither did I. I switched gyms last month. Better lighting."

Lingling doesn’t ask what lighting has to do with it. She’s learned, over time, that some questions are better left hanging in the air, like delicate threads that might unravel if pulled too hard.

But Lena, with a quick flicker of humor in her eyes, offers the answer anyway. "I figured… if I’m going to fall in love publicly, I should at least look strong doing it."

Lingling blinks. The words hover, unfamiliar on her tongue. "Fall in love?"

Lena nods, a fluid motion of her chin, as if the question is absurd, almost laughable. Her gaze shifts toward the mirror, where Miu is curled on a yoga mat, her body winding slowly, gracefully through a cooldown sequence. Her hair is pulled into a high, effortless bun, strands escaping like a halo. A bottle of homemade drink rests beside her—Lingling recognizes the label, scribbled hastily in marker, as if it too was part of something personal.

Lena’s voice cuts through the quiet. "I want to win the Girls Cup," she says, and there’s no irony in her grin. No self-deprecation. Only the clean, unshaken certainty of someone who’s decided what they want—and what it will take to prove it. "So she’ll know I mean it."

The words settle in Lingling’s chest, heavier than she expected. She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if she should say anything.

But for the first time in a long while, it’s clear that nothing between them will ever be quite the same again.

Ling doesn’t mean to laugh.

But it slips out—quietly, unexpectedly. A sound so soft, it feels almost like air leaving her lungs for the first time in too long, as though the tension that’s lived in her chest for months has finally found a crack to escape.

“You think beating her will win her over?”

Lena’s eyes flicker, a brief moment of hesitation before she meets Ling’s gaze, still unguarded. “I think trying might,” she says, stretching one shoulder with a fluid motion, the small, graceful curve of her body a study in restraint. Her gaze drops briefly to her knees, and for the first time, Ling notices the subtle vulnerability there—the way Lena hides a quiet sadness under the confident smile.

“She’s always liked effort more than outcomes.”

The words settle between them, heavier than Ling expects. They feel sharp, like something true and unsaid, as if Lena has spoken them more to herself than to Ling. A revelation without adornment. No flourish. Just a raw truth.

It lands deeper than Ling wants to admit. She finds herself nodding, as though the gesture is a reflex, automatic and unavoidable, though she’s not sure why.

Something in those words, in the quiet certainty of them, stirs something long dormant in Lingling—a feeling, unbidden, that makes her wonder if she, too, has ever been seen the way Lena sees Miu. If effort, after all, is all anyone ever really wants.

---

That week, they train together.

Not because they plan to, but because it simply happens.

Lena lifts with a quiet intensity, the kind of determination that says she’s holding something back—something she won’t let slip, not yet. The weight on the barbell mirrors whatever it is she’s pushing against, though Lingling can’t tell what it is—only that it’s there, heavy and unspoken.

Lingling rows beside her, a steady rhythm of movement and breath. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The silence between them is like a quiet conversation, one that neither of them forces or interrupts. Sweat drips down her neck, mixing with the hum of the machines and the subtle, constant pulse of her own thoughts. She focuses on the motion of her body—forward, back, forward—letting it carry her without thought, without hesitation.

No one asks questions. No one brings up Orm, though the silence hangs between them all the same, a shadow lingering just outside the edges of their movements.

Not even when Prig joins them on Saturday, her entrance marked by a dramatic gasp at the sight of them together in the same gym set, the same space.

“Matching?” Prig says, her voice teasing, even as she whips out her phone and starts filming without a second thought. “Is this soft launch behavior?”

Lingling rolls her eyes, the motion light, dismissive—but there’s a softness beneath it. It’s something she’s always done when she doesn’t quite know how to react. The jest doesn’t faze her. She knows Pring too well to take her seriously.

Lena, on the other hand, just grins, muscles flexing slightly in the way that invites both attention and dismissal. It’s a challenge, but not the kind that Lingling feels she has to meet.

And then, from behind Lena, Miu appears—sudden and fluid, like a soft breeze cutting through the tension. She’s holding a towel, a fresh drink, her movements casual but with a hint of purpose, as if everything she does is meant to be seen and yet remain unnoticed. She pokes Lena’s side, the gesture so familiar, so effortlessly affectionate, that it stirs something quietly deep in Lingling’s chest.

The camera catches the moment—the laughter, the shared glance, the care in Miu’s hands as she hands Lena the towel, the softness in the way Lena receives it. But Lingling sees something else in it. She sees the unspoken connection, the ease of it, the way they move around each other like something that has always been. She feels it, too—briefly, in the quiet space between them.

That’s when the camera captures it all—their intimacy, their comfort—and it’s online within the hour, exposed and public. But it’s not the image that lingers for Lingling. It’s the quiet understanding between Lena and Miu, something unshakable and personal, hidden beneath the surface.

Later that night, Ling scrolls through the tags.

#LenaMiu rising.

#LingMiuGymDate trending in Korea for some reason.

Edits of Lena’s half-confession, fragments of the moment stretched and slowed, the audio layered over instrumental tracks that make everything sound fragile, like something fleeting. She watches them for too long. Not because she cares, really. But because the ache, the quiet hollow she’s been carrying, feels softer when it belongs to someone else. It’s easier to watch someone else take their turn, to be brave with something she hasn’t figured out how to say yet. So she scrolls. Thumbs flicking absently, as though she’s trying to escape something by lingering just long enough in someone else’s story.

-

By the second week, they don’t have to ask each other.

Lingling arrives a little earlier than usual, and Lena is already there, stretching by the mirror, earbuds in but the volume low. They nod at each other, that small, familiar gesture settling between them like it’s been part of the routine for months, not days.

Routine has always been sacred to Ling. She clings to it now—not out of a need for control, but because it feels like the only thing beneath her feet that hasn’t shifted. And Lena, with her quiet presence, slots into it with a kind of effortless grace. No expectations. No demands. Just the simple act of showing up.

Some people talk while they train. Lena doesn’t. Lingling appreciates that more than she knows how to say.

There’s something in the stillness between them, in the shared quiet of effort. They move in tandem—Lena with her precise, measured squats and overhead presses, Ling with her quiet, almost meditative rows and controlled bar dips. Their breathing finds its own rhythm over time. It isn’t planned. It just happens, as proximity often does when the distance between people isn’t measured by words.

They don’t speak until cooldown.

Lena breaks the silence with a low groan, lowering herself onto the mat beside Lingling. She reaches for her toes, but only makes it halfway, her muscles protesting in the same way the rest of her sometimes does.

“Phi,” she says, voice dry with effort, “if I tear something before the Cup, promise me you’ll avenge me.”

Lingling wipes sweat from her temple, the motion deliberate and unhurried, and lets the corner of her mouth tilt, just a fraction, into something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t far off.

“Only if you promise to stop doing chest day two days in a row,” she replies, the words a playful nudge, though the underlying warmth of it is clear.

Lena snorts. “No deal.”

The easy banter hangs between them, the kind of conversation that doesn’t need to be resolved or defined. Just two people who’ve settled into something, something unspoken and yet understood.

And for the first time in a long while, Lingling lets herself feel the quiet comfort of it.

Miu walks past them then, carrying three bottles of coconut water, one arm slung with her gym bag like it’s nothing—effortless.

She drops one in front of Lena, and then, almost as an afterthought, turns to Lingling and, to her surprise, gently rolls one her way.

“Cold,” Miu says, her voice soft, almost too quiet to catch, not meeting Lingling’s eyes. “You looked like you needed it.”

And then she’s gone again. Just like that.

No fanfare. No pause. Only the faintest whisper of her presence, like a memory that comes and goes before you have time to grasp it.

Lingling stares at the bottle for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the smooth plastic, the condensation beading up along the sides, glinting faintly in the soft light of the gym.

She doesn’t know why she lingers on it, why it feels like something more than just a bottle of coconut water. Why Miu's gesture—a small, almost careless kindness—seems to cut through the quiet space between them, leaving something behind that Lingling can’t quite name.

Then, without thinking, she presses the bottle against the inside of her wrist.

The chill bites into her skin, sharp and sudden, like a reminder of something forgotten.

But she doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Not when the cold feels like the closest thing to being seen.

---

The edits come faster now.

Someone posts a clip of Lena glancing up mid-set, eyes meeting Miu’s as she hands her a towel. Another shot catches Ling gently adjusting Lena’s posture in the mirror, the weight of the moment caught between them. A freeze-frame of Miu sitting cross-legged at the gym entrance, chin propped on her hand, just watching, quietly observant.

#LookingDangerous

#MiuGotTwoHands

#LingormWho (That one stings, just for a second.)

Prig joins again on Sunday.

This time, she’s wearing glitter eyeliner, a bold line traced around her eyes, bright against the sterile gym lights. “Just for cardio,” she says, as if it makes perfect sense.

Lingling doesn’t ask. Prig doesn’t explain.

She brings iced Thai tea and gossip, just like she always does. The air around her seems lighter somehow, more colorful, even in the grim hum of the gym.

“She's watching you, Phi,” Prig says casually, nudging the treadmill with her sneaker, the heel making a soft, rhythmic tap against the rubber floor. “Nong Orm. Saw her lurking your page again.”

Lingling doesn’t look up from her incline set. Doesn’t acknowledge the words immediately. The weights press into her hands, grounding her in the quiet steadiness of her movements.

Then, finally: “I don’t need her to watch.”

Prig hums thoughtfully, her voice light but with a hint of something more. “No. But it would be nice if she could see you, just you, again."

The words settle between them like a gentle sigh, and Lingling knows, without needing to explain, that this is the space where she’s safe. Not because Prig asks or presses, but because Prig just is.

She doesn’t need Lingling to be anything but what she is—nothing heavy, nothing to solve. Just a lightness, a presence that hovers beside her, never demanding, always offering something simple: a moment of levity, a distraction, a way of seeing the world that isn’t weighed down by expectations.

Prig’s way is easy. And Lingling is grateful for it, more than she knows how to say.

---

That night, Lingling scrolls past Orm’s profile without tapping.

The notification bubble stays red.

She lets it sit there, unacknowledged, suspended in the glow of the screen. And then, without hesitation, she reopens Lena’s tagged stories instead.

---

The thing is, Lena isn’t trying to impress anyone but Miu.

That much is clear. The way Lena looks at Miu, like her gaze could keep the world from spinning, like Miu is the pivot point of everything she wants to hold onto.

It’s… undeniable.

She watches her with a focus that seems too tender to be casual. Like the sun won’t rise tomorrow unless Miu gives it permission to.

And Miu…

Miu watches Lena with a softness that Lingling feels in her chest. It’s the kind of stillness that fills a room without making a sound. Miu’s gaze is calm, steady, like she’s building something inside herself—a foundation that won’t reveal itself until the time is right.

Lingling wants to tell her: It’s better to say it before it’s too late. But the words catch in her throat, lost in the weight of something she doesn’t know how to say. She doesn’t speak them. She doesn’t need to.

She just adds another plate to the bar, her hands steady and sure, as she lifts like she can sweat out the ache of things she’s not ready to voice.

They train for competition. For pride. For something unspoken.

For revenge, maybe Lingling can admit that to herself, though the admission comes with only the faintest of smiles, a trace of something she hadn’t expected. A flicker of satisfaction in recognizing it, even if it’s just for a moment.

If she has to play against Team Pink, then so be it.

Let her win. Let the world see that. Let Orm see it.

Let her witness the quiet strength Lingling has been cultivating, the one Orm never bothered to notice. Lingling feels something shift inside her, like a long-held tension beginning to unravel. It’s not just about winning anymore. It’s not about proving anything to anyone else.

It’s about her, finally, about standing tall and letting go of all the things she’s been folding into herself, all the things she’s been holding for someone who never could hold her in return.

Let them see what Lingling looks like when she stops folding food, when she stops making herself small for the sake of someone who doesn’t love her back. It’s the start of something else, something unexpected. Something that’s not about winning the fight, but about remembering who she is when she’s not busy losing herself in someone else’s expectations.

And for the first time, it feels like it’s enough.

--- --- ----

The message comes at 10:43 PM.

Prig 🐣: i’m kidnapping u tmr. 3pm. iced tea and gossip. wear sunscreen. i won’t listen to excuses.

Lingling stares at it for a moment, feeling the weight of the screen’s glow.

Then she types: okay.

One word. No punctuation. But Pring sends back eight heart emojis anyway.

⸻

She almost cancels in the morning. Almost writes some excuse, PR meeting, vocal rest, cramps.

Anything to stay home, hidden away where the noise of the world can’t find her. Where the ache inside doesn’t follow her, slow and silent, like an invisible shadow. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slips on a jacket that’s too thin for the day’s heat, ties her hair back with a kind of finality, and steps out the door.

The ache in her chest is still there, but she walks anyway, like moving through it is an act of defiance.

⸻

Prig is already waiting for her. Big sunglasses, a smile that could light the entire street, two cups of iced tea already dripping condensation onto the metal table. She waves both arms as soon as she sees Lingling, her excitement impossible to ignore.

“Yahhh, P'Ling! Why you walk like your bones hurt? Sit!” Lingling almost smiles.

Almost.

They talk about nothing at first. Shoots. The Girls Cup. Who’s flirting with whom at rehearsals.

Prig’s voice rises and falls like the melody of a song that doesn’t need an audience, a rhythm that’s only hers, a sound meant to fill space with something light. Lingling sips her iced tea slowly, letting it cool the back of her throat. It’s a small act, but it’s the first time in days that her chest doesn’t feel like it’s holding its breath.

At some point, Prig leans forward, squinting behind her giant sunglasses. “You look less dead today.”

Lingling snorts, almost chokes on her tea. Prig grins, a flicker of mischief in her smile. “See? You can laugh. You’re not broken. Just… bent a little.”

Lingling shakes her head, but the corners of her mouth lift a little. She takes another sip, quieter this time. Then she says, almost too softly, “I don’t know if I’m still who I was.”

Prig doesn’t answer immediately. She just pokes her arm gently with the straw wrapper, the way she always does when she’s trying to say something without forcing it. “No one is,” she says after a beat. “Especially not after they fall in love and fall out of it again.”

Lingling doesn’t look up. Doesn’t ask how Prig knows, even though she does.

Prig doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. She just adds, matter-of-factly: “You were soft, Ling. Still are. Just sharper now.”

Lingling looks at her, but Prig doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s allowed,” Prig adds.

Later, when they walk through the market, Prig points at the stalls with an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Try this,” she insists, handing Lingling a bite of something she’s never had before.

Lingling says no to most of it, her mind still wrapped in the edges of what she’s trying to move past. But when Prig insists on sticky rice with mango, Lingling lets her buy it anyway. They share it, standing against the cool shade of a wall, the afternoon light fading around them like a promise. Prig eats most of the mango, of course. Lingling doesn’t mind. The sun touches her wrist, warm and insistent. For a moment, the world feels steady. Simple.

And for the first time in weeks Lingling forgets to miss Orm.

When she gets home that night, Lingling catches herself smiling. It’s faint. So faint that no one else would see it. But it’s real. And maybe that’s enough.

--- --- --- ----

The announcement goes live during a pre-event for the Girls Cup.

Lingling is mid-sip of lemon water when the notification lights up her phone screen.

The girl sitting next to her—Prig, as it happens—gasps loud enough to make the room turn in her direction.

“Oh my god,” Prig exclaims, eyes wide, her voice sharp with a mix of disbelief and excitement.

Lingling doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink. Her fingers hold the glass steady, and the world feels oddly distant, as though she’s watching this moment unfold from somewhere else. Prig shoves the screen toward her, almost knocking over her drink in the process.

The post is already flooding with comments, the digital world a whirlwind of energy. Channel 3’s graphics are pastel and loud, two teams separated by columns of nameplates that could’ve been lifted from a school sports day—a cheerful kind of distraction, a sugar-coated way to frame competition.

Blue.

Pink.

Her name is front and center on the blue side. Lingling Kwong.

Just beneath it: Lena Lorena, Yeena Salas, Prigkhing.

Prig swipes again. Orm is in pink. Miu too.

Lingling’s thumb hovers over the screen for a fraction of a second longer than it should. A hesitation, brief but unmistakable. Her pulse doesn’t quicken, though. It doesn’t race, not like it used to. She exhales through her nose—slow, measured. Calm. Even.

“They split us,” Pring says with that same grin, nudging her with a playfulness that feels almost too sharp, like she’s waiting for Lingling to react in a certain way. “Genius.” Lingling sets her phone down with a quiet click, her lips lifting into a smile that doesn’t quite touch her eyes.

It doesn’t reach her chest. But it’s there, a small curve of resolve. “I’m glad,” she says softly, and the words, though simple, are an admission—a quiet promise.

And she means it.

She really does.

Because this time, she isn’t going to fold. Not for anyone. Not for anything.

The gym is booked early—private space, a controlled environment for training and the inevitable social media moments. The producers have their cameras set up like they’re filming a reality show. There’s an energy drink sponsor, the kind that promises you’ll be your best self in thirty seconds. It’s ridiculous, and Lingling knows it. She knows exactly how staged it all feels, how artificial.

But she plays her part.

She wears her team color. The pale blue fabric hugs her skin, as if the color alone is supposed to mean something. She pulls her hair back tight, smoothing the strands like it’s a ritual. She warms up her shoulders, every stretch precise, like the effort itself will be enough to keep her centered.

And then she sees Orm across the court in a pink jersey, laughing at something Kaykai says. It’s a sound that rings clear in the air, familiar and—still—unwanted. Lingling looks down at her laces, tightens them like it matters. Like it changes anything.

Like the air hasn’t already shifted.

She doesn’t avoid Orm.

She just doesn’t seek her.

It’s easier that way. With the cameras catching everything, with Lena cracking jokes and Miu offering the usual stream of well-intended corrections, with Pring pretending she’s too delicate for cardio and somehow managing to still make everyone laugh.

Lingling builds a wall of team spirit and hides behind it, like she’s learned to be invisible in plain sight. It’s a quiet kind of strength, the kind that feels more like an act of survival than defiance.

Orm watches her.

Lingling can feel the weight of it. Like something in the air is tugging at the edges of her concentration, pulling at the place where her resolve is still soft.

But she doesn’t turn around.

She keeps her eyes ahead, faces forward, pushing through the motion of each drill with the rhythmic certainty that’s starting to feel like second nature.

Even if Orm is still there—just behind the glass of the wall she’s built, quiet and watching.

Lingling wonders if she’ll always feel like this—like the quiet hum of something left unsaid, something unresolved, might always be just a breath away.

But she doesn’t stop. She keeps moving.

One foot in front of the other.

And this time, it’s enough.

The first inicial practice game is sharp.

Blue wins.

Barely.

Ling plays like she’s burning from the inside, every movement sharp and calculated, controlled but raw. A fire that she holds back—contained beneath her breath, her shoulders, the taut flex of her thighs as she drives off the court. Her fingers sting by the end. Her muscles ache, but they ache with the kind of satisfaction that comes from pushing past limits, from playing the game her way.

But they win.

And Orm pouts.

It’s a small thing, the way her head drops after the final point, the soft deflation in her posture. The way her hand lingers near Ling’s as they pass at the net. There’s a quiet tension there, like the space between them is thick with something unsaid.

“You didn’t have to go that hard,” Orm says, a teasing glint in her eyes, but the words feel sharp all the same.

Lingling lifts an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “You would’ve.”

Orm’s gaze flickers, like she wants to push back, to say something more, but she doesn’t.

Lingling walks past her, her voice calm, level. “Nong Sao’s strong enough. You don’t need anyone to go easy.”

There’s a quiet kind of resolve in her. A knowing that what happened on the court was about more than just the game—it was about proving something to herself. Not just that she’s capable, but that she’s more than the story people want to write about her. The story of Lingling the soft-hearted, the one who always bends for Orm, the one who would let her win, let her take the spotlight.

She can feel the whispers of those words as they float around her, like a haze that’s hard to shake off. Lingling will give it to her. Let Orm have the win. She saw the posts, the comments that came after every practice, every social media update, the ones that expected her to fold like she always did.

But Lingling won’t.

Not this time.

Not when she’s fighting to build something stronger than what she once was. Not when she’s standing on her own, her body working in ways that are hers alone. And when Orm looks at her now, there’s something different—something sharper, more complicated than before.

Lingling doesn’t need to prove herself to anyone. She knows who she is now. She knows what she’s capable of.

Even if the world, even if Orm, can’t always see it.

---

She regrets it later, for just a moment.

When she notices how Orm’s smile falters, fading just a bit too quickly after the final whistle blows. When she watches Orm settle next to Yada, her usual laughter quieter, more forced.

For a breath, just a moment, it stirs something in Lingling—a brief pang. A whisper of guilt, maybe, or the shadow of something that feels too much like loss.

But only for a moment.

Because then Lena slaps her on the back and says, “You’re terrifying. I love it.” Her voice is light, playful—like she sees Lingling for exactly who she’s becoming, and not who she was.

And then Miu, always quiet and measured, hands her a bottle of water. The briefest brush of fingers, a silent connection, no words needed.

And Lingling breathes.

She inhales deeply, letting the cool air fill her lungs, letting herself feel the space between her ribs expand. She feels herself standing, tall, rooted in the present moment, in the noise and the silence around her. In the people who are here with her now.

She doesn’t turn back. She doesn’t chase the thought of Orm, or the way her heart used to bend so easily toward her.

The ache is still there, a small part of her that still wishes Orm would look at her the way she once did. But it doesn’t pull her down. Not anymore.

Lingling holds on to the stillness, the newness of what’s unfolding—because this version of herself is stronger, even if she’s still unsure how to wear it. She’s learning to let go of the things that don’t serve her, even if they leave quiet marks in the spaces between.

For now, it’s enough.

⸻

They train every day that week.

Blue versus pink.

Power versus charm.

Orm plays dirty—in the way she always does. Not in breaking rules, but by leaning into the unspoken things between them. The tilt of her head before a pass. The flash of her eyes, daring, familiar, like they’re still something secret.

Something Lingling might almost give her. A point out of muscle memory. Out of the history they share.

Lingling almost does it.

Almost. But she doesn’t.

She blocks Orm’s spike with both hands, feeling the sting of the ball ricochet against her palms, and lands on the court without flinching. There’s no hesitation. No softness in her movements.

Orm hits the ground hard, knees slamming into the floor as she throws her head back, letting out an exaggerated groan.

“Phi,” she whines, her voice taunting, “Why are you like this?”

Lingling watches her for a moment, breath steady, heart too quiet to hear. She can feel the pull of the past, the way Orm’s voice used to hold her in a way no one else’s could. But she doesn’t let it make her waver.

With quiet precision, Lingling answers, gently, but firm:  “I play to win.”

It’s true. But as the words leave her lips, they hang in the air between them, heavier than they should be.

Because for a moment, just a moment, Lingling isn’t sure if she’s playing to win the game or if she’s playing to finally leave something behind. She’s not sure which feels like more of a victory.

Later, when the gym is quieter, and the others are too caught up in their own conversations, Lingling slips behind the bleachers. She folds an ice pack carefully in a towel, the fabric cool beneath her fingers.

There’s a weight to the gesture, heavier than it seems. She drops it near Orm’s bag, as though it’s a small kindness, something that doesn’t require acknowledgment. She doesn’t pause to see if Orm notices.

She doesn’t wait for a thank you. Lingling just turns, her heart steady and almost calm, and walks away.

---

They don’t stop asking her to ease up.

Not with words.

No, it’s subtler than that.

It’s in the way eyes linger on her when she scores another point. In the way people shift uncomfortably when her palm strikes the ball too cleanly, sending it slicing across the court with a sharp thud.

They laugh when she does it, but the sound is brittle now, like a smile held too long.

Even Lena, dripping with sweat beside her after a round of spike drills, exhales, half-joking, “P'Ling, you trying to destroy their will to live?”.

Lingling shrugs, her movements deliberate and careful. She wipes the sweat from her brow, leaving the towel to catch in the crease of her wrist, but her silence says more than any word could. No one knows what it costs her, what it costs to remain still when every instinct wants to soften. To ignore the pull she feels when Orm stumbles, or when her voice cracks with weariness. The yearning to reach out, to give just one point, one brief reprieve, to make it easier.

She doesn’t let herself. Not this time. Not when she sees the way Orm’s eyes flicker when she tries to smile, when she leans in a little too close to offer a hint of something familiar.

Orm tries.

She starts calling her "P'Ling" again.

A small gesture. A teasing nudge before games.

Lingling doesn’t correct her. But she doesn’t return the gesture. It’s not because she’s trying to punish her. No. It’s because she needs to protect herself from the parts of her that would give in. To the tenderness. To the softness that still wants to bleed into her every time Orm’s gaze softens.

It’s easier this way. Harder, too. But easier. And in the end, Lingling knows, sometimes survival is a quiet thing.

---

One night, after the final drills, Ling lingers behind to pack her things. Her fingers are slower than usual, trembling at the tips from exhaustion. Her shoulder aches with a familiar heaviness—the kind of ache that promises no sleep tonight, no release from the tension that’s been building inside her.

Orm’s voice startles her. “You really don’t want to talk to me anymore, huh?”

Ling doesn’t turn around. Instead, she pulls the zipper on her duffel bag, the sound sharp against the stillness. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

“That’s not true.” Orm says.

Lingling presses her lips together, a controlled exhale slipping past her teeth.

Finally, in a voice so calm it sounds almost unnatural, she says, “You called me your Phi Sao.”

The silence that follows is thick. It feels like the world holds its breath.

Orm doesn’t speak right away.

The air between them thickens, and Lingling can almost feel the words rising in Orm’s throat, trying to break free. Lingling doesn’t give her the chance.

“It was just—” Orm starts, but Lingling cuts her off, the words falling like ice between them.

“On camera,” she says, her voice steady, too steady. “To millions of people. You looked right into the lens and said I was like a sister.”

Orm falters.

Lingling doesn’t flinch.

“I didn’t mean—” Orm starts again, but the words sound hollow now.

“You said it.” Lingling pulls the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her back is to Orm, but she doesn’t need to see her face to know the weight of the silence that follows. “And if that’s what I am to you, Nong Orm,” Lingling says, her voice a quiet finality, “then that’s what I’ll be.”

She walks past her, her steps measured, controlled. Leaving Orm standing there, rooted to the floor, with a mouth full of words she should’ve said months ago.

Lingling doesn’t look back. She doesn’t have to.

Because in this moment, she’s not just walking away from Orm. She’s walking away from the part of herself that still wanted something more.

---

The Cup draws nearer.

Blue keeps winning.

Orm keeps breaking, just a little more each time. It’s subtle. Barely perceptible, unless you know how to look. Lingling does.

She watches the way Orm’s shoulders dip after a miss, the tiny bite of her lip, the way her eyes flick toward Ling between plays, quick, hesitant, like she’s trying to ask something without letting her heart show. Lingling notices all of it. She always does. But this time, she doesn’t let it in. She doesn’t offer a glance in return. No softening of her gaze. No brief acknowledgment. She lets the silence between them stretch out, longer than it ever has before.

She’s not ignoring Orm. She’s just not folding. Not this time. Not when the air between them has started to burn. Lingling can almost feel it—like a wire pulled too tight, humming with the weight of things left unsaid, things Lingling no longer has the strength to hear. So, she keeps her eyes on the game. Keeps her hands steady. She’s better now. But she’s not free. Not yet. And that—that—is the price she has to pay.

---

They do a livestream before the final game.

Team banter.

Fan questions.

Light flirting between the leads, scripted and safe.

Prig cracks a joke about how Ling’s too strong to be trusted, and someone throws in, “You think she’s going to let Nong Orm win one this time?” Laughter fills the air.

It’s easy.

It’s casual.

Even Orm chuckles, a little too quickly, as if she’s trying to mask something beneath the surface.

Lingling doesn’t laugh. Her lips press into a thin smile, tight, closed. She doesn’t want to look at Orm. Not now. Not with everyone watching. Not when the weight of the question feels like it’s pressing down on her chest. Instead, she says, her voice steady, “I don’t think N'Orm needs my permission to win.”

The chat erupts. Messages flash by so fast they blur together. Orm’s face flickers for just a second, too quick to be read. A tightening of the jaw, the subtle drop of her eyes. Then it’s gone. The moment slips away, like water through fingers. But Lingling holds on to it. She presses the ache deep into the corner of her mouth, like a secret that doesn’t want to be spoken. She feels it—stubborn and bitter, lodged somewhere behind her teeth. She knows she should be better by now. But there’s a difference between feeling better and being better. And Lingling isn’t sure she’s crossed that line yet.

---

She doesn’t sleep the night before the final.

The kitchen light hums softly, a quiet pulse in the otherwise still house.

Lingling doesn’t turn it off. Instead, she presses her palms to the countertop, feeling the coolness of the marble against her skin, steadying herself. She makes tofu. Folds it slowly, methodically, like she’s trying to fold the quiet into something she can keep.

She fills two containers.

One for herself. One for someone else. But as her fingers move, there’s a hesitation, tiny but enough to leave a weight in her chest. She throws one container out. Not out of anger. But because she knows, now, more clearly than before: Love isn’t folding food for someone who can’t even call you by your name when it matters the most.

She knows it in the way the tofu crumbles gently in her hands, the way the empty container feels lighter than it should. It’s strange, how something so small can feel like a release, and yet still hold the weight of what it never became.

--- --- ---

The dinner after winning the Girls cup isn’t her idea.

It’s Lena’s.

A simple text, the kind that feels effortless, like Lena knows exactly how to reach people without ever seeming to try too hard.

Hey, we’re grabbing food later.  Miu’s free. Prig said you owe her. You coming?

Lingling stares at the messages, fingers hovering above her screen, feeling the weight of the silence between each letter. Her thumb wavers, but then, she types: Sure.

Just that. It’s small. Simple. Uncomplicated.

But then Lena sends a voice note with Miu’s enthusiastic “Yesss!” in the background, loud enough to crack something inside Lingling, something she hadn’t realized she was holding onto until it loosened in the sound of her friends’ joy.

And just like that, Lingling feels the pull of something different. She feels lighter. The idea of laughter and food with people who are here, right now, not in some distant memory, suddenly seems possible.

She doesn’t think about Orm. Doesn’t think about the feeling of not being enough. She just lets herself feel the stretch of her ribs as she exhales, lets the quiet weight in her chest soften.

She needs this. She needs to be around them. To remind herself what it feels like to just be herself again. No expectations. No past. Just the ease of being with people who know her, who are already there, already waiting for her.

For once, the world doesn’t feel like it’s holding its breath. The evening air is heavy with warmth, but the table is bathed in the soft glow of string lights, their faint glow like memories that have softened with time.

The heat clings to the skin, but it’s bearable when the evening hums with the easy buzz of the city, the gentle clink of glass, the laughter rising like steam in the air.

Lena orders cold noodles without asking anyone first. Lena, who’s always been just the right amount of fearless. Prig is already halfway through a glass of wine when Lingling finally sits down.

“You’re late,” Prig teases. “But you look relax, so I’ll allow it.”

Lingling rolls her eyes.

The movement is easy, familiar, like slipping into a pair of shoes she thought she’d forgotten. Miu grins, leaning forward with the kind of mischief Lingling has missed more than she realized. “Don’t worry,” Miu says, “We told the server you’re the famous one.”

Lingling laughs. It’s not loud or forced. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like a small exhale after holding your breath for too long. It catches in her throat, but it’s real, like something’s finally settling, something heavy she didn’t even realize she was holding. She feels lighter, in this moment, with them. Without needing to be anything but herself. The world feels quieter when they’re all together. The air seems less sticky, the weight less pressing. And for the first time in a while, Lingling doesn’t think about what should have been or what’s still to come.

She just lets herself be.

---

They eat.

There’s a kind of relief in the silence between them, a quiet comfort that doesn’t need words. They don’t mention Orm—not even once.

Lena leans her shoulder into Miu’s, a silent gesture of camaraderie.

Prig, in her usual way, pulls out her phone and begins showing them pictures of her dog dressed up in the most ridiculous costume she could find. The dog’s eyes are wide with confusion, its little paws awkward in a tutu.

Lingling just listens because for the first time in ages, she’s forgotten what it feels like to belong somewhere without the weight of explanations, without needing to explain the bruises she isn’t ready to name. The kind of bruises you hide even from yourself, even when they ache.

When the music starts, it’s just loud enough to swallow everything else. The bass presses into her chest, into the air around her, and for a few seconds, she’s not thinking—just feeling the rhythm, the pulse, the space between them.

Someone, maybe Prig, suggests dancing.

Lena is up first, already pulling Miu onto the makeshift dance floor, their movements half-laughing, half-serious.

Prig grabs Ling’s wrist, spinning her into a clumsy circle, her grip insistent. “I don’t dance,” Lingling says, already trying to pull away. “You do now,” Prig says, her voice lighter than the air around them.

Lingling almost resists, the urge to stay still pulling at her like gravity. But she doesn’t. She lets go.

Later, she stands just off the floor, watching the light spill over the crowd. Flushed, damp from the warmth of the night, laughing a little too loudly at something Miu said—something about the ridiculousness of the last round of drinks. Her laughter rises in the air like a breath she forgot to take. It feels lighter than it should.

That’s when she sees them. Milk and Namtan are by the bar, leaning into the spotlight as if it belongs to them, they kinda do, their laughter rising above the murmur of the crowd. Cameras are flashing in quick bursts, and fans are calling their names with a reverence that tastes like magic. Like a chant.

And then Bonnie, loud and bold and too beautiful for anyone to ignore. She lifts her phone high, aiming it at Ling, grinning that grin that makes everything feel like a dare. “Tell your fans I’m the next one, na!” she shouts, voice carrying through the buzz of conversation.

Before Ling can even gather herself to laugh properly, the flashes flood in, faster than she can blink. She doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t protest. Doesn’t pull away. She just lets it happen, lets it spin out of her control like everything else that’s been swirling around her for so long. She stands there, caught in the center of it all—letting herself be seen, even if it’s only for the night, even if it’s only for the show. Even if it’s only pretend.

---

Milk is the first to arrive to their table. She’s wearing something so absurd it might be a fashion statement, baggy jeans, a cropped tee, and a jacket she definitely borrowed from wardrobe, pretending it’s vintage. Like she’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be annoying but is somehow just... charming.

She hugs Ling like they’ve been friends forever. “Nice to meet you,” she says, deadpan. No irony. Lingling doesn’t flinch. She just smiles.

Namtan follows a few minutes later, her platform shoes clacking against the floor, already waving before she’s even through the bar. “Someone better be praying,” she says, tossing her purse onto the seat beside Lena. “Not even god could have planned this meeting.”

“I’m cutting her off at three,” Milk stage-whispers, like it’s a state secret.

“You’re no fun,” Namtan pouts, but then her gaze slides over to Ling. “You look gorgeous. Who do I have to fight?” “No one,” Lingling says, the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Liar,” Namtan declares, and then shrugs, not pushing further.

Then Bonnie bursts through the bar, loud and glittering like she’s just walked out of a dream she didn’t ask for but totally deserves. “LINGLING!” she screams, already filming her. Lingling freezes. She’s not sure if she’s ready for this. Bonnie swoops in beside her, flips the camera to selfie mode, kisses her cheek with an exaggerated “mwah” and declares, “You guys, I’ve fallen in love.”

The comments explode in seconds. Milk is in the background, sipping a vodka soda and rolling her eyes with the grace of someone who’s seen it all before. Namtan picks up her phone and starts reading aloud. “‘OMFG BONLING NATION’? You guys are unhinged,” she laughs, holding the phone out like a trophy.

Bonnie beams, all sparkle and no shame. Lingling, caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement, hides her face, her smile blooming behind her hands, a blush creeping through despite herself.

She doesn’t care that this is all so... loud. So much. Because for the first time in a while, it feels good to be here. To be part of the noise, the lightness, the freedom of just living—without expectations.

Without pretending.

---

Later, when the dancing starts, it’s nothing serious. Just swaying, bumping, laughing, and feeling the beat in your bones like no one’s watching. Feet shuffle across the floor, pretending they know how to dance. Hands fly up to the sky, reaching for the stars or maybe just the ceiling. Laughter bursts between beats like confetti, landing wherever it pleases.

Prig wraps her arms around Ling’s waist, spinning her like they’re starring in some ridiculous music video.

Namtan and Milk are in their own world, spinning each other in circles until they both look a little dizzy, but they couldn’t care less.

And then there’s Bonnie, oh, Bonnie.

She flirts with everyone, but somehow keeps sneaking back to Ling like it’s just instinct.

“You’re too pretty to be alone,” Bonnie purrs, lips brushing Ling’s ear with a teasing grin. Ling raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not alone, not right now” she whispers and smiles. Bonnie pulls back just enough to give her a mischievous wink. “Well, good. Because I was starting to think you were just playing hard to get".

Ling’s smile deepens, though she tries to hide it, pretending to look more serious. But Bonnie’s playful tone is infectious, and it doesn’t take much for Ling to give in. Her gaze softens as she locks eyes with Bonnie, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

“I don’t play games,” Ling says, voice low and teasing. “But I do like keeping a little mystery.”

Bonnie tilts her head, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Is that so?” She steps closer, her breath warm against Ling’s cheek, but she doesn’t touch her. Not yet.

Ling feels the space between them pulse with tension. Her pulse picks up, heart thrumming in her chest as Bonnie’s presence hovers just a bit too close. “Maybe you’ll have to figure me out for yourself.”

Bonnie grins, lips curling into that same knowing smile that always seems to leave Ling a little off-balance. “I think I’d enjoy that challenge.”

Before Ling can respond, Bonnie leans in again, lips almost brushing hers, but just close enough to make Ling’s breath hitch.

“You know,” Bonnie murmurs, “I think you could use a little more fun in your life. And lucky for you, I’m great at making sure no one’s ever too alone.”

Ling’s breath hitches slightly, the space between them feeling impossibly charged now. She glances at Bonnie, who is looking at her with that unmistakable fire in her eyes bold, inviting, teasing. And just like that, Ling isn’t sure if she wants to run from it or step closer.

But before Ling can answer, Bonnie pulls back a little, giving her the space she might need, but her grin stays. "Let me know if you ever want to skip the mystery and just be a little reckless," Bonnie says, voice playful but laced with something else, something that leaves Ling questioning whether the flirtation is just fun, or something more.

Ling bites the inside of her cheek, fighting back a smile. “Maybe I will. But don’t get your hopes up, Bonnie.”

Bonnie chuckles, the sound light and teasing, before she leans in one last time, her lips brushing Ling’s ear again with a whispered, “I’ll be waiting.”

And then, with a wink and a step back, she leaves Ling standing there, a little breathless. Ling’s chest flutters at the comment, but she laughs it off—light, carefree. She feels light, like she’s shaking off old ghosts and letting the night just be.

The music gets louder, the world feeling a little warmer, and before she knows it, Bonnie’s got her phone out, pointing it toward them with a grin.

“Selfie time,” Bonnie announces, moving closer. “You look way too gorgeous to leave without a picture.”

Ling smirks, one brow arched as she leans in. “You’re just trying to make your Insta followers jealous, aren’t you?”

Bonnie pouts dramatically, looking over at her. “Guilty. But I think they’d be so jealous if they knew I was standing next to you.”

Ling laughs, the sound echoing above the music. Bonnie’s so close now that she can feel the heat from her body, the smell of her perfume—a mix of jasmine and something sweetly intoxicating.

“Alright,” Ling says, adjusting herself to be next to Bonnie. “But no funny faces.”

Bonnie shrugs. “No promises. I’m too charming for that.”

They take a couple of selfies. Bonnie tilts her head in that perfectly practiced way, her lips in a playful pout. Ling, looking effortlessly gorgeous, flashes her best “I’m too cool for this, but let’s have fun anyway” smile.

Bonnie looks at the pictures, beaming. “Okay, this one’s definitely going up.”

Later, Bonnie posts the photo with the caption: “Lingling makes everything look good. (And by ‘everything,’ I mean me 😘) #BonLing #DoubleTrouble”.

Bonnie beams like she’s won a small victory, leaning over to whisper to Ling, “So, when are you going to admit you’re having fun with me?”

Ling tilts her head slightly, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “You think I’m having fun with you? You must be mistaken, Bonnie. I’m just here for the good pictures.”

Bonnie laughs, a light, melodic sound, and then nudges Ling’s shoulder. “Liar. I see the way you keep smiling every time I make you blush. Admit it—you like hanging out with me.”

Ling shrugs nonchalantly, though her eyes sparkle with amusement. “I didn’t say I didn’t. Just don’t get too full of yourself.”

Bonnie takes a step closer, her gaze playful and intent. “You sure about that? Because you really like me when the cameras aren’t on.”

Ling feels the tension in the air shift, a slight heat rising in her cheeks. She’s not sure whether it’s the close proximity or the weight of Bonnie’s words, but she tries to maintain her cool.

“You think you know me that well?” Ling counters, raising an eyebrow. But her voice is softer now, almost like she’s letting down a small, carefully guarded wall.

Bonnie steps even closer, just enough to be dangerous, lips barely an inch from Ling’s ear as she whispers, “I think I’m learning.”

Before Ling can respond, Bonnie’s phone buzzes. She checks it quickly, then grins and taps on her screen. “Look at that. My followers are definitely jealous. I’m getting flooded with DMs about our ‘chemistry.’”

Ling chuckles, but her pulse is suddenly a little faster. “Chemistry? Please. It’s just a good photo.”

Bonnie’s smile widens, but her eyes are still locked on Ling’s, a little too focused, a little too intense. “Oh, it’s more than just a photo, Lingling. You can’t fake that kind of chemistry.”

Ling opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, Bonnie’s already moved, pulling back with a wink. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you admit it yet. But the universe is watching, babe.”

Bonnie leaves her standing there, not quite sure whether she’s relieved or a little... intrigued. Ling takes a deep breath, trying to keep her cool, but one thing is certain: Bonnie is definitely a puzzle. 

---

Lena and Miu are wrapped up in each other, giggling over some inside joke, while Milk’s laughing at something Bonnie says too fast for anyone else to catch.

Prig, ever the instigator, pulls Ling in closer and presses her forehead to hers with a dramatic sigh. “We’re keeping you, you know,” she teases.

Ling laughs, more than tipsy now, her body swaying with the rhythm of the night. She can feel the buzz of the alcohol running through her, making her a little looser, a little lighter. The edges of everything feel softened—like the world is wrapped in cotton, and for once, it doesn’t feel like she has to hold everything in place.

Prig’s words hang in the air, but Ling doesn’t feel the weight of them. Instead, she presses her forehead back against Prig’s, playfully dramatic. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Pring grins, pushing a lock of hair out of Ling’s face, her fingers lingering just a beat longer than necessary. “You can’t escape us now. We’re too good for you.”

Miu leans over, nudging Ling with her shoulder, the laughter from the two of them almost melodic. “She’s right, you know. You’re stuck with us, Lingling.”

Bonnie, watching the entire exchange with that predatory gleam in her eyes, leans forward. “Oh, don’t worry, Ling. We’re not letting you go. You’re way too fun to lose.”

Ling’s head spins slightly, but the warmth from her friends wraps around her like a blanket. For the first time in a long while, it feels easy, no walls, no hesitation. Just the sound of her friends’ laughter, the soft hum of the music in the background, and the weight of Bonnie’s gaze that lingers on her just a little too long.

“Alright, alright,” Lingling relents, laughing again, though the sound catches a little in her throat. She suddenly feels... seen.  “I’m not going anywhere, I guess.”

Bonnie raises an eyebrow, a sly smile playing at her lips. “That’s what I like to hear,” she teases, moving just a little closer, her shoulder brushing Ling’s.

Prig grins, the mischief in her eyes undeniable. “See? She’s already ours.”

Ling leans back slightly, looking from one face to another, feeling more grounded than she has in days. In this moment, it doesn’t matter that the world outside is full of chaos and uncertainties. Right here, right now, with her friends... it’s like she can breathe.

“Okay,” Ling finally says, her voice soft and a little quieter. “But don’t expect me to dance any more. I’m too busy being forced into your clutches.” She gestures dramatically to the circle around her.

Bonnie laughs, reaching out to gently tug at her sleeve. “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” she quips.

Ling doesn’t argue. Maybe she doesn't need to.

---

She’ll remember this night for a long time, but not for what was said. Not for the dancing or the jokes or the teasing flirtations. She’ll remember it for the things that weren’t said.

Like how no one asked about Orm. Or tried to “fix” anything.

And how she didn’t have to apologize for just having fun. They pile together for a photo—six new friends squished close, all grins and arms and laughter.

Later, Bonnie posts the photo with a caption: “Just a girl gang out here breaking hearts and stealing drinks. No apologies. #BestNight #BonLingVibes #SorryNotSorry”

And sure, Orm probably sees it. Ling doesn’t check. Doesn’t need to. She knows. But for once—she doesn’t care what it means.

She feels her phone buzz later. Doesn’t look. Knows it’s Orm. Knows without proof. It stirs something in her. Something soft, something a little too tender.

Not because she wants her to call. Not because she’s waiting for the words, the apology, the reclaiming of whatever was broken. But because she knows, deep down, that she’ll answer when Orm calls. She knows she will. But this time… this time it won’t be her picking up first.

The ache is there, but it’s quieter than it used to be. More like the distant hum of a train you know is coming, but somehow it doesn’t make you flinch anymore.

In this moment, Ling isn’t the girl with the heavy heart or the unspoken words. She’s just Lingling. And for once, that’s enough.

--- --- ---

The press the next day goes wild. The photo of Ling, Bonnie, and their crew has ignited the internet, and the headlines are everywhere. Fans are still buzzing about the "BonLing" hashtag. The comments section of Bonnie’s Instagram has turned into an unfiltered circus, with rumors, jokes, and speculations swirling faster than Ling can scroll through.

"Lingling & Bonnie: The New Power Duo?"

Bonnie’s latest post—another candid shot of her with Ling, taken just moments before they left the club—is even more daring. This time, it’s just the two of them, close enough to almost seem intimate. Bonnie’s lips hover near Ling’s ear, and her expression is pure mischief.

The caption reads: "Guess who just found their new favorite person? 💋 #BonLing #DoubleTheFun #SingleAndNotLooking 😘"

"Are Lingling and Bonnie more than just Insta-friends? Fans can’t stop shipping them!"

"Lingling’s Night Out: Making Memories, Not Mistakes?"

"Did Lingling Just Find Her Match? Bonnie & Co. Take Over Bangkok!"

Lingling, still lying in bed with the thick fog of her hangover, scrolls through the endless barrage of notifications. She blinks, trying to focus, but the light from her phone feels like it’s burning through her skull. Her head is pounding, her stomach turning, and all she wants is to curl back into the warm, intoxicating haze of sleep.

She doesn’t remember much from the night before, but the flashes of laughter and Bonnie’s teasing whispers are all that remains in her mind. For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt like everything was fun, uncomplicated—a night that existed solely in the present. But now, the reality of the press, the photos, and what could be looming over her creeps in.

Before she can even think, she hears the front door click open. Footsteps, heavy and fast, coming toward her room.

“Lingling!”

It’s Orm’s voice, sharp and jagged, cutting through the quiet of the apartment.

Lingling blinks, startled. Her body feels like lead, but she forces herself to sit up, wincing at the rush of dizziness. Orm’s already standing in the doorway, her face flushed, eyes wide with something that looks a little too much like fury.

Orm storms into the room, closing the door behind her with a force that makes the walls shake. She stands at the foot of the bed, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her eyes are darker than Lingling’s ever seen them—blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Orm’s voice cracks as she speaks. She’s not yelling—not yet—but there’s something about the way she stands there, rigid, fists clenched at her sides, that makes Lingling freeze.

You hurt me first,” Lingling whispers, her voice small, vulnerable. “When I asked for more, when I needed something... you didn’t give it to me.”

The words fall between them like stones. Orm’s face falters for a moment, her anger fading just enough for the hurt to seep through. She takes a step back, her shoulders slumping as if the weight of it all is finally catching up to her.

“I know,” Orm whispers, her voice barely audible. “I know I hurt you.” She pauses, her eyes never leaving Lingling’s face. “I didn’t want to... I just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted. And now... now you’re out there, having fun, with someone else.”

Lingling’s chest tightens. She can feel the tears threatening to rise, but she swallows them back. “It wasn’t about... Bonnie. It wasn’t about anyone else. I just needed space, Orm. I needed to forget everything for one night.”

Orm exhales shakily, rubbing her face as if trying to wash away the guilt that’s been festering between them. She looks at Lingling with soft, regretful eyes. “I didn’t want you to feel that way. I didn’t want to push you to the point where you needed to forget.”

There’s a long silence. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioning and the distant noise of the city outside.

Finally, Orm steps forward. Her voice is lower now, softer. “I’m sorry, Lingling. I’ve been selfish. I should have been there for you when you needed me. Instead, I... I let my fear take over. And I hurt you.”

Lingling looks up at her, searching her face. For the first time in a long while, she sees vulnerability there—something that mirrors her own.

“Do you mean it?” Lingling asks quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orm nods, swallowing hard. “I do. I’m sorry.”

Lingling takes a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle over her. The anger, the hurt, the regret—it all feels too much to carry at once. But Orm’s apology feels like a small bridge between them, a first step toward something better.

H nausea rises again. From movement. From this room spinning and her body overheating, sweat blooming on her neck and temples. She forces herself to sit, but the world tilts with her, like she’s still falling.

She grips the edge of the bed, desperately trying to hold on, to steady herself.

Orm crosses the room in three steps. No hesitation. Kneels beside her without asking. She doesn’t need to. Orm just sees her. Sees the tremble in her hands. Sees the way she’s barely holding it together.

“Bathroom?” Orm’s voice is soft, quiet.

Ling nods.

Barely. It’s all she can do.

Orm wraps an arm around her back, another under her knees. No drama, no questions. Just necessary. Ling lets herself be lifted. Her skin is too hot. Too much.

Orm’s jaw tightens when she touches her. Not in blame. In worry. The kind you carry without saying a word, the kind you bury deep inside when everything is already too much.

⸻

They reach the bathroom.

Orm sets her down gently, carefully, by the sink. She turns on the tap, wets a towel, and presses it to the back of Ling’s neck.

Ling grips the edge of the sink. She breathes in, then out, trying to find steady ground. She wavers. Leans forward, and—gags. Nothing comes. Just the sharp, empty heave of a body that’s tired of everything, of being dragged into this space of discomfort, of confusion.

Orm stays behind her, hand on her shoulder, another bracing her waist. The world is silent except for the sound of water running, the rhythmic splash against porcelain.

⸻

When it passes, Ling sinks to the floor. It’s a slow, exhausted descent.

Orm sinks with her.

Back against the wall. Thighs pressed together. Their arms brush, but neither of them moves. The stillness between them is thick. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy with unspoken things.

⸻

After a long while, Orm’s voice is barely a whisper. “I thought someone was here.”

Ling closes her eyes.

She doesn’t answer.

⸻

“I’m sorry,” Orm says after a beat. Her words come slow, careful, like she’s measuring them out. “About barging in. I just—I saw the stories. And you weren’t answering. And I thought—”

“It's fine,” Ling says, cutting her off.

It’s a lie. They both know it.

Orm doesn’t call her out on it.

She just presses the cool towel to Ling’s wrist this time, not asking for anything. Not demanding any answers.

Ling breathes in again.

Then out.

---

Ling can barely keep her eyes open, but she lets Orm guide her back to her bedroom.

Orm doesn’t say anything as she lifts Ling gently, like she’s made of glass. It’s the same care from earlier, the same quiet tenderness. Ling can feel the heat of Orm's touch on her back, her arm, as she guides her toward the bed.

Ling doesn’t want to be touched. Doesn’t want the closeness, the warmth. She wants to shrink into herself, to disappear into the sheets and the silence and the coldness that she knows is still out there somewhere. But she doesn’t pull away. Not this time.

Not when Orm’s hand lingers just a second longer at her back, like she’s trying to ground her, to reassure her.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, her legs heavy like lead. Her head spins again.

Orm sits beside her, her presence solid and unyielding.

"Rest," Orm murmurs, as though Ling had asked for permission, when Ling never would. She pulls a blanket over her, even though Ling never said she was cold.

Ling wants to pull away, to push her away. But there’s something in the way Orm’s hands are gentle, in the way she doesn’t force anything, in the way she just exists beside her that makes Ling feel too much.

She wants to shut it down. She wants to be cold, to not care, to not feel anything at all. But Orm's warmth is like a current running through her, steady and insistent, and Ling can’t block it out.

The door clicks shut behind her when Orm leaves the room, but she’s back soon after with a plate in her hand. The smell of rice and something savory fills the room, familiar and comforting in a way that makes Ling’s stomach ache.

“You need to eat,” Orm says, setting the plate down on the nightstand next to Ling.

Ling doesn’t argue, even though she wants to. Instead, she takes the fork and stabs at the food in silence. It tastes better than it should—better than her exhausted, foggy brain thinks it could. The rice is soft, with just the right amount of salt, and the dish Orm made, whatever it is, is warm and hearty.

She eats slowly, trying not to think too much about the fact that Orm made it for her. Trying not to think about how careful she’s being. Trying not to think about how it feels.

But when she looks up, Orm is watching her. Just watching. No judgment. No expectation. Just her eyes soft, patient, like she’s waiting for something Ling doesn’t know how to give.

Ling’s throat tightens. She wants to shout at Orm to stop. To stop making her feel so much. To stop being this person who cares when Ling is a mess, a disaster, someone who isn’t worth it. She wants to feel nothing, to shut it down.

But Orm doesn’t speak, doesn’t push.

She just sits there, in the quiet, watching Ling eat.

Ling can’t take it. She looks away, sets the fork down, and wraps her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold everything together. Her body trembles, and it’s not just from the hangover anymore.

Orm stays where she is, not moving. Not even speaking.

And that's what breaks Ling.

Not the touch, not the food, not the silence between them.

It’s the way Orm stays there, anchored beside her, even when Ling doesn’t ask for it. Even when Ling doesn’t know how to handle it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Ling whispers, voice rough, and she knows Orm hears her, knows she feels the weight of it too. But Orm doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She doesn’t offer some empty comfort or meaningless words.

Instead, Orm simply says, “I’m here.”

Ling doesn’t look at her. She can’t. Her chest is too tight. But somehow, it’s the one thing Ling needed to hear.

Orm picks up the plate when Ling is done. She moves in the quiet, purposeful, like everything about her is here for Ling. Ling doesn’t stop her, doesn’t push her away.

She feels too much.

Too much care.

Too much attention.

And it’s too much to bear, too much to hold on to.

But she doesn’t have to, because Orm’s there, holding the weight for both of them.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Ling can just breathe.

---

Ling finishes her plate of food, the weight of Orm’s attention still lingering in the room like a soft, quiet echo. She sets the fork down, the clink of it on the plate almost too loud in the stillness. She wants to say something, anything, but nothing feels right. Everything inside her feels muddled.

Orm watches her, her expression unreadable for a moment before she says softly, "You should shower."

Ling doesn't answer right away. She just looks at her, her head heavy, like she’s carrying the world inside it. Orm continues, her voice steady, but not demanding, "You’ll feel better. It’ll help."

Ling’s lips part to protest, but she knows it's useless. Orm’s tone isn’t asking—it's gentle, caring, and it makes Ling want to listen.

“I don’t want to,” Ling murmurs, almost like a child, the words leaving her before she can stop them. "I feel... too tired."

Orm moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. She doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she simply touches Ling’s wrist, her fingers brushing lightly against her skin, an anchor in the storm.

"I’m here," Orm says again, the words like a balm on Ling's raw edges. "I’ll wait. You can take your time. Just... get cleaned up. You need it."

Ling looks at her, her vision blurry with exhaustion. She wants to argue, to push Orm away and stay wrapped in the cocoon of silence she’s built around herself, but Orm’s presence is grounding, steady, unshakable.

Ling nods, eventually, not because she wants to, but because deep down, she knows Orm is right.

---

Later, after the shower, Ling feels a bit more human. The water did its magic, washing away at least a part of the night’s weight. She’s wrapped in a towel, leaning against the doorframe, still unsure of what to do next.

Orm, ever calm, is sitting at the small table by the window, looking out into the hazy light of the afternoon. Her phone is in her hand, and Ling can’t quite read her expression. She watches as Orm taps a few things on the screen, then presses the phone to her ear.

"I’ll be right back," Orm says softly, and Ling nods, confused by the quiet tenderness in her voice.

Ling leans against the wall, the coolness of the stone grounding her. The faint sound of Orm’s voice reaches her, soft but clear as she speaks to Ling’s mom. It’s something so simple, and yet it feels like a bridge that hasn’t been crossed in a long time.

“Hi, Auntie,” Orm says, with the same warmth she uses for Ling. “It’s Orm. I’m here with Lingling. She’s resting now. Just wanted to let you know.”

Ling stares at the floor, trying to push away the discomfort in her chest. Orm talking to her mom like this—without judgment, without tension—feels like a part of the healing Ling hasn’t allowed herself to accept yet.

Orm laughs softly at something Ling’s mom says on the other end, the sound warm and genuine, and Ling feels something tight in her chest loosen just a little.

“We’ll make sure she’s okay,” Orm adds, her tone lighter now. “She’s not alone. I’ll stay with her until she’s back to herself.”

Ling can hear the soft sound of Orm’s voice, the ease with which she speaks. There’s no push, no agenda—just care.

“Don’t worry,” Orm adds with a quiet smile Ling can’t see. “We’re good.”

Ling closes her eyes, wanting so badly to pull away from the feeling of it all. Her mind races—why does it matter? why does it feel like this? But Orm is still on the phone, and Ling doesn’t stop her.

The room is still. Orm has finished her call, and Ling is now lying back on the bed, wrapped in the soft blanket she’s barely aware of. She’s not asleep, just lying there, waiting for whatever happens next.

Orm sits at the edge of the bed, but she doesn’t push Ling to talk. She doesn’t try to fill the silence. For the first time in days, Ling feels like she can just... be. It’s strange. She’s so used to running, to filling the air with words that don’t mean much, to doing things to distract herself from the ache. But here, with Orm, there’s no need for that. The quiet is safe, even if it makes her want to squirm.

“You’re not fighting with me today,” Ling says suddenly, the words spilling out before she can stop them. She doesn’t even know why she said it. The thought just comes.

Orm tilts her head slightly, her voice low and calm. “What do you mean?”

Ling sighs. "Usually, I feel like we’re... we’re always in this weird space. Like I’m trying to make you not care and you’re trying to make me care. But today, it’s just... easy. I don’t have to explain myself."

Orm’s gaze softens, her lips curving into something almost like a smile. “I don’t need you to explain anything to me,” she says, and Ling can hear the sincerity in her voice. “I know you’re hurt. I know it’s not easy. But I don’t need anything from you, Lingling. Just you.”

Ling blinks at her, the words slow to sink in. Just you. The simplicity of it knocks her breath away. The weight of everything she's been carrying suddenly feels so heavy that she almost chokes on it.

“I didn’t expect... I didn’t expect you to come back,” Ling whispers, her voice barely audible.

Orm shifts closer, not quite touching her, but close enough that Ling can feel the warmth of her presence. “I told you, I’m here.”

Ling’s chest tightens again, but not from pain. It’s something else—something soft, tender, like a door that’s finally creaking open.

For a long time, there’s nothing but the soft hum of the air conditioning and the rhythm of their breathing. Ling doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

Orm’s eyes don’t leave her, steady, unbroken.

And for the first time in a long while, Ling doesn’t feel the need to push Orm away.

Lingling drifts off to sleep in the quiet, her body still sore and her mind heavy, but for the first time in what feels like weeks, she doesn’t feel the pressure to be awake. There’s a weightlessness to it, a space where she’s not required to feel or think or do anything.

Her breathing slows, deep and steady, and her head sinks into the pillow, the quiet of the room wrapping around her like a thick, warm blanket.

It’s dark when she wakes, the room cooler now, a soft, faint light streaming through the blinds. At first, she thinks she’s dreaming.

But then, she hears it—soft footsteps, almost like Orm’s, and before she knows it, the bed dips slightly. Orm’s voice, smooth and soft, breaks the silence.

“Lingling?”

Lingling groans, too exhausted to sit up. “Mm?”

“Dinner’s ready.” Orm’s tone is gentle but there’s a certain warmth in her words that cuts through the fog of sleep. “You should eat something.”

Lingling blinks a few times, trying to clear the grogginess from her mind. She’s still too disoriented, like she’s floating between two worlds. “I’m... I’m not hungry.”

Orm chuckles softly, leaning down, her breath near Ling’s ear. “I didn’t ask if you were hungry. You need to eat.” There’s something playful in her voice, but it’s laced with care, a quiet insistence.

Lingling hesitates but knows Orm won’t let it go. “Okay,” she says, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Orm smiles, a soft, genuine smile that Lingling can feel in her chest. “Good,” she says, standing up slowly and offering a hand to Ling. “I’ll wait for you.”

Lingling doesn’t fight it. She takes Orm’s hand, letting her pull her up with little effort. Her head spins for a moment, but she’s not too far gone. It’s just that dizzying feeling of waking up too fast.

With Orm’s steadying presence beside her, Lingling stumbles to her feet, her bare feet pressing against the cool floor.

Orm steadies her with one hand on her back. “Slow down,” she says quietly, guiding her toward the door. There’s no rush in Orm’s movements, only patience.

Lingling, still half-lost in the haze of sleep, allows herself to be led, the room spinning just slightly around her as she follows Orm toward the small kitchen.

After dinner, the air between them has shifted—still quiet, but now with something unspoken, a kind of softness that Lingling isn’t used to. They sit at the table together, the remnants of the meal forgotten as they talk about nothing at all. The usual distance that was always between them, that invisible line of unspoken words, feels a little less sharp.

Orm finishes her tea and sets the cup down, looking at Lingling across the table. For a moment, she says nothing, just watches her—like she’s trying to figure something out. Lingling sits back in her chair, feeling the weariness creeping back in, but not wanting to show it.

“So,” Orm says finally, her voice low and calm, “I have to go.”

Lingling nods, though she hadn’t realized until then that Orm had stayed as long as she had. She doesn’t feel ready for her to leave—not like this, not when everything between them feels... quieter, softer. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, she just shrugs a little, looking down at the table.

Orm stands, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair, but before she can slip it on, she stops. Her gaze shifts toward Lingling, almost hesitant, like she’s been holding something back.

“I owe you another apology,” Orm says, the words slow, deliberate.

Lingling’s head lifts at that. She meets Orm’s gaze, but she doesn’t respond right away. There’s no accusation in her, just quiet curiosity.

Orm’s hand tightens slightly around the collar of her jacket, a subtle sign of discomfort. She takes a slow breath before speaking again.

“I... I shouldn’t have called you ‘Phi Sao.’” Orm’s voice softens, barely above a whisper. “It was wrong. I was angry, and I... I wanted to hurt you.”

Lingling’s heart skips a beat, and she isn’t sure what to do with the rawness in Orm’s voice. She wants to say something, to brush it off like she always does, but she can’t. This feels different.

Orm takes another step toward her, a soft line appearing between her brows. “I’m sorry, Lingling. I really am. I’ve said a lot of things to you that I can’t take back, but that... that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, Lingling’s chest isn’t tight with anger or hurt. It’s just... soft. She doesn’t answer right away, though. She lets the apology sit there between them, lingering like a heavy but necessary breath.

Lingling finally looks up at Orm, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay,” she says, though it doesn’t feel like it’s fully okay yet. “I was angry too.”

Orm nods, though she still seems uneasy. “I just... wanted you to know that. I don’t want to leave with you thinking I’m still holding onto that.”

Lingling’s lips part, but before she can say anything more, Orm is already moving toward the door.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Orm says over her shoulder, her voice steady, but not quite as distant as it used to be. “Take care of yourself.”

Lingling watches her leave, standing there in the dimming light of the room, her hand still resting on the table. She doesn’t know what to feel—doesn’t know what this is—but it’s something, something that feels different, a crack in the wall she didn’t realize was there.

And as the door closes behind Orm, Lingling lets out a breath, wondering if maybe—just maybe—things are starting to change.

--- --- ---

P'Dew is already waiting.

The meeting room is cold, sterile, half-filled with posters from past series. Lingling’s face is on two of them. Orm’s is on three. The posters are a quiet testament to success, to moments frozen in time—both of them captured in scenes that belong to a different life.

Lingling sits, but not too close. Orm follows her, keeping a respectful distance. One empty chair between them, a boundary neither of them has the energy to cross, not right now. The air is thick, not cold, not warm.

P'Dew beams, her smile the kind that suggests she knows exactly how to navigate the undercurrents of every situation. She’s practiced, charming, as always. The way she makes it all look easy, like no one in this room has ever said anything more than what was expected.

“Thank you both for making time,” she says, her voice a gentle hum that fills the space. “I know it’s been a busy few weeks since Only You ended.”

Lingling nods. Her fingers drum lightly on the edge of the table, a nervous tic she hasn't quite shaken.

Orm nods too, but her eyes linger somewhere between P'Dew and the floor, as though lost in some thought that doesn’t quite belong here.

Lingling glances at her, but Orm doesn’t look back. Not yet. The distance is palpable, and P'Dew doesn’t seem to notice it. Or maybe she does, but she’s the kind of person who knows how to push past uncomfortable moments without acknowledging them.

There’s an empty space between them, hanging there like a paused breath.

P'Dew looks from one to the other, her smile unwavering. “I know you both must be eager to move forward with new projects. You’ve both got such great chemistry together—it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Lingling doesn’t respond right away. She’s thinking about the last few days. About Orm’s soft words earlier, the apology, the quiet understanding that followed. It’s still hanging with her, like an open wound that hasn’t quite healed.

Orm’s face remains unreadable. The two of them sit there, two bodies in the same room but worlds apart.

Lingling forces herself to focus on the task at hand. "I’m in," Orm says after a long pause, her voice calm but distant.

Ling’s eyes flicker to her for a split second, just enough for Orm to catch the slight tension in her jaw before it’s gone, as if nothing ever happened.

P'Dew doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy typing notes into her tablet, completely unaware of the unspoken conversation unfolding between Lingling and Orm. Her smile widens, and she leans forward, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. “I thought so! Let’s talk logistics. We can meet next week to go over the scripts. I want to see you both on screen again—there’s so much we can do together.”

Lingling forces a smile, a reflex, a polite response. She nods, but the words she’s really thinking aren’t about logistics. They’re about something else entirely—something unfinished, unresolved.

P'Dew talks on, blissfully unaware of the tension swirling in the room. “I’ll have my assistant email you the details. It’s all going to come together perfectly. You both have such a strong fanbase already, and the buzz about Only You hasn’t died down at all. Honestly, it’s a dream cast.”

Lingling looks over at Orm, whose fingers are curled tightly on the edge of the table, the skin around her knuckles pale. There’s something in Orm’s expression—something fragile, held together by sheer will.

Lingling wants to ask her, What now? But she doesn’t. Not here. Not yet.

The conversation moves on, words and names and dates all blending into a blur. P'Dew continues to speak, but Lingling finds herself drifting. Her mind keeps returning to the quiet moment earlier, when Orm had apologized—soft, without fanfare. And Lingling had just nodded, not knowing what to do with the weight of it.

They both pretend to listen to P'Dew. But in this room, in this moment, all Lingling can feel is the weight of the empty chair between them.

---

The meeting wraps quickly.

No pressure. No timeline. Just words and promises that hang loosely in the air, like something half-formed.

Lingling gathers her things with mechanical precision, her mind elsewhere, her body still present, moving as it should. But Orm doesn’t move with the same sense of urgency. She lingers by the door, as if she’s waiting for something—something she’s not sure she can ask for.

It’s the kind of waiting that feels like holding a breath.

Like Orm wants to walk out with Lingling.

Like that might mean something.

But the door is still closed, and Lingling is still staring at her phone, pretending to read a message that isn’t there.

Lingling can feel Orm’s presence at the edge of her vision, the soft shift of her weight from one foot to the other, as if she’s not sure where to put herself, or how long to wait. She doesn’t speak at first. There’s no real need to. The room is heavy with everything unspoken between them—moments that never quite turned into words.

Finally—finally, Orm speaks.

Her voice is softer than Lingling expects, careful in a way that feels like tenderness wrapped in restraint.

“We’re good at this,” Orm says, her words hanging in the air. She doesn’t meet Lingling’s eyes immediately, but she doesn’t look away either. Her gaze is distant, not quite on Lingling, not quite on the floor.

“We still are.”

The weight of those words—heavy and full of unspent time—presses into Lingling’s chest.

Lingling’s fingers tighten around the edge of her phone, as if the device could anchor her. She looks up slowly. Her gaze brushes over Orm’s face—there’s something there. Something both familiar and foreign, like seeing a long-lost piece of herself in someone else’s reflection.

“I don’t—” Lingling begins, but she doesn’t finish. The words get caught somewhere between her throat and the space in front of her. It’s as though she’s waiting for something else to fill the silence.

Orm watches her. There’s no expectation in her eyes, just a kind of quiet patience that makes Lingling’s pulse quicken.

And then, as if realizing that Lingling isn’t going to say it first, Orm speaks again, her voice almost too soft.

“I’m sorry,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “For… everything.”

Lingling freezes, the air between them suddenly sharp with the weight of those words. Orm isn’t looking at her now, staring instead at the floor as though she’s afraid that if she meets Lingling’s gaze, something will crack open.

Lingling doesn’t know how to respond. A third apology hangs there, heavy in the space between them, more than she ever thought Orm would give her. But she doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she just watches her, as though she’s trying to understand the feeling building in her chest.

For a moment, Lingling doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. The apology has already done its work, settling between them like a door left ajar.

Slowly, Lingling steps forward, the distance between them shortening just enough to feel the weight of the air around them. She stops just in front of Orm, close but not touching.

“We still are,” she repeats softly, her voice steadier than she feels.

Orm doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she closes her eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the words rest in the space between them. She doesn’t reach for Lingling, doesn’t try to pull her closer. But there’s something there, something lingering in the soft space they’ve created.

Lingling doesn’t step away. Not this time.

And for just a second, they don’t need to say anything else.

The air between them is full. Heavy. Unfinished.

--- --- ---

It starts with food.

Of course it does.

One morning on their new set, Lingling arrives to find a bento waiting for her on her chair. The box is a soft blue, its lid slightly ajar. Inside, the rice is shaped into perfect hearts, the little detail too intentional to be anything but personal. The tofu is cut the way she used to make it—neat, angular corners, one edge seared darker than the rest, like a trace of a moment too long on the pan.

There’s no note. No signature.

But Lingling knows.

She feels it in the stillness, the quiet weight of something unsaid.

A few moments later, Orm walks by, eyes forward, shoulders tense in the way that always gives her away. She doesn’t look at Lingling. Doesn’t stop.

But Lingling doesn’t need to see her face. She can feel the absence between them, the distance that’s more palpable than any words.

Lingling stares at the bento for a long moment. The heat from the rice starts to fade, and so does the moment’s magic.

She closes the lid with quiet precision.

She doesn’t eat it.

Instead, she picks it up, carefully, like it’s something fragile, and slips it into the bag she brought with her this morning. On her way out of the studio, she hands it to one of the interns, offering only a faint smile.

“Could you throw this away for me?” she asks, her voice soft.

The intern nods without question, and Lingling walks away, the sound of her footsteps echoing like a soft goodbye.

No one needs to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Next, it's her voice.

"Lingling-ah," Orm says one afternoon, the words smooth and quiet, the kind that could slip into the space between heartbeats and make everything feel like it’s still in motion.

Lingling doesn’t look up from her script. Doesn’t let herself.

The words hang in the air for a second longer than they should, like an invitation that’s been left on the doorstep too long, waiting to be answered.

Orm’s fingers brush against her wrist during a pause in rehearsal. It's light, almost casual, but Lingling feels it—each second of it. The touch is too familiar, too close. But she doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her hand moves, not harshly, but deliberately, as if adjusting her sleeve, distancing herself without making a scene.

She doesn’t let her mind drift to the way Orm’s palm lingers in the air after, still warm, still holding the space between them, even though she knows the camera isn’t rolling.

She doesn’t let herself wonder if Orm’s touch is an accident, or if it’s meant to be something more. The lines have always been blurry with them, blurred by laughter and easy silences, by the way Orm used to watch her as though she could read every thought in Lingling’s mind without asking.

Lingling shifts slightly in her seat, careful not to look over at her. Instead, she focuses harder on her script, the words on the page turning into nothing but black ink on white, her focus a defense.

But she knows. She always knows.

Orm stands a little too close now, the air between them humming with something unspoken. Lingling feels the space between them contract, but she doesn’t break the quiet. Doesn't break the moment.

The rehearsal ends, and Orm walks away. Lingling doesn’t move. She stays in the silence, letting it settle into her chest like a weight she isn’t sure she wants to carry anymore.

When she finally looks up, Orm is already talking to someone else, her voice carrying across the room like it always does—effortless, smooth.

Lingling wonders how long it will take before she stops hearing it.

Then come the photos.

Old ones—throwback edits, reposts from their Secret of Us days. The captions are sweet in that almost-too-sweet way, teasing at something more than just a scene.

“Best moments aren’t in the script 💙💗 #LingOrm”

“This still cracks me up. #ThrowbackButNotOver”

The comments flood in. Fans gushing. The LingOrm hashtag trending again. Everyone sees what they want to see.

Lingling scrolls past, her thumb gliding over the screen without hesitation.

She doesn’t double-tap.

She doesn’t reply to the comments, the tags, the mentions. Not even when someone asks if they’re “getting back together” or if there’s “something still there.”

Instead, she takes a breath, slow and deliberate.

Keeps scrolling.

⸻

The promo tour for the new pilot starts, and with it, a different kind of tension.

Orm is close, always close—her presence a constant pull. It starts small at first: a casual brush of shoulders as they walk through the crowd, fingers grazing when they pass a mic to each other. Lingling tries not to notice. She tells herself it's part of the job, part of the chemistry, part of the game.

But then there are the smiles.

Lingling can see it in the way Orm looks at her—just a little too long, a little too soft. It's the kind of smile that feels like a secret they once shared and never quite forgot. Lingling knows that smile.

At one event, Orm loops their arms together for a photo.

Lingling lets her.

She leans in, just for the shot, just for the cameras. The flash goes off.

And then—she gently steps away.

Her body moves like muscle memory. Poised. Polite. But something shifts. The air between them, thick with the kind of unspoken things that neither of them can erase. She turns toward the next reporter without a word.

Still smiling.

But not for Orm.

Not anymore.

After the third interview of the day, Orm corners her backstage.

The makeup chair is still warm. The hum of backstage chaos is muted, the smell of pressed powder and foundation sweat hanging in the air like something forgotten.

“Can we talk?” Orm’s voice is softer than usual. It’s not the confident tone she usually wears in public. It’s quieter. Almost like a plea.

Lingling doesn’t answer immediately. She sees herself in the mirror—a face, a performance, a lie.

She stays quiet, staring at her reflection, trying not to feel the weight of Orm’s presence behind her.

Orm steps closer, her voice even quieter now, just for Lingling. “I panicked that night. When you asked for more. I was scared… that I’d lose you.”

Lingling doesn’t turn. Doesn’t let her emotions crack in front of Orm.

Instead, she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing in slowly. “You did,” she whispers.

The words hang in the air. And for a moment, Orm doesn’t move. The silence between them is as heavy as any fight they’ve had, but it’s different. It’s a quiet kind of grief.

Orm doesn’t say anything else. She can’t.

Lingling doesn’t want her to.

That should be the end of it.

But it’s not.

Because Orm doesn’t stop.

She starts posting more. Photos from the set, snippets of shared moments, quotes that ring with too much truth—laughter from behind the scenes, moments that look like joy if you don’t hear what the silence between them says.

Lingling sees the captions, the pictures, the fans speculating about them.

“LingOrm 4Ever 💙”

“Can’t believe how much chemistry they have! 💕”

“They’re obviously in love,” one comment says. Another follows with: “Orm is down bad and Ling is playing it cool.”

Lingling reads them all, feels the knot twist tighter in her chest.

But she doesn’t correct them. She doesn’t add anything either.

She wants to—oh, how badly she wants to. But the words aren’t right. They don’t fit anymore.

Because it isn’t enough.

Not now. Not anymore.

And then, one night after rehearsal, it happens.

The air is thick with the weight of the day. Lingling’s tired. Her legs ache, her body hums with exhaustion, but there’s still something in the pit of her stomach that tells her this isn’t just any night.

Orm walks her to the car, just like she’s done so many times before.

But tonight, Orm doesn’t let the distance stay between them. She steps closer, closer than she ever has. Her fingers brush against Lingling’s wrist. Her breath is just a bit too close to Ling’s cheek.

And then she says it.

“I love you.”

Her voice is steady. Simple. Like it’s always been that easy to say. But Lingling doesn’t feel relief. She doesn’t feel the warmth that should come with those words.

Instead, it feels like a weight, a stone pressed between her ribs.

Lingling looks at her, eyes soft but firm. “Say it the way you didn’t say it when you called me Phi Sao.”

Orm’s eyes close for a moment, the air between them shifting. She breathes out like the words have been stuck in her chest, unsaid for too long.

When she opens her eyes again, there’s something broken in them, something Lingling didn’t expect to see.

“I was scared,” Orm says softly. “I was scared because I loved you. I still do.”

“I was not your Phi Sao,” Lingling whispers, the words a strange kind of release. “I never was.”

Orm’s gaze softens. She steps forward, but this time, she’s not rushing. She’s careful. She’s scared, too.

“You’re just…” Orm trails off, a hesitant smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “You’re just mine.”

And Lingling feels it. That soft pressure on her chest, like everything she’s been holding in—the anger, the confusion, the fear—finally starts to break free.

But she doesn’t say anything. She can’t. The words are too tangled, too heavy with years of silence and unspoken emotions.

So she just nods, once, and walks away.

And Orm doesn’t stop her.

She doesn’t chase her this time.

---

The next few weeks are filled with a different kind of tension. Orm’s quiet persistence becomes an undercurrent in their interactions, a push and pull neither of them can escape. She’s careful at first—lingering a little longer than necessary when they’re near each other, a gentle brush of her hand against Lingling’s shoulder, a look that lingers in the quiet moments. But it's never quite enough.

Then, one day, Orm does something Lingling doesn't expect.

They’re backstage, waiting for another press conference. Orm is sitting in a corner, pretending to check her phone, but Lingling can feel her gaze on her, like it’s pulling her in.

"Lingling," Orm calls softly, a little too loudly for the quiet room. Lingling looks up, her brow furrowed as Orm slowly stands and crosses the room.

Before Lingling can say anything, Orm pulls her in gently, wrapping an arm around her waist in a move so fluid it almost feels like something rehearsed, but not. It’s natural. Easy. Comfortable.

She whispers, almost too softly, "I’m sorry. For everything."

Lingling’s breath catches in her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she stands there, still as a statue, feeling the warmth of Orm’s body pressed against hers. For a moment, the world fades away. She’s never been this close to Orm without the weight of their past hanging between them.

It should feel wrong. It should feel like a betrayal of something she’s already lost. But instead, all Lingling can feel is the pressure of Orm's hand on her back, the softness of her lips brushing against her hair when she speaks.

“I missed you,” Orm murmurs, her voice thick with something Lingling can’t quite name.

Lingling doesn’t respond immediately. She just stays still, the air thick with the things neither of them are saying. Finally, she looks up, meets Orm’s eyes—soft, like they’re finally breaking through the walls Lingling had built around herself.

"I’m not sure I’m ready for this again," Lingling says, but her voice is quiet, unsure.

Orm doesn’t let go. She just gives a small, tender smile, the kind that’s as fragile as the morning light. “I know,” she replies softly. “But I’m here when you are.”

And for a moment, Lingling doesn’t know what to say. She can feel the pull between them, the weight of everything unspoken, but this time it’s different. It’s lighter. Orm’s touch is more like a promise than a demand.

Lingling finally sighs, a small exhale of resignation. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, her lips curling slightly at the edges. She doesn’t pull away.

Orm grins at her—there it is, that mischievous spark in her eyes that used to make Lingling laugh no matter how heavy the world felt. “You like it.”

“I really don’t,” Lingling says, but it’s an empty protest. Her heart is already starting to crack open, piece by piece.

The next time they meet, it’s at an after-party for some show. Lingling’s just come offstage after another round of interviews. The air is thick with the clink of glasses and the buzz of voices, but when Orm steps into her line of sight, everything else fades away.

Orm’s wearing a simple dress tonight—no extravagant makeup, no grand gestures. Just her. And when she sees Lingling, her face softens in that way that makes Lingling’s heart trip in her chest.

She’s waiting for Lingling to notice her.

Lingling walks over, deliberately slow. Her eyes flicker over Orm—across the curve of her jaw, the soft lines of her neck. Orm smiles, the look almost shy.

“You’re staring,” Orm says lightly, though the pink in her cheeks tells a different story.

Lingling chuckles, a little too soft. “I think I’m just admiring how you somehow make this look so easy.”

Orm steps closer, close enough now that Lingling can feel the heat of her skin. “I only make it easy because I want to be near you.”

Lingling’s breath catches, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she places her drink down on the bar, looking at Orm with something dangerous in her gaze. “And if I’m not ready for you yet?”

Orm pauses. She lets the question hang between them, her fingers brushing lightly against Lingling’s. It’s a simple touch, a quiet invitation. No words this time.

Instead, Orm tilts her head slightly, her voice low, just for Lingling’s ears. “Then I’ll wait. As long as I need to.”

Lingling doesn’t know what happens next. Maybe it’s the way Orm looks at her with that patient, unwavering gaze, or maybe it’s the quiet trust in her voice.

But Lingling leans in just a little, close enough to feel the warmth of Orm’s breath, close enough that the distance between them feels like it’s shrinking, inch by inch.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Lingling admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orm smiles, soft and patient. “Then let me show you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Lingling doesn’t pull away. She stays, and with every passing moment, the walls around her heart crumble a little more. Orm’s hand slides gently over hers, fingers intertwining with hers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Lingling feels it then—the steady pulse of something, growing between them, stronger with every touch. Something that’s always been there, even when they didn’t want to admit it.

“Just one more thing,” Orm murmurs, leaning closer.

Lingling raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Orm’s eyes twinkle, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “I think we still have a lot to figure out. But we’ve got time.”

Lingling doesn’t reply. She doesn’t need to.

Instead, she steps closer, her hand resting on Orm’s chest, the space between them closing completely.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, Lingling feels like she’s finally ready to let her in.

--- --- --- 

The call comes just after 1:00 a.m.

Lingling is barely conscious, half-drowned in the weight of sleep, the steady hum of the air conditioner in the background, the soft oscillation of the ceiling fan keeping time. She had turned off her phone notifications hours ago, tired of the swarm of edits and posts and messages—"Did you see how Orm looked at her???"—each one like a flicker of light from a burning question she couldn't answer.

The phone vibrates again.

It’s Koy Mae. Twice.

The third time, Lingling answers, her voice a haze of sleep. “Hello?”

“Orm’s in the ER," Koy Mae says, breathless, urgent. "Panic attack. It’s bad. She asked for you."

The sheet slips from Lingling’s legs as she stumbles out of bed.

She doesn’t need to ask where. She already knows.

The taxi ride is a blur. The city is too quiet, its lights smeared like oil across the horizon. Lingling’s heart beats in her throat, her mind too fragmented to piece together thoughts. She’s wearing old sweatpants, a hoodie that doesn’t match her pants, hair tangled into a messy knot. None of it matters.

The hospital looms ahead like a shadow.

Lingling presses her palm to her chest, fingers splayed like it might steady her heartbeat. Her mind keeps replaying the last thing she said to Orm but she can't remember if she answers her question.

She arrives, the nurse already expecting her, eyes briefly flickering as if she knows what’s unsaid.

“She’s calm now,” the nurse explains, her voice gentle, almost too soft. “But not sleeping. Still... agitated.”

Lingling nods without saying a word.

She moves in a trance, her feet soundless on the tiled floor, steps careful and slow. And then, she sees Orm.

She’s lying in the bed, pale and small beneath the thin blanket, one wrist still taped with an IV. Her face, always so strong and fierce, looks fragile in the dim light. Eyes closed, lashes trembling like they’re caught in a storm of their own.

Lingling doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

She simply sits beside her, the chair creaking under her weight. And she waits. Silent. Still.

“Ling?”

Orm’s voice is barely a whisper. The name is soft, unsure, like she doesn’t believe she’s allowed to speak it anymore.

Lingling’s fingers reach up, brushing the stray hair from Orm’s forehead. Her touch is light—steady, almost deliberate. The way she knows Orm always preferred it.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Orm murmurs, her eyes slowly fluttering open, glassy at first but then locking onto Lingling’s.

Lingling doesn’t speak for a moment. Instead, she looks at her, carefully, taking in the person before her. The woman who had once felt like a part of her. The one who, despite it all, was still her in some way.

“I did,” she whispers.

Orm exhales, shaky, a sound like something breaking.

“I messed everything up,” she says, her voice cracking. “I didn’t think you’d really leave. I thought... I thought you’d wait.”

Lingling remains quiet. Her heart tightens. She feels something twist inside her, something warm and sharp, like she’s holding a blade in her chest.

“You are apologize Orm,” Lingling says softly, keeping her voice low, restrained. “I’m not mad. Not anymore.”

Orm’s throat works. She swallows hard, eyes brimming with regret, guilt heavy on her shoulders.

“I know,” she says, and it’s a broken whisper. Her gaze drops to her hands, curled tightly into fists beneath the covers. “I’m so sorry.”

Lingling doesn’t move. She doesn’t pull away. She simply reaches for her wrist, her thumb finding the pulse there. Fast. Erratic. Alive.

Orm’s gaze shifts back to her, searching for something Lingling hasn’t offered in months.

“You still want me?” Orm asks, the words desperate, as though she’s pleading for something Lingling doesn’t know if she can give.

Lingling doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she leans forward, close enough that Orm can feel her breath, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. She pulls back just enough to whisper, her voice thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

“I never stopped.”

Orm’s eyes flutter closed, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks.

They don’t fall asleep.

Not really.

But when dawn begins to push into the room with a soft, gray light, Lingling’s shoulder is warm beneath Orm’s head, and Orm’s fingers are tangled with hers, and Lingling feels something—something like home, but also something like healing.

Not perfect.

But real.

The next morning, Orm is discharged.

They don’t rush. They don’t talk about what happened, or what needs to change, or what they are. They just leave quietly, together, like two people who’ve learned how to sit in silence and make it feel like company.

The drive home is slow, unhurried, but the world seems to shift. Orm’s fingers are soft against Lingling’s palm. Neither of them speaks, but in the quiet of the car, there’s an understanding.

At the apartment, Lingling opens the door like she always does—one foot behind the other, a gentle nudge with her hip. Orm follows her inside, the same way she always had, but now something between them feels new.

Orm heads straight for the kitchen. She moves with purpose, like she’s remembered everything. The kettle. The mugs. And then she stops.

At the back of the top shelf, there’s the blue mug. The one with the tiny crack.

Orm stares at it for a long moment, her hand hovering before she reaches for it.

“Why do you still have it?” she asks quietly.

Lingling shrugs, but the movement is soft. “I tried throwing it out once. Didn’t like the sound it made in the bin.”

Orm takes it down gently, rinses it carefully, and fills it with hot water. She brings it to Lingling, setting it in front of her with both hands, not letting go until Lingling’s fingers close around the handle.

They don’t speak, but in that small act, something shifts.

That night, they sleep in the same bed.

No promises. No grand gestures.

Just the quiet rhythm of breath.

Orm whispers into Lingling’s neck, her voice barely audible. “I won’t call you Phi again.”

Lingling doesn’t turn. She just reaches out and touches Orm’s hand. “You can call me anything you want.”

Orm’s arm tightens around her, a silent promise.

And Lingling, despite the weight of everything, doesn’t feel the need to answer. She simply lets herself believe that the silence between them is enough.

⸻

The next morning, when the light filters softly through the curtains, Lingling opens her eyes to find Orm still curled around her. One hand rests on her stomach, the other tangled in the hem of Lingling’s shirt.

Neither of them moves.

It’s still early.

And for the first time in a long time, Lingling doesn’t feel the need to say anything, or do anything. She just lets herself be here.

She turns slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile closeness. Orm blinks awake, and when their eyes meet, there’s no hesitation, no distance.

“Hi,” Orm says, her voice thick with sleep.

Lingling smiles. “Hi.”

They stay like that for a while, breath to breath, heart to heart.

And then Orm says, her voice low, full of something Lingling hasn’t heard in a long time, “You’re not my Phi. You’re my person.”

Lingling closes her eyes. The words settle in her chest like something she’s been waiting for.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Lingling lets herself believe it.

⸻

The days that follow are quiet but full. Lingling finds herself listening more to the way Orm’s laughter feels in her chest, the way their hands fit together when they walk. The smallest moments have weight now—Orm’s careful touch when passing her a book, Lingling’s soft hum when she makes tea, the little glances that speak louder than words.

They don’t rush, don’t make promises. They don’t need to. The silence between them is no longer full of unspoken things; it’s comfortable, a space where they can exist without the weight of expectations.

Orm learns to sit with Lingling’s silences, and Lingling learns to let herself be with Orm without fear of what it means.

One evening, while they’re curled up on the couch, Orm leans her head on Lingling’s shoulder. It’s not a moment for big confessions or declarations. It’s just them, as they are now. Lingling brushes Orm’s hair out of her face, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and Orm turns her head, catching Lingling’s gaze with a softness that’s new.

“I think,” Orm starts, her voice barely above a whisper, “I think we’ve been here before. Just like this. In another life, maybe.”

Lingling’s heart skips, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she lets herself trace the curve of Orm’s jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin, and for once, she doesn’t need the world to make sense.

They’re here. Together. And it’s enough.

For the first time in a long time, Lingling feels something shift inside her—not a fear of loss, but a quiet acceptance. Maybe not everything needs to be figured out. Maybe some things—some people—just are.

And that’s enough.

The evening is soft, with only the faintest trace of light lingering on the horizon. They’re sitting side by side, close but not touching, the quiet of the room filled with the gentle hum of the world winding down. Orm can feel the question lingering in her chest, pressing against her ribs, something she’s carried with her for so long but never quite dared to speak aloud.

Lingling is looking at her, half-smiling, her eyes soft and open. She’s always been like that—so open, yet Orm’s always been scared to take the step, unsure of whether she could ask, unsure of whether Lingling would be ready.

But tonight, the silence feels different. There’s something in the air, something in the way they both seem to fit so perfectly in the same space, as though the last thread of hesitation has finally unraveled.

Orm looks down at her hands, nervous. She breathes out, trying to steady herself. “Lingling…” Her voice cracks slightly, but she doesn’t stop. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while...”

Lingling tilts her head, her expression softening with curiosity. She waits, patient, her fingers brushing against the edge of Orm’s arm like she already knows what’s coming, and yet she lets Orm find the courage to say it.

Orm exhales again, her heart racing now, but she meets Lingling’s eyes, her voice steadying. “I want to ask you... if you’ll be my girlfriend.”

The words are simple, barely more than a whisper between them. But as soon as Orm finishes speaking, her chest feels lighter, as though a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying has finally been set down.

Lingling doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at her. Orm’s stomach tightens. Maybe she’s said the wrong thing. Maybe Lingling’s thinking—what’s next? Where do we go from here?

But before Orm can say another word, Lingling’s hand is on her cheek, soft but firm. She pulls her in, her lips meeting Orm’s in a kiss so gentle, so immediate, that it almost steals the breath from Orm’s lungs.

It’s not the kind of kiss that answers everything in one go. It’s a kiss that says, I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve always been with you. It’s everything they’ve been tiptoeing around—simple, honest, without fear.

When they pull apart, Orm’s eyes are wide, her lips still tingling from the kiss. Lingling smiles at her softly, her thumb brushing across Orm’s lower lip. “Yes,” Lingling murmurs, her voice low, her gaze unwavering. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Orm’s heart leaps in her chest, and she leans in to kiss Lingling again, this time with the confidence of knowing, of finally being sure. When they pull away, Orm whispers, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Lingling’s fingers trace the curve of Orm’s jaw. “I think I have an idea.”

The space between them is full now—full of all the quiet years, the unspoken moments, the little things they’ve shared without knowing how much they meant. But now, they know. And for the first time in what feels like forever, everything is right.

----

The next morning, after breakfast and a lazy morning wrapped in each other's presence, Orm pulls out her phone. Lingling is halfway through sipping her coffee when she notices Orm tapping away on the screen with a playful grin.

“What are you doing?” Lingling asks, amused but curious.

Orm smirks, showing Lingling the phone screen. There’s a picture of them—Lingling laughing, Orm looking at her like she’s the only person in the room. It's not posed, not a 'couple shot,' but the photo speaks volumes. A shared moment, a quiet intimacy, a bond that says everything without words.

Lingling’s heart flutters a little when she sees the caption:
“Some things come back sweeter when you let them grow.”
#LingOrm #NotPhiSao #OnlyYou

Lingling stares at the post for a beat, then looks back up at Orm. “You’re really doing this?”

Orm raises an eyebrow, a teasing gleam in her eyes. “What? You’re the one who said ‘yes.’” She hits ‘Post.’

Just as she sets the phone down, Lingling’s own phone buzzes. She picks it up, surprised to see Bonnie’s name flashing on the screen. Lingling answers it without thinking.

“Lingling! Is it true? Is Orm really your girlfriend now?”

Lingling glances at Orm, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. “I guess it is now,” Lingling says, her tone a mix of amusement and contentment.

Bonnie laughs loudly on the other end. “I saw the post, and I had to check in. You two are finally official, huh? About time! Honestly, I’ve been waiting for this moment since... well, since forever.”

Lingling smiles, her fingers trailing across the table, a feeling of warmth filling her chest. “Yeah, we’re official.”

Bonnie’s voice softens, teasing but somehow sincere. “I’m happy for you, Ling. You deserve it.”

Lingling’s heart swells, and before she can respond, Orm’s hand slides gently into hers, grounding her in the moment.

Lingling pulls Orm closer, her thumb running over Orm’s hand as she whispers into the phone, “Thanks, Bonnie.”

After the call ends, Orm doesn’t waste a second. She reaches for Lingling’s chin, gently guiding her face toward hers. Their lips meet again, a slow, deep kiss that says everything that words can’t express. Lingling’s pulse quickens as Orm's hands move to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

Lingling melts into the kiss, her body responding without hesitation. This isn’t just a kiss of celebration. It’s a kiss of belonging, of claiming, of making everything official between them in a way that feels more real than anything ever has.

“Only you,” Orm murmurs against Lingling’s lips, her voice thick with something deeper now.

Lingling pulls her closer, breathless. “Only me.”

And with that, Orm leads Lingling to the bedroom. There’s no rush, no pressure. Just the quiet intensity of two people who have always known what they mean to each other, but are now ready to show the world—and each other—just how deeply they’ve fallen.