Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ling checked the time for the fifth time in as many minutes. The city lights outside their penthouse window flickered in rhythm with her heartbeat, impatient, uncertain, fragile. On the table, dinner grew cold-a meal she'd planned for days, Orm's favorite: delicate dumplings, roast duck, and a small cake she'd decorated herself. Everything had to be perfect.

Two years. Was that enough to thaw a heart carved from ambition and loneliness? Ling wanted to believe it was.

She smoothed her dress and tried to smile in the hallway mirror. She thought about the first time she'd met Orm-how cold and composed she'd seemed, every word sharp as ice. Ling had been terrified, but something in Orm's eyes had flickered with vulnerability, a longing so well-hidden that most people missed it. Ling had never been able to look away.

The clock ticked. Eight-thirty. Orm was late, but that wasn't unusual. Ling lit two candles, arranged them between their plates, and placed Orm's wine glass just so, hoping the details would matter.

She sat on the couch, phone in hand, fighting the urge to call or text. The last time she'd asked Orm to hurry home, Orm had replied with a curt, "I'm working." Ling didn't want to seem needy. Not tonight.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. The door opened with a sharp click, and Orm entered, her presence filling the room with tension and a faint trace of perfume that wasn't Ling's. Her tailored suit was flawless, face set in lines of exhaustion and pride.

"You're home," Ling said, standing up too quickly. Orm barely glanced at the table. "Sorry, the meeting ran late." She shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it over a chair. "You didn't have to wait for me."

Ling forced a smile. "It's our anniversary." Orm's eyes softened for the briefest second, then grew distant again. "Right. I lost track of time."

Ling's heart ached, but she tried to cover it. She poured wine, hands trembling only slightly. "I thought we could eat together. Celebrate a little."

Orm nodded, distracted, pulling out her phone and checking messages even as Ling set her plate before her.

They ate in silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the distant hum of city traffic. Ling watched Orm pick at her food, eyes always darting to her phone.

"Is everything okay?" Ling finally asked, voice gentle.

Orm glanced up, eyes unreadable. "Work's just busy. Some deals might fall through. Don't worry about it."

Ling nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. "I just wanted tonight to be special."

Orm's expression flickered, regret or something like it. "Thank you for doing all this." She forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You're always thoughtful."

Ling felt her own smile falter. The words sounded like an apology, but lacked any warmth. She stared down at her plate, pushing food around, remembering a time when even awkward silence with Orm had felt like possibility, not punishment.

They finished the meal with awkward small talk. Ling lit the small cake, offering Orm the first bite, but Orm declined, mumbling about a deadline.

As Orm retreated to the bedroom, Ling sat alone at the table, staring at the flickering candles, wondering if this was all love could become-a series of empty rituals performed in the hope of being seen.

Later, she lay awake in bed, Orm's back turned to her, breathing slow and distant. Ling watched shadows slide across the ceiling, the ache in her chest growing heavier. She whispered into the dark, "Happy anniversary, Orm."

Orm didn't answer.

Ling closed her eyes and tried to remember what hope felt like, long before devotion became a wound.

Chapter Text

Ling woke to silence. The faint glow of city lights crept under the bedroom door, illuminating the emptiness on Orm’s side of the bed. She reached across the sheets, touching cold linen where warmth should have been.

A strange unease prickled at her skin. She slipped from bed, her bare feet soundless on the hardwood as she padded into the dimly lit living room. The space was empty, save for Orm’s purse and phone tossed carelessly onto the couch.

Ling hesitated. Orm’s phone buzzed—once, twice—flashing a name Ling didn’t recognize: Arielle.

A message preview: “Last night was incredible. I wish you were here.”

Ling’s breath caught. Her heart pounded in her throat as she stared at the screen, hands shaking. It had to be a mistake. Orm wouldn’t—

But the phone vibrated again.
“Thinking about you. Can you sneak out?”

Ling’s stomach twisted. She unlocked the phone, guilt battling with dread. The message thread was a dagger:
I can’t wait to see you again. She’ll be asleep by then. Wear that dress for me.

Her ears roared with disbelief. She scrolled, searching for hope, for some innocent explanation, but every word stung.

She heard movement in the hallway. Orm’s voice, low and intimate, drifted from the kitchen.

Ling pressed herself against the wall, fighting to steady her breath.

“Yes, I want to see you too,” Orm whispered into her phone. “No, she doesn’t suspect anything. She’s too…good to me.”

A pause. Laughter. “Tomorrow night. I promise.”

Ling’s vision blurred with tears, a deep trembling overtaking her. The world tilted, everything she’d built cracking beneath her feet.

She stepped into the kitchen, voice trembling, “Who are you talking to?”

Orm spun, phone slipping from her hand to the counter. Her face went pale. “Ling—”

Ling’s chest heaved. “Who is Arielle? How long, Orm?” Her voice shook, broken.

Orm’s jaw tightened, but her bravado vanished. “It’s… It’s not what you think.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ling cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “On our anniversary? Was I never enough?”

Orm’s lips parted, but nothing came out. The silence was louder than any answer.

Ling backed away, hands pressed to her chest. “I gave you everything. I loved you. Why?”

Orm reached for her, voice hoarse. “Ling, wait. Please. Let me explain.”

Ling shook her head. “I can’t. Not after this.” She fled to the bedroom, grabbing her overnight bag with trembling hands.

Orm followed her, panic sharpening her features. “Don’t go. We can fix this—please, Ling, don’t leave.”

Ling paused at the door, grief burning in her chest. “You already broke us, Orm.”

She walked out, leaving the door open behind her, a silent testimony to all that was lost.

Chapter Text

The night air was sharp and wet, biting Ling’s skin as she stepped into the empty street. She clutched her overnight bag to her chest, rain gathering in her hair, tears lost among the drops. The city was alive—taxi horns, laughter echoing from distant bars, the world spinning on—but Ling moved through it like a ghost.

She called Hana. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Can I come over?”

Hana didn’t ask questions, just said, “Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.”

By the time Ling reached Hana’s apartment, her hands were numb. Hana pulled her inside, wrapped her in a towel, and guided her to the couch.

“Do you want to talk?” Hana asked softly.

Ling shook her head. Words wouldn’t come. All she could see was Orm’s face—shocked, guilty, already slipping away.

Hana pressed a mug of tea into her hands. Ling stared at the swirling steam, searching for answers that wouldn’t appear. For a long time, they sat in silence, broken only by the clink of Hana’s spoon against her cup.

When sleep finally came, it was thin and restless. Ling dreamed of Orm—her laugh, her rare soft smile, the feeling of being chosen, special. She woke with tears drying on her cheeks, grief hollow and sharp.

The next day crawled by. Hana offered breakfast, then left Ling alone with her pain. Ling scrolled through her phone: missed calls, messages from Orm piling up—Please call me. Let me explain. I’m sorry. I love you.

She deleted them all.

Later, when Hana returned, she found Ling curled on the couch, staring at nothing. Hana knelt beside her and hugged her tight.

“You don’t have to forgive her,” Hana whispered. “You don’t owe her anything.”

Ling nodded, but her heart was tangled in memories she couldn’t let go. The way Orm once kissed her forehead in the early morning. The way her hands trembled during their vows. Had any of it been real?

By the third day, the ache dulled, replaced by exhaustion. Ling forced herself to shower, to eat a few bites of toast. She ignored her phone, shutting out the world.

That evening, a knock rattled the apartment door. Hana peered through the peephole and her expression hardened. “It’s Orm.”

Ling’s stomach dropped. “Don’t let her in.”

Hana nodded and spoke through the door. “She doesn’t want to see you. Leave.”

Ling pressed a pillow over her ears, trying to block out the sound of Orm’s pleading voice in the hallway. She waited for the footsteps to fade, for silence to settle.

For the first time in years, Ling was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

She buried her face in Hana’s borrowed blanket and wept until dawn, mourning not just Orm, but the person she’d been when love still felt safe.

Chapter Text

Morning crept into Hana’s apartment on golden feet, brushing gentle warmth across Ling’s cheeks. She blinked awake to the sound of clinking dishes and soft humming from the kitchen. For a moment, she didn’t remember. Then her chest tightened, the reality of Orm’s absence pressing down like a weight.

She lay there, cocooned in the scent of unfamiliar laundry detergent, willing herself to move. Each step away from Orm was supposed to be freedom, but it felt like treading water in an endless, lonely sea.

Hana greeted her with a kind smile and a plate of eggs. “Eat something. Then shower. You’re starting fresh, Ling.”

Ling tried to smile, but her lips wobbled. She ate, more out of obligation than hunger, but the warmth of the meal and Hana’s gentle presence began to chip away at the numbness.

The day passed in a fog. Ling scrolled through apartment listings, circled job ads in red pen, ignored every new message from Orm. The heartbreak still ached, but it was sharper now—almost clean, like a wound that had been washed.

She walked the city streets for hours, letting the sights and sounds wrap around her like armor. There were couples laughing in coffee shops, children shrieking on playgrounds, an old man playing the violin on a street corner. Life pulsed all around her, indifferent to her pain. Strangely, that made her feel less alone.

Ling ducked into a cozy bookstore when it started to drizzle. She wandered the aisles, fingers trailing along the spines of stories she’d once loved. The owner, a kind-faced woman named Lila, caught her eye and smiled. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Ling hesitated, then shook her head. “Just… starting over, I guess.”

Lila’s eyes softened with understanding. “We all need a fresh story sometimes.”

Ling left with a secondhand paperback and a tentative promise from Lila: “We’re hiring part-time, if you’re interested.”

Back at Hana’s, she filled out the application, hands trembling just a little. The prospect of work—of purpose—sparked a fragile hope inside her chest.

That evening, Mei, a friend from university, texted out of the blue.
Hey stranger. You alive? Want to grab coffee tomorrow?

Ling hesitated before replying: I’d like that.

As night fell, Ling sat by the window, the city lights flickering far below. She thought about the woman she used to be—hopeful, naïve, desperate to make her marriage work at any cost. She wondered if that version of herself was gone forever, or if she could recover the pieces and reshape them into something stronger.

Hana joined her, two mugs of tea in hand. “You’re braver than you think, you know.”

Ling stared into her cup, the steam blurring her vision. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does, until later,” Hana said quietly. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just… one step at a time.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the rain streak down the window. For the first time since leaving Orm, Ling felt a small ember of comfort, the kind that comes from being seen and cared for.

As she crawled into bed, she checked her phone once more. More messages from Orm, piling up like autumn leaves. Ling hovered over them, torn between the urge to read and the need to heal.

She powered off her phone and tucked it away in a drawer.

Tonight, she chose herself.

In the dark, Ling whispered a small, fierce promise—Tomorrow, I’ll try again. Tomorrow, I’ll take the next step.

Sleep claimed her gently, dreams empty of betrayal and full, instead, of blank pages, waiting for her to write a new story.

Chapter Text

Orm stared at her office window, the city sprawling below in rivers of neon. Usually, the view filled her with satisfaction—a testament to everything she’d built. Tonight, it was meaningless, a cold reminder of how empty her life had become without Ling.

Stacks of paperwork littered her desk, contracts left unsigned, emails unread. Orm pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to block out the memory of Ling’s tears, the tremor in her voice, the sound of the door slamming behind her. It echoed in her skull, unrelenting.

She had always prided herself on control—of her business, her reputation, even her marriage. But love, she realized now, had never obeyed the rules she lived by. She had mistaken Ling’s devotion for something permanent, a soft presence she could return to whenever she wished. She hadn’t seen how fragile trust was until she crushed it.

Orm’s phone buzzed with yet another message from Aaron, her oldest friend and the only person who dared confront her in the last few days.
Are you eating? Are you sleeping at all? You need to get out of that office, Orm. Call me.

She ignored it. Instead, she unlocked her phone and scrolled through the messages she’d sent Ling.
Please, just talk to me. I know I hurt you. Let me explain. I can’t lose you.

No reply. Ling’s silence was a punishment Orm knew she deserved, but it stung sharper than anything she’d ever faced in the boardroom.

A knock startled her. Aaron stepped in, eyes narrowing at the mess. “You look like hell.”

Orm gave a hollow laugh. “How observant.”

He sat across from her, ignoring the invitation to leave. “When’s the last time you slept? Or ate something that wasn’t coffee?”

Orm shrugged, her mask slipping. “I’m fine.”

Aaron didn’t buy it. “You’re not. You’re spiraling, Orm. You lost her. Doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself, too.”

She looked away, jaw clenched. “I made a mistake, Aaron. The worst one. I thought… I thought I was protecting myself. But I was just—afraid.”

Aaron’s expression softened. “Of what?”

“Of loving her too much. Of needing her. I never let anyone in, not really. My parents taught me that love is leverage. A weakness. But Ling… she made me want to be soft. I didn’t know how. So I ruined it before she could hurt me first.”

Aaron reached across the desk, his hand steady and warm. “That’s not love, Orm. That’s fear. If you ever want a chance at getting her back, you have to show her something real. No more running.”

Orm stared at him, pain burning behind her eyes. “What if I already lost her forever?”

“Then you own up. You fix yourself. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll see you’re worth a second chance.”

After Aaron left, Orm stayed long after midnight, haunted by memories she couldn’t turn off. She remembered the night of their wedding—how her hands had trembled as she slipped the ring onto Ling’s finger. The way Ling had smiled at her with a hope that made Orm want to believe in forever.

She remembered waking beside Ling on lazy Sunday mornings, the warmth of their shared laughter, the way Ling would trace patterns across Orm’s bare back. Small, intimate moments she’d dismissed in the rush of ambition.

Now those memories were knives.

She pulled out her old journal, a habit Ling had always encouraged but she’d rarely indulged. Pen shaking, Orm began to write:

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you that you were my safe place. I’m sorry I was too proud to say I needed you. I wish I could go back. I wish I could be the woman you deserved. But all I can do is try, now. Try, even if you never see it.

She closed the journal, exhaustion dragging at her bones. But the act of writing brought a strange comfort—a flicker of hope in the ruins.

As dawn crept over the city, Orm made a promise to herself. She would change. Not just to win Ling back, but to become someone she could be proud of—someone worthy of love.

And somewhere in the city, she hoped Ling might feel it, too.

Chapter Text

Orm stood outside Hana’s apartment for the third night in a row, her breath clouding in the cold air, hands shaking around a bouquet of white lilies—Ling’s favorite. The city pressed close around her, lights blurred with the sleepless ache in her eyes. She’d lost count of how many messages she’d sent, how many calls had gone unanswered, how many times she’d rehearsed what to say if Ling actually opened the door.

Every time she raised her fist to knock, she hesitated. What if Ling never forgave her? What if the damage was too deep?

A shadow passed behind the frosted glass. For a moment, Orm imagined it was Ling, pausing, heart racing, before she turned away. But the door remained closed.

I deserve this, Orm thought. But I can’t let her go without a fight.

She pressed the bouquet gently against the door and slid a note beneath it:
I’m sorry. Please talk to me. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.

She lingered in the hallway, hope flickering, but no footsteps came.

---

The next day, Orm camped outside the bookstore where Ling had started working. Through the glass, she watched Ling shelve novels, her movements careful, graceful, but her smile never quite reaching her eyes. Every fiber in Orm’s body ached to go to her, to beg, to promise she’d never hurt her again.

When Ling finally left at closing, Orm stepped forward, blocking her path.

Ling froze, her arms hugging a stack of books. “Don’t.”

“Please, Ling, just hear me out—”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Her voice was low, but brittle as glass. She moved past, and Orm was left clutching empty air, the plea dying on her lips.

Desperation twisted inside her. That night, Orm poured her soul into a letter—page after page of regrets, confessions, and desperate hopes.

I was afraid, Ling. Afraid of needing you so much it would destroy me if you left. I pushed you away to protect myself, and instead I broke us. I miss you, every hour. If you can ever forgive me, I’ll spend my life trying to deserve it.

She left the letter with Hana, her hands trembling. “Please… just give it to her. Even if she rips it up.”

Hana regarded her with cool pity. “She’ll read it. But don’t expect miracles, Orm.”

Orm nodded, heart heavy.

---

That night, exhaustion dragged her into uneasy sleep. Dreams tumbled her back to their wedding—a memory so vibrant, so achingly alive, it made her chest hurt.

Flashback: The Wedding

Summer sunlight filtered through stained glass, painting the ceremony in splashes of gold and rose. Ling stood at the altar, radiant and nervous, the delicate white of her dress glowing against her skin. Orm wore a tailored suit, hands trembling so badly she could barely tie her tie that morning.

As she walked down the aisle, Orm remembered her mother’s sharp warning: “Don’t get attached. Remember, this is an arrangement. Control the narrative.” But as she caught sight of Ling’s hopeful, shining eyes, every defense crumbled. In that moment, the arrangement meant nothing—only Ling, her smile, the future that seemed suddenly possible.

Their vows were simple. Orm had memorized hers, but nearly forgot every word as Ling took her hands.

“I know this isn’t how you dreamed of your life beginning, but I promise to try. To learn you, to trust you, to build something real together,” Ling said, voice wavering but strong.

Orm’s own voice shook as she answered, “I promise to protect you, to provide for you, and—maybe someday—to give you all of me, if you’ll have it.”

Ling smiled with shy courage, eyes shining. When the rings slipped onto their fingers, Orm’s heart soared and trembled all at once.

The reception was a blur—dancing, laughter, the press of friends and family. But what Orm remembered most was later, after the guests had gone. Ling in the glow of the honeymoon suite, laughing as Orm tried to loosen her hair, her bare feet curled on the bed.

“Are you scared?” Ling whispered.

Orm nodded. “Terrified. I’ve never wanted anything so much.”

Ling pressed their foreheads together. “Then let’s be scared together.”

That night, wrapped in Ling’s arms, Orm felt peace she hadn’t known since childhood. She’d vowed silently then: Don’t ruin this. Don’t be your mother’s daughter.

But in the end, she had anyway.

---

Orm woke with a start, tears on her cheeks. She reached for her phone and found another draft text to Ling, unsent:

Do you remember our wedding? I still have my vows memorized. I’d give anything to start over with you.

She closed her eyes, clutching her phone, the ache of memory both a comfort and a curse.

Tomorrow, she’d try again. For Ling—for herself—for the promise of something worth saving.

Chapter Text

Ling sat in the backseat of the rideshare, the city blurring past her window. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and spring, dampening the sunlight as the car wound its way toward her parents’ house. She hadn’t visited in months—since before everything shattered with Orm. The closer she got, the more her anxiety grew, twisting in her gut like a warning.

Her parents lived in a modest home tucked into a quiet suburb, the yard neat and the porch lined with potted lilies. Ling stood at the foot of the steps for a long moment, her overnight bag feeling much heavier than it was. She let herself in with her old key, heart pounding.

Her mother appeared in the hallway, surprise flickering across her face before it softened into worry. “Ling! What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

Ling forced a smile and shrugged. “I needed to come home for a little while.”

Her mother opened her arms and Ling melted into the familiar embrace, her eyes prickling. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this—the unconditional comfort, the safety of being someone’s child again, not just a wife holding her world together.

Her father appeared in the doorway, silent but steady. He squeezed her shoulder, his presence grounding.

Later, over tea at the kitchen table, Ling told them what had happened. She kept her voice steady, reciting the facts: the betrayal, the night she left, her attempts to start over. Her mother’s hands shook on her teacup.

“Oh, sweetheart. I never wanted this for you,” her mother whispered, eyes full of tears.

Ling blinked, feeling suddenly young and vulnerable. “I loved her. I thought she loved me, too.”

Her father cleared his throat. “Sometimes, people break their promises. It’s not your fault. You gave your best, Ling.”

She nodded, but guilt still gnawed at her. “Did I try too hard? Did I ignore the signs? Maybe I wasn’t enough—”

Her mother cut her off with gentle ferocity. “You were always enough. You are more than enough.”

Ling’s eyes burned, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her mother hugged her tightly. “You don’t have to forgive her. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

They talked late into the night, the house full of memories—childhood laughter, photos on the walls, the echo of years before Ling became Orm’s wife. For the first time since the breakup, Ling felt the stirrings of herself beneath all the heartbreak.

She wandered her old bedroom, touching worn book spines and faded photos. There was her high school diploma, her first dance recital shoes, postcards from college. She picked up a photo of herself, grinning in cap and gown, pride shining in her eyes.

She had existed before Orm. She would exist after.

As dawn crept into the sky, Ling sat on the edge of her childhood bed, exhaustion finally catching her. She clutched the photo to her chest, letting herself cry—truly cry—for everything lost, and for the chance, however faint, that she could build something new.

Down the hall, her mother’s voice floated softly: “You can always come home.”

For the first time in weeks, Ling believed it might be true.

Chapter Text

Orm didn’t remember falling asleep at her desk. She woke with a start, the city’s pale dawn breaking over glass towers outside her office window. Her suit jacket was balled under her head, her phone buzzing relentlessly. For a brief, deluded moment, she expected to see Ling—soft hair in her eyes, a gentle hand shaking her awake.

But there was only silence.

She dragged herself upright and stared at her reflection in the window. Hollow-eyed, hair mussed, the impenetrable CEO mask nowhere in sight. She barely recognized herself.

The office door creaked open. Aaron, her oldest friend, poked his head inside. He took one look at her and didn’t bother with small talk. Instead, he set two coffees on the table and slumped into the chair across from her.

“Tell me what’s really going on,” he said quietly.

Orm looked down, fingers curling around the mug. She wasn’t used to this kind of honesty, not even with Aaron. She’d spent her entire life building walls, brick by brick, after learning too young that tenderness could be weaponized.

She remembered her mother’s icy voice after every scraped knee or failed test: Don’t let anyone see you cry. They’ll use it against you.
The lessons had stuck. She’d let herself become a fortress, locked from the inside.

Aaron waited, his patience a silent invitation. Orm found herself unraveling.

“I ruined it,” she whispered. “I broke her heart. And mine with it.”

Aaron said nothing, just nodded for her to go on.

“I was always so afraid,” Orm continued. “My parents… They weren’t cruel, but they didn’t know how to love. Everything was a transaction—give, get, owe, repay. When I married Ling, I thought I could change. That maybe love could be safe, if I just controlled it hard enough. But the more I tried to keep myself from needing her, the more I hurt her. And then I…” She couldn’t finish.

Aaron leaned forward, voice gentle. “You cheated because you were scared of needing her. Of her leaving you first.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but Orm blinked them away. “I think part of me wanted to test her. To prove she’d leave, just like everyone else. That way, it wouldn’t hurt so much when it happened.”

Aaron shook his head. “You’re not your parents, Orm. You get to choose. But you have to be brave enough to love her with all the risk that comes with it.”

Orm pressed a hand to her mouth, struggling to contain the grief and regret threatening to spill out. “What if she never forgives me? What if I ruined the only good thing I ever had?”

“Then you do the work anyway,” Aaron replied. “Not to win her back, but to make yourself whole. Show her you’re changing because you want to be better. That’s the only way she’ll ever believe you again.”

Orm let the words sink in. She thought about Ling’s laughter, her steady faith, the softness she brought into every cold corner of Orm’s life. She thought about the nights she’d come home late, finding Ling asleep on the couch with a book in her lap, waiting up with hope in her eyes.

She saw, suddenly, how many small ways she’d failed her. The missed anniversaries, the hurried dinners, the excuses. She’d built a life of marble and glass but left no room for warmth.

Aaron stood, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help you. But you have to let me in, too. No more hiding.”

Orm nodded, swallowing hard. “I want to change, Aaron. For her, for me. I don’t know how, but I want to try.”

He squeezed her shoulder before leaving. “That’s a start. You’re not alone, Orm. Not unless you choose to be.”

When Aaron left, Orm sat for a long time, staring at the city below. Her armor felt cracked, uncomfortable. She pulled out her journal and forced herself to write the things she’d never said aloud:

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of not being good enough. I’m afraid I don’t know how to love, but I want to learn. I want to be brave, the way Ling always was.

She closed the journal, pressing her palm to the cover, as if the words could somehow reach across the city to where Ling was rebuilding her life.

For the first time in weeks, Orm allowed herself to cry. The tears felt clean, not like failure, but like the first rain after a drought.

She didn’t know what the future held, but she was done hiding from it.

Chapter Text

Ling sat across from the woman at the café, fingers nervously twisting the paper sleeve on her latte. Mei had been persistent, assuring Ling that her friend Lara was sweet, funny, and “exactly the kind of energy you need right now.” Ling had agreed to the blind date out of politeness, telling herself it was time to try. Time to move on.

But as Lara talked about her favorite hiking spots and the best hole-in-the-wall ramen shops in the city, Ling found her mind wandering. She watched Lara’s lips move, tried to smile at the right moments, but her heart felt distant, walled off behind old bruises.

“So, what about you?” Lara was saying. “What do you do for fun?”

Ling blinked, realizing she hadn’t really been listening. “Oh—um, I’ve been doing pottery. And reading. And I started working at this little bookstore, actually. It’s peaceful.”

“That’s cute.” Lara grinned, her eyes kind. “You seem like you’d be good with your hands.”

Ling blushed, uncertain, and looked down. Lara’s hand brushed hers on the table—light, testing.

For a second, Ling wanted to feel something—spark, excitement, hope. Instead, a wave of grief washed over her. Every touch, every smile, reminded her of Orm. How Orm’s hands would always find her in a crowded room, grounding her. How Orm could make even the smallest gestures feel like a secret just for the two of them.

Ling pulled her hand back gently, forcing herself to hold Lara’s gaze. “You’re really sweet, Lara. I’m sorry if I seem… distracted. I just got out of something serious.”

Lara nodded with understanding. “Hey, no pressure. Heartbreak takes its time.”

Ling relaxed, grateful for the kindness. They talked a little longer, but the conversation drifted toward polite small talk. By the end of the coffee, they exchanged numbers more out of obligation than desire.

Outside, the day was crisp and clear. Ling walked home alone, letting the city noise fill the ache in her chest. She passed a bakery and stopped on impulse, buying a pastry for Hana and herself. She tried to savor the simple pleasure of choosing something just because it looked good, not because she was trying to anticipate someone else’s preferences.

Back at Hana’s, she curled up on the couch with her book, but couldn’t focus. Her mind spun with memories, guilt, and longing. She thought about how hard she’d tried to mold herself into Orm’s idea of a perfect wife—always supportive, never demanding too much, always ready to forgive.

She wondered if that was love, or just fear of being abandoned.

That night, sleep came in fits and starts. Ling dreamed she was back in their old apartment, Orm’s laughter echoing from another room. She wandered through endless hallways, always searching, never finding. When she finally woke, her pillow was damp with tears.

At the bookstore the next day, Lila noticed Ling’s quiet mood. “Rough night?”

Ling nodded, managing a wan smile. “Trying to find my new normal, I guess.”

Lila’s eyes were gentle. “Be patient with yourself. Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days, you’ll feel better. Others, it’ll sting again. That’s just how it is.”

Ling nodded, comforted by the words. She lost herself in shelving new arrivals and helping customers, the familiar rhythms offering a fragile sense of peace.

After work, Mei called to check in. “How’d it go with Lara?”

Ling hesitated, then sighed. “She was lovely. I just… I’m not ready.”

Mei’s voice was soft. “That’s okay, Ling. You don’t have to rush. You’re allowed to be broken for a while.”

Ling blinked back sudden tears, her gratitude fierce and sharp. “Thanks, Mei. I needed to hear that.”

That night, Ling took her pottery tools from the closet and set up at Hana’s kitchen table. She worked the clay with steady, patient hands, shaping it into a small vase. The movements soothed her, gave her a sense of control she hadn’t felt in weeks.

As she smoothed the final curve, she realized she was molding more than just clay. She was remaking herself—slowly, painfully, but surely. Each day, each choice, a small act of rebuilding.

She set the vase aside to dry, watching the moonlight glint off its surface. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers.

Ling crawled into bed, tired but peaceful for the first time in a long while. She thought about all the things she’d lost, but also about the parts of herself she was reclaiming. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready to love again—if she’d ever trust again—but tonight, she allowed herself hope.

Tomorrow would come, and she would keep trying.

Chapter Text

Orm’s office was silent except for the low hum of the city through the double-paned windows. The work that once brought her comfort now felt meaningless, the stacks of contracts and reports a weight she could no longer bear. For weeks, she’d tried to drown herself in busyness—late meetings, endless tasks, anything to avoid the hollow ache of Ling’s absence.

But nothing helped. Her mind was a haunted house: every memory echoing off empty walls.

One Friday evening, she sat at the long boardroom table, staring at an email she couldn’t bring herself to finish. Her team waited for her direction, eyes wary. When she snapped at her assistant for a trivial mistake, the shame rushed in, burning and hot. She barely remembered the meeting ending, only that she’d stormed from the room, ignoring the startled looks of her employees.

She took the elevator to the lobby, hands trembling. The marble floors reflected her pale, drawn face—someone she no longer recognized.

Outside, the city air was sharp and cold. Orm leaned against a stone pillar, letting the night press in on her. She pulled out her phone and dialed Aaron.

He answered on the first ring, voice cautious. “Orm?”

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Everything’s falling apart. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I lost her, Aaron. I lost the only person who ever made me want to come home.”

She heard Aaron’s sigh through the line. “You’re grieving, Orm. You’re supposed to feel lost.”

“But it’s more than that,” Orm said, her voice cracking. “I hurt her so badly. I keep thinking about our wedding day—how hopeful she was, how scared I was. I keep wishing I could go back, do everything differently. But I can’t.”

Aaron was silent for a moment. “You’re right—you can’t change the past. But you can decide what kind of person you’ll be from now on. Have you told her any of this? Really told her, not just begged for forgiveness?”

Orm wiped at her eyes, struggling for breath. “No. I keep writing letters. I never send them. I’m afraid they won’t matter. That nothing I do will matter anymore.”

“Do it for yourself, then,” Aaron urged. “You can’t live like this, Orm. And you can’t expect her to heal if you don’t start healing yourself.”

Orm closed her eyes, remembering the early days with Ling—the slow way Ling had coaxed her into laughter, the careful patience she’d shown even when Orm tried to push her away. There had been so many chances to be honest, to choose vulnerability over pride. Each time, she’d chosen the armor.

Now, the armor had rusted through, and underneath it, she was just scared and tired.

When she got home that night, Orm found the apartment unbearably quiet. She poured herself a glass of wine, then pushed it aside, untouched. Instead, she dug through a drawer for the journal she’d started after Ling left.

She wrote until her hand cramped, page after page spilling out everything she’d hidden:

I was selfish. I was terrified you’d leave, so I tried to leave first. I thought if I could hurt you before you hurt me, it would make me stronger. But all it did was show me how weak I really am without you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the secrets, for the coldness, for every time I made you doubt your worth. I’m sorry for making you feel alone when I should have been your home.

The words blurred through tears, but she kept writing. When she finally stopped, she felt lighter—emptied out, raw, but real.

She closed the journal, hands steady for the first time in weeks. Maybe Ling would never read these words, never know the work she was doing to become someone better. But Orm knew. She owed it to Ling, and to herself, to try.

As dawn crept over the city, Orm opened her window, breathing in the cold, hopeful air. She didn’t know if she’d ever win Ling back, but she was done hiding—from pain, from change, from the truth of her own heart.

Tomorrow, she promised, she would keep going. Even if she had to start over every day.

Chapter Text

The bookstore was closing early for the city’s annual charity gala. Ling felt a nervous flutter as she adjusted her simple black dress in the shop’s tiny restroom mirror. Lila had insisted all staff attend as guests—“It’ll be good for you, Ling. Get out, let yourself be seen.” Hana and Mei had encouraged her, promising she’d feel like herself again among friends and laughter.

But as Ling navigated the crowd at the bustling downtown hall, she couldn’t help feeling like an impostor. The room sparkled with glittering chandeliers and the laughter of strangers. Waiters slipped through clusters of guests, offering champagne. Ling’s heels pinched her toes as she wandered the edges, smiling politely, wishing she could disappear into the wallpaper.

A familiar voice drew her up short. “Ling?” Mei appeared, grinning. “You made it! Come on, meet my cousin—he’s in publishing.”

Ling followed, forcing herself to join the group, to shake hands, to nod and laugh at stories she barely heard. Every few minutes her eyes scanned the room, an old habit she couldn’t shake—half-hoping, half-dreading she’d see Orm.

When she finally did, it was like being punched in the chest.

Orm stood across the hall, flanked by two business acquaintances. She looked striking in a crisp navy suit, her hair slightly longer than before, face drawn but determined. Her eyes flickered over the crowd—then landed on Ling.

For a heartbeat, the world faded. The music, the laughter, the lights—all fell away until only Orm’s gaze remained.

Ling swallowed, her fingers tightening around her glass. She could turn away, pretend she hadn’t seen, but she stood frozen, anger and longing at war in her chest.

Orm’s expression changed—shock, then something raw and hopeful. She broke away from her group, weaving through the crowd toward Ling.

Mei noticed first, squeezing Ling’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“I need some air,” Ling whispered, already moving toward the balcony.

The city lights shimmered outside, cool air biting at her cheeks. She gripped the railing, breathing in, willing her heart to steady.

The door clicked open. Orm stepped out, closing it softly behind her.

Ling stared at the skyline. “Don’t.”

“Please,” Orm said, voice low and rough. “Just a minute.”

Ling didn’t trust herself to look at her, afraid her pain would betray her strength. “What do you want, Orm?”

Orm stepped closer, her presence warm and overwhelming. “To say I’m sorry. Again. To see you, even if it’s only for a moment.”

Ling kept her gaze on the city, but her resolve faltered. “You’ve said you’re sorry. It doesn’t change what you did.”

“I know.” Orm’s voice broke, softer than Ling had ever heard. “But I needed you to know—losing you showed me everything I did wrong. I’m trying to change. Not to get you back. Just… to be better.”

Ling let the silence stretch. She thought of the countless nights she’d wished for these words, the hundreds of times she’d imagined what she’d say if Orm ever admitted her mistakes. Now, they felt heavy instead of healing.

“People don’t just change overnight,” Ling said, her voice trembling. “And apologies don’t erase betrayal.”

Orm’s hand hovered near the railing, close enough that Ling could feel the heat of her skin. “I know. I just needed you to see me—really see me—trying.”

Ling finally turned, meeting Orm’s eyes. They were tired, older somehow, full of regret and a longing that mirrored her own. For a moment, the years and pain between them fell away, replaced by the memory of soft mornings and whispered vows.

“I see you,” Ling said softly. “But I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

A tear slipped down Orm’s cheek. “I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Even if all I get is this moment.”

The door opened, breaking the spell. Mei poked her head out, concern written on her face. “Everything okay?”

Ling nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yeah. I just needed some air.”

She moved past Orm, heart pounding, forcing herself not to look back. She could feel Orm’s gaze on her, but she kept walking, every step a reminder of how much she’d lost—and how much she still wanted to find herself again.

Inside, the noise and light washed over her, the ache in her chest sharper but cleaner. She pressed a hand to her heart, steadying herself, whispering a promise:
You survived this. You can survive the next moment, too.

And for the first time in a long time, Ling believed she could.

Chapter Text

The storm broke just after midnight. Rain lashed the city, turning streets into mirrors of neon and water. Ling pressed her forehead against the cool window of Hana’s apartment, watching the world dissolve into blurred color. Her hands trembled—not from cold, but from the echo of seeing Orm again, of the pain and longing that still lived in her bones.

She told herself it was closure, that the conversation on the balcony had ended things. But even as she whispered these lies, her heart hammered with unfinished business.

The bell rang. Once, twice, a desperate insistence. Hana was already asleep, so Ling tiptoed to the door, nerves fraying.

When she opened it, Orm stood there, soaked and shivering, hair plastered to her forehead, suit jacket clinging to her frame. The storm’s fury had left her raw, stripped of every layer of pride and defense.

“Ling,” she breathed, voice broken. “I’m sorry for coming so late. I just… I couldn’t let it end that way.”

Ling stared at her, every muscle taut. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Orm stepped inside, dripping rainwater on the tile. “I’ll leave if you want me to. I just—please, Ling. I need to talk to you. Really talk, for once.”

Ling hesitated, then nodded, closing the door behind them. “Ten minutes. That’s all.”

They stood in the dim kitchen, shadows cast by the streetlights dancing across their faces. The air crackled with all the things they’d never said.

Orm’s eyes were wild, pleading. “I know you owe me nothing. I know I broke us. I just need you to hear the truth, not excuses.”

Ling’s voice was brittle. “So say it, Orm. Tell me why. Tell me why you shattered everything we built.”

Orm sank onto a stool, hands shaking. “I was scared, Ling. I loved you so much, it terrified me. My whole life, I was taught that love was a weakness—a weapon people use to control you. I let that fear poison everything. When things got hard, I didn’t trust you to stay. I didn’t even trust myself to deserve you.”

Tears welled in Ling’s eyes, hot and unbidden. “You could have told me. I would have listened. I would have fought for us. But you never let me in.”

“I know,” Orm whispered. “That’s my failure, not yours. I pushed you away, tested you, thinking if you left first, I could survive it. Instead, I destroyed the best thing I ever had.”

Ling’s anger flared. “So you decided to cheat? On our anniversary? Was that supposed to protect you?”

“No,” Orm said, voice cracking. “Nothing can excuse that. It was cowardly and cruel. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just need you to know—it was never about her. It was about me running from everything I wanted most.”

The room filled with silence, heavy as thunder. The rain battered the windows, the storm outside echoing the storm within.

Ling looked at Orm—truly looked at her, the way she used to before everything was broken. She saw the pride stripped away, the fear, the regret. She saw a woman suffering not just from loss, but from the years of never believing she could be loved.

Ling’s voice was barely a whisper. “You hurt me so deeply, Orm. Some days I can’t breathe, it hurts so much. But I can’t pretend I don’t still care. I wish I didn’t.”

Orm’s eyes filled with tears. “I would give anything to take your pain away. If it’s too late, I’ll leave. But please, Ling, don’t ever think you weren’t enough. You were always more than I deserved.”

The clock ticked. The storm eased, softening to a gentle patter.

Ling wiped her eyes. “You can’t come back into my life and expect everything to be okay. I’m trying to heal. I need time.”

Orm nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand. I just needed you to hear it from me, not in a letter or a message. I needed to face what I’d done.”

They stood, a foot of space between them that felt as wide as the ocean. Finally, Orm moved to the door, hesitated, then turned. “If you ever need me, for anything, I’ll be there. Even if it’s just to listen. I want to do better, even if it’s not with you.”

Ling nodded, unable to speak past the ache in her throat.

Orm slipped out, the door closing softly behind her.

Ling slumped to the floor, head in her hands, letting the tears come. She didn’t know what the future held, but tonight, she’d faced the storm and survived.

And as the rain faded, dawn was already peeking at the horizon, offering the faintest glimmer of hope.

Chapter Text

Ling sat on the kitchen floor for a long time after Orm left, the storm’s aftershocks trembling in her chest. Every word from their confrontation replayed in her mind, sometimes sharpening into anger, sometimes dissolving into grief. She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her breath. It was over. Orm had said her piece. Ling had survived hearing it. That should have been enough.

But the silence felt heavier than ever. Questions and regrets battered her, relentless as the rain had been—what if Orm really had changed? What if she never let herself find out?

A quiet knock startled her. Not the bell—just a gentle, uncertain tap. Ling wiped her face, pushed to her feet, and opened the door.

Orm stood in the hallway, hair still damp, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and hope. “I forgot my umbrella,” she said softly. “And…I can’t leave. Not like this. Not without knowing if there’s a chance for us to talk—really talk.”

Ling hesitated. She knew Hana would understand if she needed to do this. Without a word, she stepped aside, letting Orm in.

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, two wounded souls, the clock on the wall marking the slow movement of night toward dawn. For a long time, neither spoke.

Finally, Ling broke the silence. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what you expect from me now.”

Orm’s voice was rough. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I want to be honest with you, maybe for the first time.”

Ling nodded, folding her hands. “Then tell me the truth. About everything.”

Orm closed her eyes, gathering courage. “I grew up learning that vulnerability was dangerous. My parents loved through rules and conditions. If I wanted their approval, I had to perform, to succeed, to never make mistakes. Love was something to earn, not something to trust.”

She looked up, meeting Ling’s gaze, her voice trembling. “When we got married, I told myself I could change. That I could give you everything you deserved. But the more I fell for you, the more terrified I got. I thought if I needed you, I’d be weak. So I kept parts of myself locked away. When work got hard, I hid from you. When I messed up, I lied instead of admitting I was afraid. And when I felt you getting closer, I panicked and… and did something unforgivable.”

Ling listened, pain and compassion warring in her chest. “I kept thinking, if I just loved you more, if I was patient enough, you’d finally let me in. I wanted so badly to be your safe place. But I was always guessing, always hoping for scraps.”

Orm’s hands shook. “You were everything I wanted, Ling. I just didn’t know how to accept it. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I know I might not deserve it. But I needed you to know I loved you. Even when I hurt you. Especially then.”

Tears slipped down Ling’s cheeks, silent and unchecked. “You broke me, Orm. You broke the part of me that believed I was enough. And I don’t know if I can ever get that back.”

Orm’s own tears glimmered in the low kitchen light. “I know. I’m so sorry. If I could go back—if I could give you all the words I never said, all the affection I held back—I would. I would do everything differently.”

Ling shook her head. “You can’t undo it. But maybe… maybe you can help me understand. Why her? Why then?”

Orm looked down, shame flooding her face. “It wasn’t about her. She was convenient—someone who didn’t expect anything, someone who didn’t know me. It was easier than facing you. It was cowardice, nothing more.”

The clock ticked, marking the hour when night began to soften. Ling stared at her trembling hands, feeling the weight of months of silence, of all the words she’d kept inside.

“I still love you,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I wish I didn’t. But I do. And that scares me. Because loving you means risking all of this happening again.”

Orm reached across the table, not touching but close. “I don’t expect you to trust me. I don’t even know if I trust myself yet. But I’m in therapy now. I’m working through everything I never faced before. I want to be better, Ling. Even if we’re never together again, I want to be someone worthy of love.”

Ling studied her, searching for any sign of manipulation, of old defenses. All she saw was a woman stripped bare—scared, regretful, but genuine.

“I need time,” Ling said finally. “And space. I need to figure out who I am without you. If I can ever let you back in, it has to be because I want to, not because I’m afraid to be alone.”

Orm nodded, tears falling freely now. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait. I’ll hope. And if you never come back, I’ll still be grateful for every moment I got with you.”

They sat together in the slow blue dawn, their hearts raw but finally open, the walls between them crumbling just enough for a single fragile beam of hope.

Ling leaned her head in her hands, crying softly—not just for what she’d lost, but for the small possibility of healing, however far away it seemed.

And as the sun rose, warm and tentative through the storm-washed window, both women knew that something had changed. The past couldn’t be undone, but maybe—just maybe—the future could hold something new.

Chapter Text

The days after their all-night conversation passed in a strange, quiet blur. Ling carried their words with her like a fragile shell—protective, but thin. She didn’t see Orm, didn’t answer her tentative texts. She needed space, as much for herself as for them both.

She moved out of Hana’s apartment and into a cozy studio above the bookstore. Her first night there, she sat by the window, legs tucked beneath her, watching the city glow beneath a gentle rain. For the first time, she felt a kind of peace—a sense that her life was her own, every choice hers to make.

She painted the walls a soft sage green, filled the shelves with books and ceramics, and let herself imagine a future that didn’t revolve around Orm. Still, in quiet moments, she caught herself longing for Orm’s laughter, her steadiness, her arms at night. The ache had dulled, but it hadn’t disappeared.

One afternoon, Ling found a small bouquet of wildflowers on her doorstep with a handwritten note:
No pressure. Just a wish for a gentle day. — O

She traced the careful letters, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. Orm was keeping her word—showing up, but not pushing. Ling texted a thank you, simple and warm.

They started exchanging messages, nothing heavy—funny stories from work, pictures of coffee cups, snippets of their days. It was cautious, gentle, and for the first time in a long time, easy.

Weeks passed. Ling saw Orm at a bookstore event, both invited by Lila. Orm hovered near the door, hands clasped, eyes uncertain. Ling crossed the room, nerves jangling, but smiled first.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Orm’s answering smile was full of gratitude and hope. “Hi.”

They talked for an hour—about everything except their past, letting the conversation drift like leaves on a quiet pond. When Orm said goodbye, she didn’t ask for more. She just pressed a card into Ling’s hand: If you ever want to talk, really talk, I’ll be here.

That night, Ling reread the card under the lamplight. She realized, with a sense of awe and relief, that she wasn’t afraid. Not of being alone, and not of trying again.

Slowly, Ling let Orm back into her world. They met for coffee in public places, sharing stories and awkward laughter. Orm never pushed, always letting Ling set the pace. Trust, broken so thoroughly, began to regrow—not as blind faith, but as an honest understanding between equals.

When Ling finally invited Orm to her apartment for dinner, her hands shook as she cooked. Orm arrived with a homemade loaf of bread, face flushed with nerves. They ate, talked about books and movies, and laughed—real laughter, the kind that healed old wounds.

After dinner, they washed dishes side by side. Orm looked at Ling, her voice low and vulnerable. “You don’t have to say yes, but… I’d like to hold you. Just for a minute.”

Ling hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded, letting Orm’s arms encircle her. She let herself lean in, just for a moment, heart pounding with memory and hope.

It was nothing like before—there were no promises, no grand gestures, only two people choosing each other, tentatively, again.

Before Orm left, she squeezed Ling’s hand. “Thank you. For trusting me with this much.”

Ling smiled, eyes shining. “We start over, Orm. This time, we build something new.”

And as she watched Orm disappear down the hallway, Ling realized she was no longer bound by the pain of what had been. She was free to hope, free to heal, and—most importantly—free to decide her own future.

Chapter Text

Six months had passed since Ling first opened her door to Orm on that stormy night. The city was blooming into spring, and with each dawn, Ling felt her heart soften, her burdens lightening. She woke each morning in her little studio apartment, the sunlight spilling across her bed, the world outside humming with new possibilities.

Life was gentle, deliberate. Ling moved through her days with a calm she’d never known before. She savored her quiet routines: morning coffee with a splash of honey, tending the window boxes overflowing with wildflowers, afternoons at the bookstore lost in conversation with regulars and the scent of new pages. She signed up for a painting class. She called her parents every Sunday and visited Hana for lazy, laughter-filled dinners.

Most importantly, she learned to sit with her own company. The silence, once sharp with loneliness, now felt like a friend.

Her relationship with Orm was careful, measured—no longer an ache, but a slow-burning warmth. They met once or twice a week, sometimes for coffee, sometimes a walk in the park, sometimes lingering in the quiet of Ling’s apartment, sharing small joys. There were no grand declarations, only the daily practice of trust and patience.

---

One Saturday morning, Ling opened her door to find Orm waiting in the hallway, holding a brown paper bag and two cups of coffee.

“I come bearing pastries,” Orm said, her smile shy. “I thought maybe you’d let me join you for breakfast.”

Ling grinned, stepping aside. “Only if you brought the cinnamon rolls.”

Orm’s laughter—so rare in the early years of their marriage—had become a fixture between them now. “As if I’d dare bring anything else.”

They ate together at Ling’s tiny kitchen table, sunlight painting stripes across the floor. Conversation was easy, full of gentle teasing and moments of silence that felt companionable rather than strained.

After breakfast, Ling pulled out her paints. Orm watched her with soft admiration, asking about colors and brushstrokes, encouraging Ling’s hesitant dreams of entering a community art show. They listened to music, trading favorite songs and stories from their childhoods.

When Ling spilled a streak of blue across the canvas, Orm only laughed. “Art isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up. Like us.”

Ling smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. “I guess we’re both learning.”

---

They ventured out for a walk in the park, the air filled with the promise of rain and distant laughter of children. Orm reached for Ling’s hand, pausing, seeking permission. Ling threaded their fingers together, feeling the old pain replaced by something softer—a memory, but not a wound.

They wandered beneath budding trees, sharing secrets in the shade. Orm confessed that therapy was hard, that sometimes she stumbled and doubted herself, but that she wanted to keep doing the work for herself, not just for Ling.

“I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger,” Orm said quietly. “And maybe, someday, the kind of partner you deserve.”

Ling squeezed her hand, her heart full. “We’re both growing. I’m not the same person I was before, either. I know my boundaries now. I know I can walk away if I need to.”

Orm nodded, respect shining in her eyes. “And I’ll always honor that. Even if it scares me.”

A light rain began to fall, dotting their hair and shoulders. Instead of running for cover, Ling lifted her face to the sky and laughed, spinning in the grass, Orm chasing after her, breathless with happiness.

---

That evening, Ling invited Orm up to her apartment. They made tea, watching the rain streak the windows. Ling pulled out a stack of letters—unsent, written during the darkest months. Some were angry, some full of longing, all raw with honesty.

“I never sent these,” Ling said softly. “But I want you to have them. They’re part of my healing.”

Orm accepted the letters reverently, eyes shining with gratitude and humility. “Thank you for trusting me. I promise I’ll honor every word.”

Ling settled beside her on the couch. “You don’t have to read them tonight. I just needed you to see how hard it was. And how far I’ve come.”

Orm touched her hand, the gesture gentle and sure. “I’m proud of you, Ling. For choosing yourself. For choosing us again, but only when you were ready.”

Ling looked at her, the truth of it overwhelming. “I love you, Orm. Not the way I did before. This time, I love you with open eyes. I know what I need. I know what I won’t accept.”

Orm’s eyes filled with tears. “And I love you, Ling. Thank you for giving us a second chance. I won’t waste it.”

They leaned into each other, not for forgiveness, but for comfort—two survivors, choosing to build a future from the pieces of their past. The old wounds hadn’t disappeared, but they had faded, their scars softening in the light of hope.

---

Months later, on a quiet Sunday morning, Ling and Orm stood together in a sunlit kitchen—Orm flipping pancakes, Ling arranging flowers in a vase she’d made herself. The window was open, the city humming with the promise of new beginnings.

“Happy anniversary,” Orm said, offering Ling the first pancake.

Ling laughed, her heart steady. “Happy anniversary.”

There were no guarantees, only the decision to keep choosing each other, every day. And for Ling, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Five years later

The apartment is filled with morning sunlight and the sweet, sticky smell of syrup. Ling stands at the kitchen island, hair pulled back in a loose braid, coaxing giggles from her daughter, Lian, who sits on the counter with her feet swinging in the air. Orm is flipping pancakes, one-handed, their son Jin balanced on her hip, the little boy’s fist tangled in his mother’s hair.

It is not a perfect morning—there are toys on the floor, and a crayon mural on the refrigerator that neither of them has found the energy to scrub away—but it is theirs, messy and joyful and real.

“Up!” Lian demands, stretching her arms to Orm. Orm grins, scoops her up, and spins both children around until the kitchen is a blur of laughter and squeals.

“Careful!” Ling calls, laughing herself. “We need those pancakes to survive breakfast!”

Jin, clutching a wooden spoon like a scepter, looks up with solemn brown eyes. “Pancakes!” he declares.

“Yes, General,” Orm salutes, depositing him into his booster seat with a flourish. Lian crawls into her own seat, already reaching for her favorite blue cup.

Ling sets a plate before each of them, topping the pancakes with strawberries and cream. Orm takes her usual seat at Ling’s right, their knees brushing beneath the table. There’s a moment—just a heartbeat—where they look at each other and smile, all the years between then and now shining in their eyes.

“Okay, everyone,” Orm says, voice mock-serious. “What’s the plan for today?”

Lian, syrup smeared across her cheeks, pipes up, “We go to the park! And the library! And—” She pauses, thinking hard. “Ice cream?”

Jin thumps his spoon in approval. “Ice cream!”

Ling laughs, gathering empty plates. “Park, library, and ice cream. I think we can manage.”

Orm stands and helps Ling clear the table, their movements practiced, easy, full of the kind of harmony that only grows from years of learning and relearning each other. They clean up side by side, hands brushing, sharing whispered jokes and quick kisses when they think the kids aren’t looking.

Later, while the children nap, Ling and Orm sit together on the sofa, sunlight painting golden stripes across their legs. Lian’s favorite blanket is draped over both their laps, a soft fort against the world.

For a long time, neither speaks. The peace between them is deep, effortless.

Ling looks at Orm, marveling at how much has changed—and how much has stayed the same. Orm’s hair is threaded with silver now, her eyes softer, her laughter deeper. The hard edges have rounded, the sharp words replaced with gentle honesty.

“Do you remember our first apartment?” Ling asks, voice quiet.

Orm laughs softly. “I remember how terrified I was of ruining everything. Of losing you.”

Ling squeezes her hand. “You didn’t ruin it. We broke, and we built something new. Something better.”

Orm’s gaze is full of gratitude. “Thank you for giving me that chance.”

Ling smiles, heart swelling. “Thank you for never giving up. On yourself. On us.”

They sit for a moment, the quiet interrupted only by the hum of the city outside, the occasional murmur of their children stirring in their sleep.

When Lian and Jin wake, the day becomes a whirlwind of small adventures: the rush of the playground, hands sticky with melting ice cream, the library’s hush broken by Jin’s delighted squeals when he finds a book about trucks.

At sunset, they return home, tired and happy. Orm draws a warm bath for the kids, and Ling sits on the floor beside the tub, singing old songs as the children splash and make boats out of measuring cups.

Later, with the kids tucked into bed, Orm finds Ling standing at the window, gazing at the city lights. She slips her arms around Ling’s waist, holding her close.

“Are you happy?” Orm whispers.

Ling leans back, closing her eyes. “I am. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.”

Orm kisses her neck, gentle and sure. “Me too.”

They talk in low voices—about the children, work, the possibility of another baby. They’ve talked about it for months, weighing the joys and fears. Ling feels a flutter of excitement and nerves, thinking about their family growing, the chaos multiplying, the love expanding beyond anything she ever thought possible.

A few months later, the dream becomes reality. Ling sits in the doctor’s office, Orm’s hand clutching hers, watching the tiny shape on the screen—the flutter of a heartbeat, fast and fierce. Tears fill Ling’s eyes, and Orm presses her lips to Ling’s forehead, overcome.

When Lian and Jin learn they’re getting a little brother, they run circles around the apartment, shouting, “Baby! Baby!” until Ling and Orm collapse on the couch, breathless with laughter.

Pregnancy is not easy. There are tired days, mornings when Ling feels ill, nights when Orm worries aloud about being good enough, strong enough, patient enough. But they weather it together, sharing every burden and every joy.

When their son, Alex, is born, Orm cries openly, holding Ling and the baby close. Lian insists on holding her brother first, declaring him “hers,” while Jin brings his favorite toy truck to place in the crib, a solemn offering.

Their home is fuller, messier, louder. There are sleepless nights, spilled milk, crayon marks on the walls, and tears—sometimes from the children, sometimes from exhaustion, sometimes from laughter so fierce it hurts.

But through it all, Ling and Orm remain a team. They parent with grace and humility, apologizing when they get it wrong, celebrating when they get it right. They teach their children that love isn’t perfect, but it’s resilient, patient, and worth fighting for.

Some nights, after the children are asleep, Ling and Orm sit on the balcony, looking out over the city. They talk about the past—the pain, the growth, the small acts of forgiveness that built their future.

“I still love you,” Ling says on one of those nights, her head resting on Orm’s shoulder. “Not despite everything we went through, but because of it.”

Orm kisses her hair. “I love you, too. Thank you for every second chance.”

Their family is living proof that love can be broken and rebuilt, can survive even the hardest storms. In the laughter of their children, in the quiet warmth of home, in every ordinary day made extraordinary by togetherness, Ling and Orm find the happy ending they once thought impossible.

And in the years to come, as their children grow and the seasons change, their story continues—a story of courage, forgiveness, and the endless, imperfect beauty of choosing each other, again and again.

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Thank you for reading After You Broke Me!
This story is for anyone who’s ever loved, lost, and dared to hope again. Ling and Orm’s journey isn’t perfect, but it’s real: about the cost of betrayal, the hard work of healing, and the possibility of redemption. If you’ve ever struggled to trust again or fought for someone you love, I hope this story resonates with you.

If you enjoyed this novel, please leave a comment, vote, or add to your reading list! Your support means the world.
— LadyEtros