Chapter Text
Orm had been planning to leave an hour ago.
Her date had cancelled that morning, some excuse about work, and she'd almost not come at all. But the bride was a college friend who'd been through enough disappointments already, so Orm had shown up alone, sat through the ceremony, made it through cocktail hour making small talk with people she barely remembered.
By the time the reception started, she'd done her duty. She could leave.
Except.
The woman in the black suit.
Orm first noticed her during the cocktail hour, cutting through the crowd like she knew exactly where everyone needed to be. Talking to the DJ, adjusting centerpieces, intercepting the groom's drunk uncle before he could grab the microphone. Dark hair pinned back in a bun that had started coming undone. A clipboard that never left her hand.
Event planner, obviously.
Orm told herself she wasn't staying because of her. That would be ridiculous. She barely even knew what the woman looked like up close.
But when she checked her watch after the toasts, she realized she'd been at this wedding for three hours. Her heels sat abandoned under a table somewhere.
The vineyard reception had reached that stage where even the expensive string lights couldn't hide how drunk everyone was getting. Someone's cousin was attempting dance moves that would definitely end in injury. The bride's mother had made her third speech.
And Orm was still here.
At the bar.
Pretending to check her phone.
The cake cutting happened at nine. The woman stood behind the photographer, mouthing "smile" at the bride and groom, making sure everything happened in the right order. When it was done and the crowd applauded, she checked something off on her clipboard with visible satisfaction, pulled out her phone, checked something, then put it away with a small shake of her head.
Orm watched her over the rim of her drink.
Thirty minutes later, Orm was at the bar getting another drink when she saw her. The woman had just emerged from a side door near the kitchen, probably handling some final detail. She paused, surveying the reception one last time. Her shoulders dropped. The clipboard hung loose at her side.
She looked toward the bar.
Their eyes met.
The woman smiled, slow and knowing, like she'd been waiting for this.
Heat crept up Orm's neck.
The woman crossed the space between them in five large steps.
"Three hours is a long time to pretend to check your phone."
"Keeping tabs?"
"Hard not to." The woman's smile turned warmer. "Not many people can look more beautiful than the bride at her own wedding, but here we are."
Orm laughed, surprised by the boldness of it. "That's so bad."
"It is, isn't it?" The woman laughed too, like she couldn't quite believe she'd said it out loud. "I'm blaming the fact that I've been working for eight hours straight and my filter is gone."
"Don't apologize. It's working."
"Is it?" The woman extended her hand. She was shorter than Orm, had to look up slightly. "Ling."
"Orm."
Ling's grip was firm. When she let go, she gestured at the reception behind them. "Event planner. I coordinated this entire disaster. Which means I've been sober and anxious for eight hours while everyone else got to enjoy themselves."
"Seems unfair."
"It is." Ling glanced at her watch, looked again like she didn't trust the first reading. "But I'm officially off the clock as of four minutes ago. I've been counting."
"Rough day?"
"The florist delivered the wrong centerpieces. The groom's father gave a speech that mentioned his affair. The bride's sister got food poisoning in the bathroom." Ling ticked them off on her fingers. "Oh, and someone's child released a very expensive butterfly display two hours early, so there were butterflies dive-bombing people during cocktail hour."
"I thought those were decorative."
"They were supposed to be released during the first dance as a 'moment of magic.'" Ling made air quotes. "Instead they went after the hors d'oeuvres like they hadn't eaten in weeks."
"That's not your fault."
"Tell that to the bride's mother." Ling looked at the bar. "I need a drink. Want another?"
"I was actually planning to leave an hour ago."
"But you're still here." Ling's eyes held hers. "Why?"
Orm could lie. Make up an excuse. Or she could be honest.
"I kept waiting for you to finish working."
Ling tilted her head, eyebrows raised, dark eyes studying her with open curiosity. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"That's—" Ling laughed, a little breathless. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day."
"Really? That's a low bar."
"You have no idea. I've been putting out fires all night. A compliment feels revolutionary."
They ordered. Ling got whiskey. Orm must have looked surprised because Ling said, "I need something strong."
"After today? Yeah."
"Exactly." She took a sip, eyes on Orm over the rim. "I grew up with three older brothers. It was whiskey or get mocked at every family gathering."
"Three brothers? That explains the survival skills."
"You have no idea. I learned to negotiate under pressure by age seven." Ling leaned against the bar. "What about you? Any siblings?"
"Only child. My mom used to say I got all the attention and all the therapy bills."
Ling laughed—head thrown back, eyes closed, genuine. "Used to say?"
"She died three years ago. Cancer."
Ling's eyes went wide. "Shit, I'm sorry. That's—I shouldn't have joked about—"
"No, it's fine. She would've laughed. She had this dark sense of humor about it." Orm took a drink. "Toward the end she kept making jokes about how she was getting out of family dinners permanently."
"Sounds like someone worth knowing."
"She was." She changed the subject. "So event planning. That was always the dream?"
"God, no. I was supposed to be a lawyer. My whole family is lawyers." Ling made a face. "I made it through one semester of law school before I had a full breakdown in the library over contract law. Dropped out, moved to the city, started planning parties because it was the only thing I was actually good at."
"And your family?"
"Hasn't forgiven me. My dad said last month, 'When are you going to stop wasting your life on parties?'" Bitterness edged Ling's voice. "Like helping people celebrate the most important day of their lives is nothing."
A slow song started.
"Do you dance?" Orm asked.
"Got two left feet."
"Luckily for you, I have two right feet. Want to anyway?" Orm extended her hand.
Ling looked at it for a moment, then took it. "Yeah. Okay."
They moved to the edge of the dance floor where it was darker, less crowded. Ling didn't hesitate, just stepped into Orm's space and put both hands on her waist, confident despite admitting she couldn't dance.
Orm's breath caught. She lifted her arms, wrapped them around Ling's neck. Her thumb found the soft skin there, traced absent patterns.
They swayed more than danced. Barely moved, really. Just held each other and pretended the music mattered.
"This is terrifying," Ling said quietly.
"What is?"
"This. You. How I feel right now." Ling looked up at her. "I don't know you. I have no reason to feel like this. But I do and it's—"
"Scary."
"Yeah."
"But exciting?"
"So fucking exciting." Ling laughed, a little breathless. "Is that insane?"
"If it is, we're both insane." Orm's thumb kept moving against Ling's neck, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. "I stayed at this wedding for three hours waiting to talk to you. I don't do that. I don't chase people."
"You're not chasing. I'm right here."
"You know what I mean."
Ling's hands tightened on Orm's waist. "I noticed you during cocktail hour. You were talking to someone's aunt and you looked so bored I almost went over to rescue you."
"Why didn't you?"
"I was working. And I thought—" Ling stopped.
"What?"
"I thought someone like you wouldn't be interested in someone like me."
Orm pulled back slightly to look at her. "Someone like me?"
"Beautiful. Put-together. The kind of person who looks like they have their shit figured out."
"I definitely don't have my shit figured out."
"Neither do I. But at least I'm good at faking it." Ling smiled. "Except right now. Right now I have no idea what I'm doing."
"You're doing fine."
"I'm really not. I want to kiss you so badly I can barely think straight and we're in the middle of a dance floor at a wedding I coordinated and that's so unprofessional and—"
Orm kissed her. Just leaned down and kissed her, soft and quick and over before anyone could really notice.
When she pulled back, Ling looked stunned.
"You—"
"I did."
"We're—there are people—"
"I know." Orm's thumb traced Ling's jaw now. "Want me to stop?"
"No." Ling's voice was barely a whisper. "I want you to do it again."
So Orm did. Slower this time. Ling made a small sound against her mouth and one of her hands slid from Orm's waist down to her hip, then kept going—fingers settling in that space just below where they should, pulling her closer with a confidence that made Orm's breath catch.
They pulled back just far enough to breathe, Ling's fingers still twisted in her dress, neither of them willing to let go completely.
"We should—" Ling started.
"Get out of here?"
"Yes. Immediately."
They didn't make it to the parking lot before they had to stop again. Ling pulled Orm into the building's bathroom, locked the door and pushed her against the sink and kissed her hard.
Orm pulled Ling by her belt loops, hands finding Ling's waist, the fabric of her suit jacket, the warmth underneath. Ling made a sound against her mouth and pressed closer. One of her hair pins fell, hit the tile with a small metallic ping.
Orm's hand slid into Ling's hair and what was left of the bun came completely undone. Dark hair spilled over Ling's shoulders.
Ling broke the kiss to laugh, breathless. "That took me twenty minutes this morning."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." Ling kissed her again. Her hands slid under Orm's dress, palms hot against her thighs, moving higher until her fingers found the edge of Orm's underwear at her hips. Orm gasped and her elbow knocked something off the counter—soap dispenser, maybe, clattering into the sink.
Someone knocked on the door. "Everything okay in there?"
They froze. Ling's hands still on Orm's hips under her dress, warm and possessive. They locked eyes, Orm biting her lip to keep from laughing.
"Fine!" Ling called out, voice only slightly strained. "Just—dropped something!"
They listened to the footsteps retreat down the hallway, holding perfectly still until the sound faded completely. Then Ling's thumb traced a slow circle against Orm's hip and they both exhaled at once.
"We can't—" Orm started.
"No." But Ling didn't move her hands.
"Not here."
"Definitely not here."
Ling withdrew slowly, deliberately, her fingers dragging against skin as she pulled back. Orm made a sound—half gasp, half moan. They stared at each other for a long moment, the air thick with everything they weren't doing.
"My place?" Orm asked, barely recognizing her own voice.
Ling nodded, already reaching for the door.
They slipped out of the bathroom trying to appear casual, failing spectacularly. Neither could stop grinning.
"My car's in lot B," Orm said.
"That's so far away."
"It's a three-minute walk."
"Exactly."
The drive to Orm's apartment took twenty minutes that felt like hours. At the first red light, Ling's hand found Orm's thigh. At the second, it moved higher. At the third, Ling leaned over and kissed her neck and Orm's foot slipped off the brake.
"You're going to get us killed."
"Would be a terrible way to end the night." Ling's fingers squeezed. "How much farther?"
"Ten minutes."
"That's too long."
"You're the one who wanted my place."
"I'm regretting that decision."
Orm almost missed her turn. Had to brake hard and Ling laughed, hand sliding higher, and Orm thought she might actually crash the car from pure distraction.
At Orm's building they barely made it up the stairs. Ling pressed her against the wall outside her apartment and kissed her while Orm fumbled with her keys, dropped them twice, finally got the door open.
Inside, clothes came off in a trail from the entrance to the bedroom. Ling's suit jacket on the couch. Orm's dress on the floor. They were laughing at their own urgency, stumbling over discarded shoes, Ling walking backward toward what she hoped was the bedroom while Orm kissed her neck.
"Left," Orm murmured against her skin. "Door on the left."
They fell onto the bed together. Ling climbed on top of her, still in her bra and pants, Orm in even less. Ling's hair fell around both of them like a curtain.
Ling kissed her softly. Her hands moved across Orm's skin, shoulders, collarbones, the curve of her waist. Orm traced the line of Ling's spine, felt her arch into the touch.
Ling kissed her way down Orm's neck. Teeth caught Orm's collarbone, sharp enough to sting, then her tongue soothed the spot. She sucked hard enough to leave a mark. Orm gasped and cradled the back of Ling's head, holding her there.
Ling sucked harder. Orm's grip tightened. "Fuck."
Orm flipped them over, pinning Ling's wrists above her head. Ling looked up at her, flushed, pupils blown, and smiled. Challenging.
Orm let go and kissed her way down Ling's body instead. Learning what made her breath catch, what made her grip the sheets. At the waistband of Ling's pants, she paused. Met Ling's eyes.
Ling lifted her hips.
The zipper cut through their breathing. Orm hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled. The fabric slid down over Ling's hips, her thighs. Ling kicked them off the rest of the way.
Orm kissed her hip bone, then the inside of her thigh. Ling's fingers tangled in her hair.
Orm's hand slipped between Ling's legs and Ling pressed up into her touch.
Ling caught Orm's wrist. For a second she just held it there. Orm looked up at her. Ling's expression was clear, direct. She guided Orm's hand where she wanted it, adjusted the pressure with her own fingers. Moved her hips to set the pace.
Orm kissed her stomach, her ribs, anywhere she could reach while her hand kept working. Ling pulled her up higher and kissed her mouth, hard and desperate, her hips still moving.
Ling came with Orm's name on her lips, loud enough that someone in the next apartment probably heard. She didn't care who heard.
After, Ling pulled Orm back up to kiss her, slow and deep this time. Then flipped them over, settled between Orm's legs. Kissed down Orm's throat, between her breasts, across her stomach. That same confident smile before putting her mouth to work.
"Right there," Orm breathed. "Right there, don't—"
The words dissolved. Ling kept the rhythm. Orm fisted her hand in Ling's hair, the other gripping the sheets. She came with Ling's name breaking on her lips, body arching off the bed.
Ling kept going until Orm's hand turned from pressure to gentle plea.
Orm caught her breath and pulled Ling up, kissed her deep.
They lay tangled together, hearts still racing. Ling's head on Orm's chest, Orm's fingers tracing patterns on her scalp.
Ling traced a line from Orm's wrist to her elbow, then back down. Over and over, the same path. Soothing herself more than Orm.
"That was—"
"Yeah."
Ling went still. Her voice dropped. "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"I almost didn't take this wedding. I've been so tired lately of watching other people get their happy endings while I coordinate flowers and fix centerpieces and smile through everything falling apart." She paused. "But I'm glad I did."
"Me too."
Silence stretched between them. Even quieter now: "I'm terrified I'm going to fuck this up."
"What?"
"This. You. Whatever this is." Ling laughed, but it sounded strained. "I always do this. Get too intense too fast. Scare people off."
"You're not scaring me off."
"Not yet." Ling propped herself up to look at Orm. "Fair warning: I'm the person who starts planning the second date before the first one's over. I get anxious and controlling and I try too hard to make things work instead of just letting them happen."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I'll tell you if it's too much. You'll adjust. We'll figure it out."
Ling studied her face. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But I want to try anyway." Orm tucked hair behind Ling's ear. "What if we just see what happens? No promises about forever. Just see each other again and go from there."
"I can do that." Ling settled back against her chest. "Can I text you tomorrow?"
"I'd be mad if you didn't."
"Even if I text you from another wedding?"
"Especially if you text me from another wedding."
Ling laughed, the tension finally breaking. "You might regret saying that."
"I'll risk it."
They were quiet for a while. Ling's fingers continued tracing idle patterns on Orm's arm.
"This felt important," Ling said softly. "Tonight. You. I just wanted you to know that."
"I know." Orm kissed the top of her head. "It felt important to me too."
"Okay. Good." Ling yawned. "Sorry. Eight-hour wedding, best sex of my life, emotional confession—I'm running on fumes."
"Best sex of your life?"
"Shut up. You knew that."
Orm smiled. "Go to sleep."
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other. Orm wasn't a cuddler, not usually. But she didn't want to move. Didn't want to break whatever this was
Orm woke to sunlight and the sound of Ling's phone alarm. She watched through barely-open eyes as Ling scrambled to silence it, checked the time, and swore.
"What's wrong?"
"I have a wedding in four hours." Ling was already out of bed, looking around frantically for her clothes. "I need to get home, shower, get my equipment—"
"Where's my shirt?" Ling spun in circles. "And my bra?"
Ling hopping around looking for her bra made Orm smile. "Your shirt's by the door. Bra's on the lamp."
"Why is it on the lamp?" Ling grabbed both, put her shirt on inside out, swore and reversed it. "This is what I get for staying over. I'm going to show up to this wedding looking like I got hit by a truck."
"You look good."
"I look like I had sex all night."
"Exactly."
Ling laughed despite her panic. "Not helping." She was still buttoning her shirt wrong. "Okay. Okay. I really need to go but—" She stopped, looked at Orm still in bed, sheet wrapped around her. "I want to see you again. This wasn't just—you know."
"I know."
"Do you?" Ling stopped moving. "Because I need you to actually believe that."
"I believe you."
"Good. Okay." Ling looked around. "Do you have a pen? And paper?"
Orm pointed to the nightstand drawer. Ling yanked it open, found a pen, patted her jacket pockets, found a crumpled receipt from the vineyard. She scribbled while bouncing on her feet, still trying to fix her shirt with one hand.
She was drawing something at the bottom. Orm could see her tongue between her teeth, concentrating.
She put the receipt on the nightstand, stood there for a second looking at Orm. The sheet wrapped around her, hair messy, lips still swollen.
"What?"
"I'm trying to memorize this." Ling shook her head. "You look—" She stopped. "I really have to go."
"Then go."
"I hate this job right now." Ling leaned down and kissed her, slow, savoring, like she had all the time in the world. Pulled back. Grinned.
"You're going to be late."
"I know." But Ling kissed her again anyway. Shorter this time. "Text me. Please. Don't be one of those people who says they will and doesn't."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Ling grabbed her jacket and shoes, twisted her hair up with one hand while heading for the door. "I'm calling a car. Should be here in—" She checked her phone. "Two minutes. Shit."
She paused in the doorway. Looked back at Orm one more time, like she was afraid the moment might disappear.
"I had a really good time."
"Me too."
"I mean it. Last night felt—" She stopped. "It felt important."
"It was."
"Okay. Good." Still standing there. "I should go."
"You should go."
Ling didn't move for another few seconds. Just looked at Orm wrapped in that sheet, hair falling across her shoulders. Something soft and vulnerable crossed her face.
She turned and left.
Rapid footsteps on the stairs, uneven because she was still putting on her shoes. Her phone buzzed—the car arriving. A car door. The sound of it pulling away.
Orm lay back in bed, warm and happy and already replaying the night. The way Ling had grabbed her waist on the dance floor. Her hair coming loose in the bathroom. The confidence that turned into vulnerability after.
The way she'd looked back from the doorway, like she was afraid this was the last time.
Orm should get up. Shower. Start her day.
Instead she reached for the nightstand. Her phone charger sat there. A book she hadn't finished.
No receipt.
She sat up. Checked the floor. Nothing. Looked under the nightstand. Still nothing.
Must have fallen when Ling was rushing. Or gotten knocked off when she slammed the drawer. Or caught on her jacket.
She told herself she'd find it. It was here somewhere. She'd search properly later.
She fell back asleep thinking about Ling saying "I hate this job right now" while looking at her like she wanted to stay forever.
Monday morning Orm woke to her alarm and remembered: the number. She'd forgotten to look for it yesterday.
She checked the nightstand again. The floor around it. Under the bed. Nothing.
Work called. A client needed revisions on a logo. Orm spent three hours in her home office tweaking colors and pretending she wasn't thinking about a receipt with a phone number on it.
Tuesday the client needed more revisions. She worked through lunch, through dinner, fell asleep at her desk around midnight.
Wednesday she had a video call that ran long. A new project came in, rush job, good money. She took it.
Thursday evening she stood in her bedroom doorway. The nightstand was right there. Just move it. Look behind it. Simple.
She made coffee instead. Answered emails. Reorganized her entire closet.
Friday she told herself she'd look this weekend. Definitely this weekend.
Saturday her friend Lara called. "Want to get brunch?"
They met at their usual spot. Lara was halfway through telling a story about her nightmare coworker when she stopped mid-sentence.
"You're not listening."
"I am."
"You're not. You've checked your phone four times and you haven't touched your food." Lara leaned forward. "What's wrong?"
Orm set down her phone. "I met someone."
"Okay. And?"
"And I lost her number."
"Call her."
"I don't have it. That's the problem."
Lara blinked. "How did you lose her number?"
Orm explained. The wedding, the hookup, the morning emergency, the receipt that fell behind the furniture. The two weeks that had somehow passed.
"So go find it."
"I will. I've just been busy."
"Too busy to spend five minutes looking for a piece of paper?"
Orm didn't have a good answer for that.
"You're scared," Lara said.
"I'm not scared."
"You are. You're scared it won't be there. Or that it will be there and you'll have to actually call her and risk something."
Orm looked at her cold eggs. "Maybe."
"Go home. Look for it. Stop being a coward."
Sunday afternoon Orm stood in front of the nightstand. Adrenaline spiked through her.
Just move it.
She grabbed the nightstand and pulled.
There it was.
A crumpled receipt wedged between the wall and the baseboard, half-hidden by dust. She snatched it up.
A phone number in hurried handwriting. Below it: "Text me. I want to see you again. —L"
And at the bottom, a small doodle—a butterfly with slightly wonky wings.
She sat on the floor holding it. Such a small thing. Ling had been rushing, panicked about her wedding, trying to button her shirt one-handed, and she'd still taken the time to draw this. A callback to the butterflies at the wedding. The disaster that had brought them together.
For one moment, pure relief.
Then the shame crashed in. Two weeks. She'd taken two weeks to find this. Ling probably thought she'd been ghosted. Ling who'd been worried enough to say "don't be one of those people who says they will and doesn't."
She pulled out her phone and typed: "Hi, this is Orm from the wedding. I'm so sorry it took me two weeks to find your number, it fell behind my nightstand and I just found it tonight. Hope you're doing well. Want to grab coffee sometime?"
Her finger hovered over send. What if Ling thought she was making excuses? What if two weeks was too long? What if Ling had moved on?
She hit send anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, her phone buzzed.
"Hi. This is Sam, Ling's friend. I'm so sorry to tell you this, but Ling passed away in a car accident about ten days ago. I've been going through her phone to let people know who might not have heard. I'm really sorry."
She read the message. Read it again.
A joke. Had to be a joke.
She typed: "This isn't funny."
Sent it. Her fingers kept moving.
"If you didn't want to see me again just say so."
Send.
"Faking your death? That's sick."
The response came immediately: "I know this must be shocking. I promise this is real. Here's a link to her obituary."
A link appeared. She didn't click it.
No. She wasn't falling for this.
She'd heard of people doing this—faking deaths to escape relationships. It was extreme, but people were crazy. And Ling had said it herself: "I always do this. Get too intense too fast. Scare people off."
Maybe this was how she scared people off. By going nuclear. By making sure Orm would never try to contact her again.
She typed: "I don't know what kind of sick game this is but it's not funny."
Another message came: "I understand this is hard to believe. But please, look at the obituary. This is real. Ling died on June 8th."
She finally clicked the link.
A memorial page loaded. Ling's photo, the same face from the wedding, smiling at a camera in that black suit. Below it: dates. Born April 15, 1994. Died June 8, 2024.
Below the dates, comments from dozens of people. "Rest in peace." "Gone too soon." "You were supposed to plan my wedding next year." "Can't believe you're really gone."
She scrolled through them. Names she didn't recognize. Photos of Ling with friends, with family, at events she'd coordinated.
It looked real. It looked very real.
But the guest list looked perfect. Every comment hit exactly the right emotional note. The photos were professionally composed. Even the timeline worked too neatly—died three days after the wedding, Sam finding the phone exactly when Orm finally texted.
Someone anxious enough, scared enough, might orchestrate all of this. Might get friends to post comments. Might create an entire performance just to make sure Orm never contacted her again.
She typed: "Creating a fake obituary is fucked up. Don't contact me again."
She blocked the number.
She sat on her bedroom floor holding the receipt with the butterfly on it, shaking.
Someone had actually done this. Had created an entire fake memorial to avoid a second date.
The cruelty of it was breathtaking.
The story became her armor. At parties, when someone asked if she was dating anyone, she'd tell it: "Someone faked their death to avoid me." It always got the reaction she wanted—shock, laughter, proof that other people were cruel and she was justified in staying closed off.
She went on dates. Nothing lasted more than a few weeks. By the fifth time she found a reason to end things early, Lara stopped asking. Her friends stopped setting her up.
She told herself she was fine with this. Better to be alone than to be hurt.
She kept the receipt with the butterfly in her desk drawer. Sometimes she'd take it out and look at it. Try to reconcile the woman who'd drawn that wonky butterfly with the woman who'd faked her own death.
She couldn't do it.
Which meant either Ling was a sociopath or the obituary was real.
She never let herself consider which option was worse.
One year and three days after that night at the wedding, Orm was at her desk reviewing mockups for a rebrand when the left side of her screen rippled.
That was the only word for it. The pixels rippled like water.
Blinking didn't help. Now everything on the left was sliding rightward.
When she stood, her left leg buckled. She grabbed for the desk but her left hand slid off, useless, foreign.
"Orm?" Her coworker Jeremy's voice sounded normal but his face looked wrong. "Are you okay?"
She opened her mouth. "Ahm fah."
Wrong sounds. Wrong mouth.
The floor. Didn't remember falling. Jeremy's face above her, mouth moving, but she couldn't understand the words.
The right side of her body was working. The left side belonged to someone else.
Cold tile against her cheek.
Sirens. Distant, close, everywhere.
Hands lifting her. Lights too bright.
She wanted to ask about her deadline. The client presentation. Her files.
Nobody answered.
Hospital ceiling tiles passing overhead. She counted them, lost track at seven. Or was it three? Numbers didn't work anymore.
Someone asking her questions. She couldn't form answers.
Cold rushing through her veins. Someone shouting codes she didn't understand. Faces she didn't recognize.
Words that made no sense: stroke, hemorrhage, too young for this, doing everything we can.
She wanted to tell them she was only thirty-two. She had plans next week. Brunch with Lara on Sunday.
Her mother's face suddenly clear in her mind. Three years gone but present in that moment.
Ling's face. In that doorway. Looking back one more time.
She reached for them. Her arm didn't move.
The lights got brighter. Impossibly bright.
Darker.
Nothing.
She opened her eyes.
White room. Walls too clean. Fluorescent light that didn't flicker. A woman at a desk, looking at a computer. Typing without any urgency.
She sat up. Her body worked. Both sides. She touched her left arm, it responded. Her face, her mouth worked. Everything worked.
"Where am I?"
The woman glanced up, gave her that professional sympathy smile. "Welcome. Let's start with some basic information."
"I was at work. There was—" The floor. Jeremy's face. Sirens. Her arm not working. "I think I had a stroke."
"I know, honey." Gentle, professional. Like someone who delivered bad news for a living. "This is always the hardest part. Why don't you have a seat and we'll go through everything together."
The room was too quiet. No hospital sounds. No beeping monitors or distant voices or wheels squeaking on linoleum. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the woman's computer.
"Am I dead?"
The woman tilted her head slightly. Didn't confirm. Didn't deny. Just pulled up something on her computer screen. "Let's start with your full name."
The too-clean room. The lack of windows. The single door behind her that probably led somewhere she didn't want to go.
This couldn't be real. A dream. A hallucination. Her brain misfiring from the stroke.
She almost laughed. Looked at the too-clean walls, the woman's patient expression, the computer that probably wasn't even real.
"My full name is what the fuck is happening."
The woman's smile didn't waver. "I understand this is disorienting. Everyone feels this way at first. But I promise, once we get through intake, everything will make more sense."
"Intake for what?"
"For your arrival." The woman gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Please, sit down. This will be easier if you sit."
She didn't move. She was looking around the room for cameras. For the crew that must be watching this. For some sign that this was the prank she knew it was.
"Where am I?"
The woman sighed, the first crack in her professional demeanor. "You're at intake processing. You died—a hemorrhagic stroke at your workplace. I'm very sorry. Now, I need your full legal name to complete your paperwork."
She wanted to laugh again. This was good. This was really good. The woman was committed to the bit.
But she wasn't falling for it.
"No. Nice try, but no."
The woman blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not dead. This is fake. All of it." She crossed her arms. "So you can drop the act. Where are the cameras? Is this being recorded? Because this is the most elaborate prank I've ever seen and I'm honestly impressed."
"This isn't a prank."
"What is it then?"
"You died. And now you're here."
"Where's here?"
"The afterlife."
She laughed out loud. "Okay. Sure. The afterlife. The afterlife has fluorescent lighting and looks like a DMV. Makes perfect sense."
"I know it's hard to accept—"
"It's not hard to accept, it's impossible to accept, because it's bullshit." She leaned against the wall. "Look, you either tell me what's really going on or I'm walking out that door."
"You can't—"
"Watch me."
She walked to the door. Pulled it open.
On the other side was a hallway. Long. White. Empty. Doors lining both sides. Fluorescent lights stretching into the distance.
It looked exactly like a hallway should look.
Which meant this was a real building somewhere.
She turned back to the woman. "Where am I really?"
The woman looked genuinely confused. "You're at intake processing."
"What city?"
"This isn't a city. This is—"
"What state?"
"There are no states here."
"Right. Because I'm dead." She made air quotes. "Got it. Very convincing. A-plus performance."
The woman stood up. "I need you to sit down so we can complete your paperwork."
"And I need you to tell me what the fuck is actually going on."
They watched each other.
"You died at your workplace from a hemorrhagic stroke. You're now at intake processing for the afterlife. I need you to complete your paperwork so you can be assigned housing and begin orientation."
She said it all so calmly. So matter-of-factly.
Which meant either she was the best actress she'd ever seen, or—
No. She wasn't going there.
This was fake. Had to be fake.
"I'm leaving."
"You can't leave."
"Watch me."
She walked into the hallway. Picked a direction. Started walking.
The woman called after her. "You'll just end up back here! Everyone does!"
She kept walking.
Door after door. All closed. All identical. The hallway stretched on and on, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
She walked for what felt like five minutes. Ten minutes. The hallway never ended. Never changed. Just more doors. More lights. More white walls.
Finally she stopped. Turned around.
The intake room was right there. Twenty feet away.
But she'd walked for ten minutes. Past at least fifty doors. She'd counted them. She should be at the end of the building by now.
She walked back the other direction. Walked for another ten minutes. Turned around.
The intake room was still there. Twenty feet away.
She ran. Sprinted down the hallway as fast as she could. Ran until her lungs burned. Stopped.
The intake room was twenty feet away.
She stood there, breathing hard, studying the door.
This wasn't possible.
Unless—
No.
She walked back into the intake room. The woman was still at her desk, typing.
"Ready to complete your paperwork?"
Her legs gave out. She sat in the chair, not because she chose to but because her body couldn't stay standing anymore.
"Orm Kornnaphat," she heard herself say. "My name is Orm Kornnaphat."
The woman typed it into her computer. "Date of birth?"
And just like that, she started filling out paperwork for being dead.