Work Text:
Title of the LingOrm fic: “We’ll Always Have Tuesdays”
Tagline: Fluff, Found Family, Slow Burn, Rainy Days, Holding Hands
Tawan didn’t expect much from this fic. Not really. It was one of those nights—2 a.m., half a glass of Coke left, eyes gritty from screen time, and fingers tapping out something soft just to feel like she still had something inside her.
She hit “Post” on AO3 and turned off her laptop. Another small piece of her heart tossed into the void.
That was three days ago.
She’d almost forgotten about it, busy with work and a half-written fantasy AU when the notification came.
[1 new comment on your work: “We’ll Always Have Tuesdays”]
AylaWritesThings:
okay but why did this feel like a blanket fresh out of the dryer?
also, the way you write Orm’s silences like dialogue?? I am SEATED.
p.s. Ling wiping the fog off the café window like she’s tracing her name on Orm’s spine?? You’re evil and I adore you.
Tawan blinked.
It wasn’t the usual “this was cute :)” or a string of crying emojis. This reader noticed things. She quoted lines she hadn’t thought anyone would pause on. She got it .
Without thinking too hard, Tawan hit reply.
TawanSunset:
This might be the nicest, weirdest, most specific compliment I’ve ever received. Thank you for seeing that .
(also I laughed way too hard at “I am SEATED.” bless you.)
Ten minutes later, another notification.
AylaWritesThings:
Wait, you're ONLINE? Are we… are we internet-flirting in a comment section??
Also please don’t mind me rereading the rain scene for the third time. I need it like I need oxygen.
Tawan smirked.
She shouldn’t be this amused. But something about this Ayla girl’s tone—it was chaotic, affectionate, a little unhinged in the best way. Like messaging an old friend you forgot you missed.
So she did the next impulsive thing.
She clicked on Ayla’s profile and hit “Send Message.”
TawanSunset → AylaWritesThings
Okay fine. What’s your favorite LingOrm trope?
This is purely academic. (And definitely not a test to see if you’re secretly chaotic evil.)
It took a while. Tawan thought maybe that was it. A fun comment, a spark, a nothing.
But then—ping.
AylaWritesThings → TawanSunset
Slow burn with unresolved mutual pining.
Bonus points if Orm’s the greenest green flag and Ling is the reason I have trust issues.
Also? Ling in denial is my religion.
Tawan laughed—out loud this time.
And she typed back, easy as breathing:
TawanSunset:
Marry me.
(But actually, tell me more about this religion. I may convert.)
That night, they messaged until 3 a.m.
About the fandom.
About fanfic pet peeves.
About how LingOrm felt like a mirror sometimes, even if they didn’t know what they were reflecting.
Somewhere between Orm’s soft smiles and Ling’s avoidance issues, Tawan realized she hadn’t smiled this much in weeks.
And Ayla?
Ayla saved the conversation.
Every line.
Just in case.
******************************
It started with good mornings.
Simple. Harmless.
AylaWritesThings:
Morninggg. I dreamt Ling broke into Orm’s house to water her plants. Send help.
TawanSunset:
Honestly? Canon behavior.
Also good morning 🌞
Then came late-night rambles, mid-day memes, 2 a.m. messages that were supposed to be “just one last thing” but ended in long paragraphs about love languages and which LingOrm scene made them cry hardest.
Every day, without fail.
No voice notes. No photos. No video calls. Just words.
And somehow, that was everything.
They talked about LingOrm like other people talked about the weather.
AylaWritesThings:
Okay but Orm secretly learning how to cook Ling’s comfort food while pretending she “just likes Thai spices”?
Marriage. Immediate marriage.
TawanSunset:
…Now I’m imagining Orm sweating in the kitchen, burning her tongue on the taste test, and still serving it like “I read online this brings comfort.” 😭
AylaWritesThings:
Tawan. I’m on the floor. Emotionally.
They debated character arcs like religion.
TawanSunset:
I still say the best version of Ling is the one who almost chooses herself but turns back when she realizes “home” isn’t solitude—it’s Orm.
AylaWritesThings:
Okay you need to stop typing like you’re holding my heart with both hands.
TawanSunset:
I’m not. I’m just texting with my thumbs. Promise.
AylaWritesThings:
Rude. Ban. Block. Report for feelings.
One night, Ayla messaged:
AylaWritesThings:
Ever think we’re doing a very slow burn friends-to-lovers but make it fanfic edition?
Tawan didn’t reply for six minutes.
Then:
TawanSunset:
So what you’re saying is…
You’re Ling? 😏
AylaWritesThings:
And you’re Orm??? HELP.
They laughed about it. But they didn’t un-say it either.
Eventually, they had their little rituals.
Morning check-ins.
Mid-day fic rants.
Nighttime confessions, soft and sleepy.
And on Wednesdays, they’d send each other their current favorites—a fic rec, a song lyric, a line of poetry that hit too close.
One night, Ayla sent this:
“You’re my favorite notification.”
Tawan didn’t answer immediately. But she read it five times.
Saved it.
Wrote a new drabble that night, where Orm texts Ling without fail every morning...
Posted it quietly.
Ayla left no comment.
Instead:
AylaWritesThings → TawanSunset
I see what you did.
I’m not crying, you’re crying.
By now, Tawan knew Ayla liked her tea sweet, her angst devastating, and her Orm stories with unresolved tension and a soft ending.
And Ayla knew Tawan liked writing in cafés, rereading her own stories like she hadn’t cried while drafting them, and that she wrote best when she felt understood.
They weren’t flirting. Not really.
Just… orbiting.
Testing.
Letting the words fall softly, like rain, waiting to see if either one would say, I think this is becoming something.
They hadn’t yet.
But the messages were longer now.
And the silences in between?
They were filled with waiting.
******************************
It started with an offhand message from Ayla on a quiet Sunday.
AylaWritesThings:
Spent two hours explaining to my mom why I’m don't have a boyfriend yet... Might’ve aged a decade.
Tawan had been mid-draft when she read it. She paused, reread it, and smiled—softly. Carefully.
TawanSunset:
Tell her you’ve got a nice girl from the internet who makes you laugh.
(Kidding. Unless?)
Ayla replied 0.3 seconds later.
AylaWritesThings:
OMG STOP I snorted my coffee.
Wait. Do you… actually think I’m funny?
TawanSunset:
You’re my favorite kind of funny.
The kind that makes me feel less alone at 2 a.m.
A beat.
AylaWritesThings:
…Okay, that one goes in the “save for a rainy day” folder.
Their messages began shifting.
Not just Ling and Orm, not just fic ??? or plot holes.
But things like—
“My brother just passed the board exam and my mom cried. I don’t know why that made me cry.”
“Had to pretend I wasn’t spiraling during a team meeting. Held it together with a smile and one (1) iced coffee.”
“My lola is in the hospital. We’re pretending it’s ‘just a check-up,’ but it’s not. I don’t know how to say I’m scared.”
And every time, without fail, there was a reply.
No rush. No pressure. Just presence.
TawanSunset:
You don’t have to say it perfectly. I hear you. And I’m here.
AylaWritesThings:
Is it weird that I believe you more than people I’ve known in person?
TawanSunset:
No.
It just means we found each other in the right language.
Ayla learned that Tawan lived with her niece on weekdays and her grandmother on weekends.
That she wrote late into the night not just because of deadlines, but because it was the only time her mind went quiet.
Tawan learned Ayla worked a day job she was good at but didn’t love, had an orange cat named Tteokbokki , and kept a secret playlist of songs that reminded her of Ling—one of which, Tawan later realized, was titled “Tawan ☀️”.
They didn’t ask for photos.
But they painted pictures in other ways.
TawanSunset:
I’m sitting in my usual spot. Café window, corner table. It’s raining.
There’s a little girl outside jumping in puddles like she’s in her own movie.
You’d probably write her into a story, wouldn’t you?
AylaWritesThings:
I’d write her as baby Ling. And Orm’s the café barista who gives her free steamed milk.
You’d write the moment their eyes meet and the rain stops mattering.
TawanSunset:
Maybe.
But I’d also write the way the barista smiles when she reads her favorite customer’s messages.
And doesn’t realize she’s falling.
Ayla stared at that one for longer than she’d admit.
That night, Ayla messaged:
AylaWritesThings:
Can I ask you something kind of… scary?
TawanSunset:
Always.
AylaWritesThings:
Do you think it’s possible to care about someone this much… without hearing their voice?
TawanSunset:
Yes.
Because I hear you in everything you write.
And somewhere in Ayla’s bedroom, lit only by her laptop screen and the soft hum of a playlist called “Us, Maybe” ,
she held her phone against her chest and whispered—
“I think I’m falling for you.”
But she didn’t press send.
Not yet.
******************************
AylaWritesThings:
Can I rant?
Warning: may include capslock and unjustified aggression toward capitalism.
TawanSunset:
I am the designated rant-receiver. Please proceed.
AylaWritesThings:
MY BOSS SAID “CAN YOU JAZZ UP THIS EMAIL?” WHAT AM I, A ONE-WOMAN JAZZ BAND??
TawanSunset:
I am now picturing you in a fedora, playing the saxophone while typing "Kind regards."
AylaWritesThings:
STOP. I actually just snorted in the elevator.
I hate you (platonically).
(Romantically. Maybe.)
Later that evening, after surviving the day with sheer sarcasm and sugar, Ayla messaged again.
AylaWritesThings:
My mom’s asking me to show her how to download Tiktok again. This is her fourth attempt. Pray for me.
TawanSunset:
You got this. You're strong. You're brave. You’ve survived AO3 comment wars.
AylaWritesThings:
Okay, that gave me strength.
Also. Do you… have Instagram? 👀
Not to stalk. Just, you know. Stalk lightly.
A pause.
Then—
TawanSunset:
You’re asking if I have an Instagram… right after watching your mom scream at a phone.
Bold move.
AylaWritesThings:
I contain multitudes.
And anxiety.
TawanSunset:
😌
Okay. I’ll send you mine. Don’t judge the username. I made it in 2012.
@ta.sunsetter
AylaWritesThings:
…OH MY GOD IS THAT A FILTERED MATCHA LATTE PIC FROM 2015??
TawanSunset:
I never said I was cool.
I said I was sincere.
AylaWritesThings:
You’re ridiculous.
I like it.
Sent mine: @aylaughing
TawanSunset:
Clever.
Also—your cat looks like he has tax fraud secrets.
AylaWritesThings:
Tteokbokki knows things.
They exchanged numbers that night.
Not in a big way.
Just a quiet message:
TawanSunset:
Just in case AO3 crashes or Instagram dies again.
(Or if you want to send me angry work memes in real time.)
AylaWritesThings:
Are you giving me your number or proposing marriage?
TawanSunset:
Yes.
What followed was chaos in the best way.
Screenshots of terrible work emails.
Voice-to-text errors that turned “You’re so annoying” into “You sew onions.”
Playful polls like “Which Ling would I be today?” (Options: Emotionally constipated / Avoidant with soft eyes / Sneaky softie)
Tawan saved one message in particular.
AylaWritesThings:
My day was crap. But I kept thinking “Can’t wait to tell Tawan about this later.”
That kind of saved me.
She didn’t respond right away.
She didn’t have to.
She sent a selfie of her holding a hot chocolate, captioned:
No rain today. But you still crossed my mind.
At some point, Ayla typed without thinking:
I think this is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had with someone I haven’t even hugged yet.
And Tawan replied:
That’s because this started with words.
And words never forget where they touched you.
******************************
The first thing Tawan noticed?
Ayla had zero chill on social media.
And it was adorable .
Instagram:
Tawan posted a photo of her hand holding a cup of coffee, captioned:
“Back in my natural habitat ☕️🫠”
Cue Ayla:
aylaughing:
That’s a very romantic wrist. Just saying.
(edited)
Also are you always this photogenic or do you schedule your hands for golden hour?
Tawan replies:
I only romance the caffeine.
(But maybe I’d make time for you.)
aylaughing:
Did I just get soft-launched?? Is this my debut????
X (formerly Twitter):
Tawan’s timeline was a mix of niche memes, screenshots of emotional fic tags, and vague existential crises like:
@ta_sunsetter
Me: I won’t catch feelings.
Also me: saves every message like it’s scripture.
Ayla, of course, quote-retweeted instantly:
@aylaughing
I AM THE FEELINGS. IT IS I.
Later that night:
@ta_sunsetter
I think I accidentally wrote a poem about someone I haven’t met.
Cool cool cool.
Ayla didn’t respond publicly this time.
But Tawan received a DM:
aylaughing
If the poem is about me, send it.
If it’s not… lie.
Facebook:
Neither of them used it much, but after the friend request was accepted, Ayla deep-dived into Tawan’s ancient timeline.
Tawan got the notifications in waves.
Ayla liked a 2017 post that read “Craving mango float and stability 🥲”
Reacted “Haha” to a blurry college group pic where Tawan’s tagged as “Mom of the group”
Commented:
“You’ve been hot since 2015. Why is this not public knowledge??”
Tawan:
Do you make everyone fall for you via retrospective admiration?
Ayla:
No. Just the ones who write rain scenes that ruin me.
They fell into patterns again.
Tawan would post a story of her workspace—blank doc, coffee, lo-fi music playing.
Ayla would reply: “I can hear the heartbreak already. Is Orm okay??”
Ayla would share a cat pic.
Tawan: “Tteokbokki looks like he’d reject my confession but secretly pine for me.”
A random selfie from Ayla at a bookstore.
Caption: “Not looking for Ling, but I wouldn’t mind finding her.”
Tawan reply via DM:
I volunteer as tribute.
I know the exact aisle where she’s hiding.
One night, Tawan posted a throwback pic of her during a writing event—glasses on, hair tied, laughter frozen mid-sentence.
No caption.
Ayla took a screenshot. Sent it back to her in DMs with just:
Don’t take this the wrong way… but I think you might be my type.
Tawan:
You’re in danger, Ayla.
Ayla:
I’m already in deep.
But it’s okay. I brought floaties.
Somewhere along the endless scrolling, tagging, reacting, and “accidental” emoji replies, the tone shifted.
Less “haha, we’re mutuals now” and more—
“Have you eaten?”
“Here’s something that reminded me of you.”
“Sleep early tonight, okay?”
It wasn’t loud or dramatic.
Just consistent .
Modern intimacy in milliseconds: a heart reaction, a saved post, a shared reel with the message “us?”
Eventually, Ayla texted:
Ayla:
Is it weird that I’ve never heard your voice, but I think I know your laugh?
Tawan waited a beat.
Then typed:
Tawan:
You do.
It’s hidden between every “hi” I’ve ever sent you.
******************************
It happened quietly.
No warning. No dramatic message.
Just… nothing.
No good morning text.
No meme.
No “Look at this cat doing taxes” reel.
No Ayla.
At first, Tawan told herself not to overthink.
Maybe she was busy. Maybe work got intense. Maybe she forgot to charge her phone. (She had posted a story the other day captioned “my phone is at 2% and so is my soul” )
But by the second day, the silence pressed differently.
Her message sat on Read . No reply.
And that stupid “last active 23 hours ago” dot mocked her more than it should.
She didn’t panic.
Instead, she typed and backspaced twelve different drafts of a check-in message.
From:
“Heyyy alive??”
To:
“Just checking in. Hope you’re okay.”
To:
“I miss you. That’s all.”
She sent none of them.
Because what if she was being too much?
What if she wasn’t allowed to miss someone she had never met?
By day four, she started noticing the small ache.
How her thumb still hovered over the message thread every time something funny happened.
How her brain kept finishing thoughts with “Ayla would laugh at this.”
How silence from someone you let in feels like rejection, even if you know it’s not.
So Tawan did what she always did when things hurt too quietly:
She wrote a LingOrm drabble.
AO3 Title: “On the Days She Doesn’t Call”
Tags: Misunderstandings, Unspoken Longing, Comfort in Absence, Holding On Gently
Ling doesn’t ask.
When Orm disappears for three days, Ling simply waters the plant they picked together, sends a message that says “I’m here,” and waits.
Because Ling knows loving someone like Orm means knowing when not to push.
Even if she aches.
Even if she counts the days.
Even if the silence sounds a lot like goodbye.
She doesn’t name Tawan. But she doesn’t have to.
On day five, Tawan's phone buzzes at 1:38 a.m.
Ayla:
I’m sorry.
Ayla:
I shut down when I get overwhelmed. It’s stupid. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Ayla:
I wanted to reply. I just…
I felt like this was getting too real. And that scared me more than I expected.
Ayla:
I miss talking to you.
Tawan didn’t hesitate this time.
TawanSunset:
Hey.
I’m glad you’re okay.
You don’t have to explain everything.
But just so you know: I wasn’t here for the perfect version of you.
I was here because you showed up with your whole, messy, sincere self.
And I liked her. I still do.
Tawan responded:
Ayla:
I read that in Orm’s voice.
TawanSunset:
Good. Because I typed it like Ling after three days of sulking.
Ayla:
I thought of you every day.
Even when I was quiet.
They didn’t call.
But that night, they messaged until sunrise.
Ayla shared what had overwhelmed her—a family thing, work pressure, and that quiet fear of not being enough for someone you’ve only ever given words to.
And Tawan didn’t rush to fix it.
She just stayed.
The next morning, Tawan posted a story.
It was a blurry sunrise photo, coffee on the windowsill, captioned:
“Some things are worth staying for.”
Ayla reacted with 💛
Tawan replied:
TawanSunset:
That means you, by the way.
The silence broke with a soft ping and a flood of messages.
But what came next… neither of them saw coming.
Ayla :
Do you want to talk?
Not type. Not reply. Just… talk.
We don’t have to make it a thing.
Just me and you. Tonight. One time.
Tawan stared at her phone for a long time.
She had never heard Ayla’s voice.
Only imagined it.
Laughed at her texts. Swooned over her reactions. Felt the weight of her silences.
But never heard her say anything.
Until now.
That night, she sat on her bed, headphones in, heart a little frantic.
At exactly 10:08 p.m., her phone lit up.
Incoming call: Ayla 📞
Tawan answered without a word.
And then—
“Hey.”
It was Ayla.
A little breathless. A little unsure. But warm. Steady. Familiar.
Like how she imagined.
Only better.
“I almost didn’t call,” Ayla admitted, laughter tucked into her voice.
Tawan smiled, soft and tired. “I almost didn’t answer.”
A pause. Then—
“I’m glad you did,” Ayla whispered.
They didn’t dive into feelings right away.
First, they talked about work.
About Tawan’s overflowing inbox.
About Ayla’s latest coffee-fueled meltdown over formatting a PDF.
It was easy.
Natural.
Then, eventually—
“I got overwhelmed,” Ayla said, voice lower now. “Not just by us. But everything. I’m used to pulling away when things get close. It’s safer. And then you—”
She paused.
“You felt real. Too real.”
Just let the silence breathe between them.
Then—
“You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay,” Tawan said. “I’m not here for the polished, curated version of you. I’m here for the girl who quotes fanfic tags in lowercase and ghosts when she panics.”
Ayla's laugh cracked a little at the edges. “Wow. Dragged and comforted in the same sentence.”
“That’s love, baby.”
Silence.
Not awkward. Just full .
Then Tawan whispered, like she couldn’t help it:
“You sound like home.”
The call lasted 3 hours and 22 minutes.
They didn’t say everything.
But they said enough.
And when Ayla finally said, “Good night, Tawan,” she said it like a promise.
And Tawan replied, “Good night, Ayla,” like a prayer.
After that, they didn’t make phone calls a habit.
They didn’t need to.
But every now and then—when the days got too loud or too long—Ayla would say “Just tonight?” and Tawan would always answer “Always.”
Because once you hear someone’s voice and feel safer in the world,
you never forget it.
******************************
They didn’t call often.
But the afterglow of that one phone call never really faded.
It lived in their chats.
In the way Ayla would text “get home safe” at 6:01 p.m.
In how Tawan started sending photos—not selfies, not yet—but glimpses of her world.
The shoes she wore.
The ramen she cooked.
The empty seat next to her at the cafe.
“Missing someone?” Ayla once replied.
Tawan’s answer was a single sticker: a little bear holding a heart and pretending it wasn’t obvious.
One night, Ayla sent her a message out of nowhere:
Ayla :
If I were there, what would we be doing right now?
Tawan stared at it for a long time, smile growing without permission.
Tawan :
You’d be lying on the floor. I’d be making tea.
You’d complain it’s too hot. I’d ignore you.
You’d ask for a blanket. I’d say no.
Then give it anyway.
Ayla :
Sounds like I’m spoiled.
Tawan :
No. Just… soft with me.
There was a pause.
Tawan saw the “typing…” bubble flicker in and out.
And then—
Ayla :
Maybe I want to be soft with you.
For a long time.
If that’s okay.
Tawan didn’t reply immediately. She took a moment.
Just breathed.
Smiled.
Read it again. And again.
They didn’t say the word.
Not love .
Not relationship .
Not us .
But it was there.
In the silence.
In the “take care” messages disguised as jokes.
In the Spotify playlists labeled “You’d like this, I think.”
In the way Tawan started going to bed earlier—just to wake up and check if Ayla messaged good morning.
It was slow. Sweet.
Like falling asleep on a call without realizing you stayed.
Then one evening, Ayla texted:
Ayla :
Okay. Real question.
What if we met?
Tawan’s heart stuttered.
Tawan :
Like, in person?
Ayla :
Yeah. IRL.
Me, awkward. You, cute.
We can pretend it’s casual.
Tawan :
That’s the least casual thing I’ve ever read.
Ayla :
I know. I’m freaking out.
But I want to.
I want to see you.
Tawan sat with that message.
Then typed—
Tawan :
Okay. Let’s make a plan.
Just don’t be taller than me.
Ayla :
I’m like, 2 cm taller. Maybe.
Tawan :
That’s betrayal.
Ayla :
You’ll forgive me when I bring snacks.
Tawan :
You’re lucky I’m soft for you.
Ayla :
…You’re soft for me?
Tawan didn’t answer directly.
But she sent a voice note.
3 seconds. One sentence.
“I’ve been soft for you.”
Ayla didn’t reply for ten whole minutes.
Then—
Ayla :
I think I need to hear that in person.
They didn’t say what they were.
But for the first time, it didn’t matter.
They were two people
falling slowly,
sweetly,
openly—
towards something real.
And now?
They had a plan.
A time.
A place.
A maybe turning into a yes.
The airport is buzzing as always, people walking, waiting, excited to see their loved ones arriving...
There’s no grand music, no crowd parting like the sea. Just people and suitcases and noise. But for Ayla, the world quiets the second she spots Tawan on the other side of the glass doors.
She almost doesn’t recognize her at first. Not because she looks different—if anything, she looks exactly like the photos: sleepy eyes, soft smile, hoodie too big for her frame. But something about seeing her move , seeing her real , makes Ayla pause.
Tawan is real.
And real is better than any filter.
She stands there, frozen with her tote bag half-falling from her shoulder, until Tawan spots her too.
Their eyes meet.
The smallest wave from Tawan.
The biggest smile from Ayla.
It’s ridiculous how much her chest aches in that moment—for the three months of messages, for the screenshots saved in a secret album, for the inside jokes in comment sections, for the times they almost said what they meant, and the ways they showed it anyway.
Ayla takes a breath and walks toward her.
No rush. Just steady steps. Like she’s walking toward something she’s been meant to find.
When they finally stand in front of each other, there's a beat of silence. Like their chats waiting for a reply that never had to be rushed.
Then Tawan whispers, “You’re taller than I imagined.”
Ayla laughs. “You’re softer than I imagined.”
Tawan raises an eyebrow. “Soft like a cloud?”
Ayla leans in, grinning. “Soft like my favorite kind of love.”
Tawan blushes, but she doesn’t look away. Not anymore.
They don’t hug immediately. They just look . Like they’re still memorizing the other.
And then, as naturally as night turns into morning, Ayla reaches out.
Their fingers intertwine. Warm. Steady.
Not a screen. Not a notification. Not a reaction emoji.
This is real.
Tawan glances at their hands, then back up at Ayla. “So what now?”
Ayla smiles.
“We walk. We talk. We maybe get a drink. And… we see where all this takes us.”
“And you’re not scared?”
“Terrified,” Ayla laughs. “But I’ve read every word you’ve written to me. I already fell for the heart behind them.”
Tawan exhales a soft laugh, cheeks still flushed. “Then let’s write the rest together.”
And as they walk out of the airport—hands linked, hearts a little braver—their phones remain tucked away in their bags.
No filters. No edits.
Just Ayla and Tawan.
And the beginning of everything after.