Chapter 1
It hadn’t happened all at once. There was no defining moment, no grand realization, no single event that had shifted the ground beneath Orm’s feet. It was slower than that, quieter—like the tide pulling away from the shore, so gradual that she hadn’t noticed how far she’d waded in until she was already too deep to turn back.
She could see it now, looking back. The unraveling. The moments that had seemed so inconsequential at the time, but in hindsight, had been the beginning of something neither of them had acknowledged, not at first. It had started with glances—those brief flickers of eye contact across the hospital hallways, the ones that lingered just a second too long. Then came the conversations, always a little longer than necessary, stretching past the boundaries of professionalism into something more. Lingling had been a presence in Orm’s world long before Orm had meant for her to be—an unshakable figure in the halls of the hospital, the kind of doctor people spoke about with reverence. At thirty, Lingling Kwong had built a name for herself in trauma surgery, known for her precision in the OR, for her composure under pressure, for the way she could make split-second decisions in chaos and still come out on top. Orm, at twenty-three, was just beginning. She had fought to get here, had poured everything she had into medical school, into her residency, into proving that she deserved her place among people who had already made their mark. And Lingling—Lingling was everything Orm wasn’t yet. Collected. Respected. Untouchable.
At least, that was what Orm had thought.
Then the walls began to crack. It was subtle at first—an offhanded comment that carried more weight than Lingling had probably intended, a dry joke that revealed more than it concealed, a quiet admission in the middle of a long shift that made Orm realize she wasn’t the only one who felt the exhaustion in her bones. And then there were the invitations. First, they were practical—grabbing coffee after a shift, sitting together in the cafeteria when neither of them had time to leave the hospital. But eventually, something shifted. Coffee became an unspoken ritual. Nights at the hospital turned into late conversations in the on-call room, voices low, shoulders nearly touching, the air between them charged with something Orm had refused to name.
And maybe that was why, when Lingling asked if she wanted to grab dinner one evening—outside of work, away from the fluorescent hospital lights—Orm hadn’t hesitated.
They ended up in a quiet restaurant, tucked into a corner where the world felt small, intimate. The conversation flowed easier than Orm expected. Lingling was different outside the hospital—not softer, necessarily, but less guarded. She let herself laugh more, let the edges of her reserved demeanor blur just enough for Orm to see past them.
By the time they pulled up in front of Orm’s apartment, the air inside the car felt charged, thick with something unspoken. The evening had stretched longer than either of them had planned—Lingling had insisted on driving her home, citing the late hour and Orm’s exhaustion, and Orm hadn’t found it in herself to refuse.
Now, parked beneath the soft glow of a streetlamp, Orm hesitated. She should unbuckle her seatbelt, thank Lingling for the ride, and get out. But she didn’t. Because she could feel it—the weight of Lingling’s gaze, the quiet pull between them that had been growing stronger with every lingering glance, every casual touch that lasted a second too long.
Lingling moved first.
Effortless, as always, she stepped out of the car and walked around to Orm’s side, opening the door for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her presence was steady, unrushed, the faintest hint of cologne lingering in the cool night air.
Orm swallowed, her heart hammering. She turned to face Lingling, intending to say something—anything—but then Lingling reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Orm’s wrist, and the world around them seemed to quiet.
Lingling was looking at her like she had already made a decision.
And then, with a deliberate slowness, she leaned in.
The kiss was unhurried, gentle but certain, as if Lingling wanted Orm to feel every second of it, to understand without words that this was real. That it had been real for a while. Her lips were warm, soft, moving with just enough pressure to leave Orm dizzy. Lingling’s hand rested lightly at her waist, grounding her, while Orm—stunned, breathless—found herself clutching onto Lingling’s sleeve without even realizing it.
It ended too soon.
Lingling pulled back just enough for Orm to see the ghost of a smile on her lips, the way her eyes lingered as if memorizing the moment.
“See you tomorrow,” she murmured, her voice lower than usual, like she knew exactly what she’d just done to Orm’s heart.
And then she was gone, slipping back into her car, leaving Orm standing there—frozen, breathless, and already knowing she was in too deep.
–•–
The thing about falling in love with Lingling Kwong was that it felt inevitable. Orm had never been the kind of person to second-guess her emotions—when she cared, she cared fully, and with Ling, it had been effortless from the start.
Six months passed in a blur of late nights tangled in sheets, whispered conversations in the dim glow of bedside lamps, and stolen moments between shifts that made the exhaustion worth it. Their connection was intense, electric, something Orm had never quite experienced before. Lingling wasn’t just a presence in her life—she was a force, pulling Orm into a world where every glance felt weighted, every touch left an imprint.
At some point, Lingling stopped going back to her own place. It wasn’t intentional, not at first, but one night turned into two, then a week, then suddenly Orm couldn’t remember the last time Ling had actually slept anywhere but in her arms. She left behind a toothbrush, then a change of clothes, then her favorite bottle of perfume on Orm’s dresser. It was a quiet kind of domesticity, the kind that Orm had never known she wanted so badly until she had it.
She loved waking up to Lingling’s warmth beside her, loved the way Ling would stretch in the morning, half-asleep, and pull Orm closer instead of getting up. Loved the way their bodies fit together without thinking, how they knew each other’s rhythms, how easy it was to melt into one another like they had always belonged.
It was all-consuming, the kind of love that left no room for doubt.
But then, the first crack appeared.
It happened on a slow Sunday afternoon, one of those rare days off where they had nowhere to be but with each other. Orm had taken a picture of Lingling—nothing staged, just a candid moment of her sitting on the couch, her dark eyes flicking toward the camera with that knowing smirk that always made Orm’s heart stutter.
Without thinking, Orm grinned and asked, “What’s your username on Instagram? I’ll tag you.”
Lingling’s response was immediate.
“Is your profile private?”
Orm blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh… no?”
Lingling exhaled softly, then shook her head. “I don’t have Instagram.”
It was a simple answer, a perfectly reasonable one, and yet it didn’t sit right. Orm wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way Lingling said it—too practiced, too final. Maybe it was the way she immediately changed the subject, pulling Orm into a kiss as if that would make her forget the hesitation, the shift in the air.
–•–
At first, it didn’t seem like a red flag.
They were in bed when Orm brought it up, limbs tangled together, the sheets a mess from another night spent losing themselves in each other. Orm was tracing lazy patterns along Lingling’s bare shoulder, her head resting against the steady rise and fall of her chest. It felt natural, the way she whispered, “Do you ever think about telling people?”
She didn’t even mean it as a demand. It wasn’t an accusation or a plea—just an idle thought, something that had been lingering at the edge of her mind for weeks now.
Lingling tensed. It was so subtle that Orm might have missed it if she weren’t pressed so close.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Lingling murmured after a moment, her fingers stilling against Orm’s back.
Orm lifted her head slightly, frowning. “Why not?”
Lingling sighed, her free hand coming up to rub slow circles against Orm’s spine, as if to soften the blow. “You’re still new, Orm. People talk, especially in this field. I don’t want them saying things about you, questioning why you’re involved with me when I’m in a position above you. It wouldn’t look good.”
Orm blinked. That… made sense. She’d seen it happen before—whispers in the break room, snide remarks exchanged behind closed doors about colleagues who got too close. The hospital wasn’t immune to office politics, and Lingling had worked hard to get where she was.
Still, something about it gnawed at her.
“But it’s not like that,” Orm said, propping herself up on one elbow. “People can talk all they want, but we know the truth. And you’ve never cared about what people think before.”
Lingling sighed again, this time deeper, as if Orm was being naïve. “It’s different when it’s you,” she said, her gaze heavy with something Orm couldn’t quite place. “I don’t want anyone looking at you differently. You have a future here. I won’t let anyone ruin that for you.”
And just like that, Orm’s unease melted into something warm.
Because wasn’t this just another sign of how much Lingling cared? She wasn’t hiding her out of shame—she was protecting her. The thought made Orm’s heart swell, her initial doubts folding neatly into the logic Lingling had laid out for her.
So she let it go. She let herself believe that secrecy could be a form of love, that keeping something hidden didn’t mean it was any less real.
–•–
Orm had never considered herself a needy person.
She was independent, self-sufficient. She had spent years learning how to stand on her own two feet, never one to rely on anyone else to feel whole. And yet, when Lingling was gone, she felt the absence like an ache she couldn’t quite place.
It started subtly, a quiet shift in the rhythm they had built together. Every month, like clockwork, Lingling would pack a bag, kiss Orm goodbye, and board a flight to Hong Kong. She always had a reason—some urgent surgery, a case that required her expertise, a professional obligation that couldn’t wait. It made sense. Lingling was brilliant, respected, in high demand.
And Orm believed her.
At least, she wanted to.
The first time, she hadn’t thought much of it. The second time, she had felt a small pang of disappointment but brushed it off. By the third and fourth time, the pattern was impossible to ignore.
Lingling always came back exactly the same, slipping seamlessly into Orm’s apartment as if she had never left, pressing soft kisses against her jaw, whispering how much she had missed her. And Orm? Orm let herself be wrapped up in it every time.
But love didn’t stop logic from creeping in.
She started to notice little things—how Lingling never talked about these trips in detail, how there were no pictures, no messages about what she was up to, no proof that she had even been in an operating room at all. Orm worked in a hospital. She knew how surgical schedules worked. And yet, Lingling never mentioned complications, never talked about difficult procedures, never seemed exhausted the way she should have been after such high-stakes work.
One night, as they lay in bed, Orm found herself tracing the lines of Lingling’s collarbone absentmindedly, her thoughts swirling.
“Do you ever get tired?” she asked softly.
Lingling hummed, shifting closer. “Tired of what?”
“Of all the travel. The surgeries. Always being pulled in different directions.”
Lingling was silent for a beat, then exhaled a quiet laugh. “It’s part of the job, love.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Orm wanted to push, wanted to ask why she never seemed to need rest the way every other surgeon she knew did. But then Lingling tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and deep, and Orm let herself drown in it.
She told herself she was just overthinking. That there was nothing strange about a brilliant surgeon being constantly in demand.
–•–
It was supposed to be an ordinary night.
They had just come back from another grueling shift, the kind that left Orm’s body aching but her heart light because Lingling was there. They had fallen into a routine that felt like second nature—Lingling would shower first while Orm sprawled out on the couch, half-dozing, waiting for her turn. And tonight was no different.
Lingling had tossed her phone onto the cushion beside Orm before disappearing into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the apartment. Orm stretched her legs, yawning, letting exhaustion sink into her muscles.
Then the screen lit up.
It was a reflex more than anything. A flicker of light in the dim room, the way Lingling’s phone vibrated against the fabric. Orm glanced over without thinking.
Nothing unusual. Just a notification.
Except—
Her brow furrowed. Someone had tagged Lingling in a post.
Bam_Saralee98
The username meant nothing to her, but something about it made her stomach twist. She didn’t know why. Maybe because Lingling had never mentioned anyone by that name, or maybe because, in all these months, Orm had never seen Lingling tagged in anything before. Not when she didn’t even have social media, supposedly.
The logical thing to do would be to ignore it. It was just a tag. Just a harmless notification.
But her fingers moved before she could stop them.
She picked up her own phone, heart suddenly hammering against her ribs.
Her mind raced through a hundred possibilities as she typed the username into the search bar.
Who was Bam? A friend from Hong Kong? A colleague? Someone from Lingling’s past?
Orm’s breath caught as the profile loaded.
The first thing she noticed was the bio: written in Cantonese, followed by a single heart emoji.
The second was the profile picture—a woman, dark-haired, smiling softly at the camera.
And the third—
The post. The one where Bam_Saralee98 had tagged Lingling.
Orm’s stomach dropped.
Because there, clear as day, was a picture of Lingling. Her Lingling. Sitting in what looked like a restaurant, a candle flickering between her and the person taking the photo.
The caption was simple. Casual. Something in Cantonese, followed by a heart.
And suddenly, all the tiny cracks Orm had ignored, all the small hesitations and half-truths, came crashing down around her.
Orm liked to think she was composed, that she handled things with logic first, that she didn’t let feelings cloud her judgment. But as she scrolled through Bam’s profile, her hands trembling, her breath coming in shallow bursts, she realized she had never been more wrong.
The pictures were endless.
Post after post, stretching back years. Lingling’s face in different places, different seasons, but always there. Smiling at the camera, caught mid-laugh, pressed close to Bam’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Orm’s vision blurred as she tapped on one at random.
A beach photo—Lingling in sunglasses, the wind lifting her dark hair, Bam’s arm draped casually over her shoulders. The caption, when Orm pressed the translation button, was simple. My love.
Her stomach twisted.
Another picture—Lingling and Bam in matching outfits at a New Year’s celebration, Lingling holding a red envelope, her head tilted toward Bam’s like they were sharing a private joke. Another year by your side.
Orm could barely breathe.
Her thumb hovered over another post, dated two years ago. She clicked on it.
The image loaded. A hand. A delicate, familiar hand. Lingling’s hand.
And on her ring finger—
Orm choked on a breath.
The caption hit her like a freight train. She said yes.
Her chest tightened so painfully that she thought for a moment she might be dying.
Her ears were ringing. The room spun. Her fingers felt disconnected from her body as she backed out of Bam’s profile, her mind screaming at her that this wasn’t real, that there had to be another explanation.
With shaking hands, she searched for Lingling’s profile.
Found it.
Tapped on it.
And froze.
Private.
Three posts. Five followers. Following seven.
No full name, no identifiable pictures. Just an empty shell of an account, its only mark of existence a small, delicate icon of flowers and the name “LK.”
Orm stared at it, her pulse roaring in her ears.
She had given Lingling everything.
Her time, her trust, her heart. She had built a world around her, let herself believe in something real, something lasting.
And yet, here she was, staring at undeniable proof that she had been nothing more than a secret. A lie. A stolen moment in someone else’s life.
Tears dripped onto her phone screen, blurring the mockery of Lingling’s nonexistent social media presence, of the ring in that photo, of the love that had never truly belonged to her.
Orm didn’t know how she was still standing.
Her legs felt numb, her chest hollow, like something had been scooped out of her and left to rot. But she moved anyway, driven by something deep and primal, something raw and unbearable.
She walked down the hall, phone still clutched in her trembling hand.
The bedroom door was ajar. Light spilled out softly, casting warm shadows on the floor. Inside, Lingling stood by the dresser, towel-drying her long, dark hair. She had changed into gray sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, her usual at-home comfort.
She didn’t look like someone hiding a double life.
Didn’t look like someone who had just shattered Orm’s world into pieces.
“The bathroom’s free,” Lingling said, voice casual, not even glancing up.
And for a moment—just a breath—Orm saw what could have been. The night unfolding like any other. Maybe they would have curled up on the couch, maybe Lingling would have pulled Orm into her arms, kissed her temple, whispered something low and sweet against her skin.
But then Lingling lifted her gaze.
And saw.
The redness in Orm’s eyes. The tear tracks down her cheeks.
Her entire expression shifted, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Love?” Her voice softened immediately, stepping closer. “What happened?”
Orm’s grip on the phone tightened.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned the screen toward Lingling.
“This happened.”
It wasn’t a scream.
It wasn’t a plea.
It was quiet. Cold. The kind of quiet that comes right before a storm, when the air is too still, too heavy.
Lingling’s eyes flicked down.
And for the first time since Orm had met her, she saw it—
A crack in Lingling’s perfect composure.
It was brief, just a fraction of a second, but Orm caught it. The way her breath hitched. The way her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. The way her lips parted just enough—like she was about to speak, but no words came.
Orm had always been good with words. She liked them, trusted them. They could be sharp or soft, careful or reckless, but they always meant something. Words built people up, tore them down, connected them in ways nothing else could.
But now—now, standing in the middle of her own bedroom, staring at the woman she had once thought she would spend forever with—Orm found that words didn’t mean a fucking thing.
Because what could she even say?
That she felt like an idiot? That she wanted to crawl out of her own skin just thinking about how many times she had looked at Lingling like she was everything? That she had brought this woman into her life, into her heart, into her family?
“Say something,” Orm whispered, voice shaking, barely recognizing it as her own. “Say something, Ling.”
Lingling inhaled sharply, setting the towel aside, her shoulders straightening. When she finally met Orm’s eyes again, her face was carefully blank.
“You went through my things?”
A laugh—sharp, bitter, broken—ripped from Orm’s throat before she could stop it. “Are you fucking serious?” She wiped at her face, breath coming fast. “That’s your response?”
Lingling exhaled, her jaw tightening. “Orm, I—”
“You what?” Orm cut in, voice rising, raw with disbelief. “You forgot to tell me you’re engaged? You forgot to mention your fiancée? Or is she your wife at this point?”
Lingling flinched. It was small, barely noticeable, but Orm saw it.
That was another answer.
Orm shook her head, stepping back, like she could somehow physically distance herself from the weight pressing down on her chest. “Six months, Ling. Six months. And the entire time, I was—” Her voice caught. “I was nothing, wasn’t I?”
Lingling stepped forward instinctively, like she wanted to close the distance between them. “You weren’t nothing.”
The words were immediate, desperate.
Orm let out another breathless, humorless laugh. “Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that. Don’t try to make this less than what it is.” She wiped her eyes, her voice shaking. “I loved you.” The admission felt like it was being torn out of her. “I loved you so much, Ling.”
Lingling’s face twisted with something—pain, regret, something that meant nothing now.
Orm let out a sharp breath, her nails digging into her palms. “I introduced you to my mom.”
The words came out quiet. Shaky.
Lingling closed her eyes for a brief second, but Orm wasn’t done.
“I told her about you. About us. Do you even get that? She was so fucking happy for me, you know that? She said she’d never seen me so in love.” A bitter, broken laugh left her throat. “God, I was so in love with you.”
Lingling inhaled, her expression unreadable, but Orm saw it—the weight in her eyes.
She knew.
She had always known this day would come.
The realization only made Orm’s rage burn hotter.
“All this time,” she went on, voice trembling with fury now, “I thought I was the lucky one. That out of everyone, you chose me. I thought you were just… private, that you didn’t like people knowing too much. But it wasn’t that, was it? You weren’t protecting me, you were protecting yourself.”
Lingling flinched. “Orm—”
“No.” Orm’s voice cracked. “You don’t get to talk yet. You don’t get to fucking talk.”
Lingling pressed her lips together, chest rising and falling in a steady breath, like she was bracing herself.
And it made Orm sick.
Because of course Lingling was ready for this moment.
Of course she had played it all out in her head, rehearsed her lines, decided how much of the truth she’d be willing to admit.
She had gotten to prepare.
Orm, on the other hand, had been blindsided.
“Six months, Ling.” Orm’s voice broke around the words. “Six months of your lies. Six months of you coming home to me, touching me, sleeping next to me, while she was there, waiting for you. And I—” She let out a shaky breath, wiping at her face. “I feel so fucking stupid.”
Lingling stepped closer, cautious, like Orm was something fragile now. “I’m sorry,” she said, quiet, like an apology could fix any of this. “I—” Her throat bobbed. “I can explain.”
Orm barked out a laugh. “Oh, please. I’d love to hear it.” She gestured around them. “Explain it to me, Ling. Explain how you made me fall in love with you while you had someone else waiting for you back in Hong Kong. Explain why you let me believe we had a future when you knew this day would come. Explain why—” Her voice wavered. “Why I wasn’t enough.”
Lingling inhaled sharply, like the words had punched the air out of her lungs. “You are enough,” she said, voice low, urgent.
Orm let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah? Then why wasn’t I enough for you to be honest with me?”
Lingling’s throat bobbed. “Orm, it wasn’t like that.”
“Then how was it?” Orm shot back. “Enlighten me.”
Lingling exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair. “Bam and I… we were having problems.” Her voice was tight, like saying it out loud made it more real. “When I met you, things between us weren’t good. I thought—we both thought—it was over.”
Orm’s jaw clenched. “But it wasn’t.”
Lingling hesitated. “No.”
Orm huffed out a breath, crossing her arms. “So what? You decided to keep both of us? See which one worked out better?”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” Lingling insisted. “I—” She let out a slow breath, eyes flickering with something raw, something desperate. “I fell in love with you.”
The words slammed into Orm’s chest like a freight train.
She wanted to believe them. God, she wanted to believe them.
But she couldn’t.
Because what kind of love came with this level of deceit?
“If you loved me,” Orm said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “you wouldn’t have lied to me every single day for six fucking months.”
Lingling shook her head. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Orm’s eyes burned. “You knew exactly how. You just didn’t want to.”
Silence.
Lingling pressed her lips together, her hands clenching at her sides. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
Orm let out a shaky breath, blinking hard against the tears burning in her eyes.
That was it.
That was the moment.
The moment the love, the admiration, the devotion—everything she had felt for Lingling—started slipping through her fingers like sand.
The moment she realized Lingling had never really been hers at all.
Lingling took a step forward, but Orm held up a hand, the space between them now a chasm that couldn’t be crossed.
“Get your things,” Orm said, her voice low, trembling, but firm. “And leave.”
Lingling’s brows furrowed, her lips parting like she hadn’t actually expected Orm to say it, like it had never once occurred to her that this moment would come. “Orm, don’t do this. We need to talk.”
Orm let out a harsh laugh, rubbing a hand over her face before dropping it limply to her side. “Talk? Now you want to talk? Now that I finally know the truth?” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she pushed forward, too full of anger, betrayal, devastation to care. “I don’t need to hear any more of your excuses, Ling. I don’t need you to stand there and tell me you didn’t mean for this to happen, or that you love me, or that you’re sorry, because none of it fucking matters.”
Lingling shook her head, stepping closer again, desperate now. “It does matter. It matters because I love you. Because I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” Orm barked out another laugh, this one uglier than the last. “A mistake is forgetting someone’s birthday. A mistake is leaving the stove on. A mistake is not realizing you left your phone unlocked with notifications that expose your double life, Ling.” She was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “What you did wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. A choice you made over and over again.”
Lingling’s eyes were red, her expression breaking, but Orm wouldn’t let herself care.
Not anymore.
“You don’t understand,” Lingling whispered.
“No,” Orm said, her voice quieter now, but just as sharp. “I do. I understand perfectly. I was a distraction for you. A secret you could keep in your little world here while your real life was waiting for you in Hong Kong.” She let out a shaky breath, her throat burning. “And I let you do it. I let myself believe every word you said, because I thought—” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going. “I thought what we had was real.”
“It was,” Lingling choked out, stepping forward like she was ready to drop to her knees, to beg. “It is. Orm, please—”
“Don’t.” Orm lifted her chin, trying to steel herself against the way her heart clenched, against the way every part of her still wanted to believe in this woman, in them. “Don’t stand there and beg for something you already destroyed.”
Lingling closed her eyes for a moment, like she was in physical pain, but when she opened them, her expression was raw. Open. Devastated. “Give me a chance to fix this.”
Orm felt something snap inside her.
Fix this?
There was nothing left to fix.
She inhaled sharply, blinking against the sting in her eyes, and turned toward the bedroom door. “Pack your things, Lingling. And get out.”
Lingling stared at her, her dark eyes glossy with unshed tears—until finally, one fell. Then another. And another. She didn’t wipe them away, didn’t try to hide them, just stood there, looking at Orm like she had never expected to lose her. Like the reality of it was only just setting in now.
Orm held her gaze, but God, it hurt. It hurt in a way she hadn’t known was possible. Like something was clawing at her chest, twisting deep in her ribs, making it impossible to breathe. The apartment around them felt too small, too suffocating, as if the walls themselves had become witnesses to this moment, to this fracture in her heart that she knew would never fully heal.
She could see it, feel it—Lingling’s hesitation, the weight of everything left unsaid hanging between them. Orm had spent months memorizing this woman, every flicker of emotion that crossed her face, every guarded expression, every rare, precious smile. And now, in this moment, she recognized the look in Lingling’s eyes for exactly what it was.
Regret.
But regret wasn’t enough.
Not when Orm had given Ling everything—her trust, her love, her whole fucking heart—only to realize she had never truly known her at all.
Her throat felt raw, like she had been screaming, even though she hadn’t really raised her voice once. And still, Lingling hadn’t moved. She was just standing there, like if she stayed long enough, Orm might take it back. Might let her stay. Might say, I forgive you.
But she wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
Orm swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was nothing but a whisper, broken and barely there.
“Please,” she said, her breath shuddering. “Go.”
And for the first time since the nightmare began, Lingling listened.
Lingling finally moved. Slowly, like every step away from Orm was an unbearable weight. She turned, making her way to the closet where some of her clothes were still neatly folded, hanging in the space they had shared for months. The sight of her pulling them out—grabbing her sweaters, her shirts, that navy blue hoodie Orm had stolen more times than she could count—felt like a knife to the gut.
Orm sat on the edge of the bed, her head bowed, hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring her to reality. She didn’t watch as Lingling packed, didn’t trust herself to look up, to see the life they had built unraveling piece by piece.
But she could hear her.
The soft rustling of fabric. The slow zip of a bag. The way Lingling’s breath kept hitching, quiet little sniffles that told Orm she was crying, too.
Orm squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want to reach out, to tell Lingling to stop crying, to tell her that maybe—maybe—they could fix this. But she couldn’t. Because there was no fixing this.
Lingling changed into a fresh set of clothes—probably something more comfortable for the long drive back to wherever she was going. It was another sound Orm focused on instead of looking—fabric sliding over skin, the soft thud of a drawer closing.
Then silence.
Orm opened her eyes just as Lingling stepped in front of her, bag slung over her shoulder.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected—maybe another plea, another apology, another desperate attempt to make her stay. But Lingling just stood there, looking down at Orm with an expression so heavy, so full of something like regret, that it made her chest ache all over again.
Lingling didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for forgiveness this time.
She just looked at her.
And Orm, despite everything, looked back.
Then, with a slow, almost imperceptible nod—one last acknowledgment of everything they had been, everything they could never be—Lingling turned and walked away.
Orm stayed frozen in place, barely breathing, listening to the sound of Lingling’s footsteps fading down the hall, the quiet creak of the front door opening.
Then—
Click.
The door shut.
Orm stared at the empty space where Lingling had stood, her body trembling, her nails digging into her palms. The weight of it all, the finality, settled over her like a crushing force.
And then, finally—finally—she broke.
A sob tore out of her throat, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, as if that could stop the wreckage inside her from spilling out. But it was useless. The tears came, hot and relentless, shaking her entire body as she curled forward, as she pressed her hand harder against her lips to muffle the sound.
She had never felt so utterly, devastatingly alone.