Chapter 2
Three years later.
The weight of the past never truly left her. It settled in her bones, in the quiet moments between surgeries, in the rare instances when she allowed herself to think beyond the present. But Lingling had learned how to live with it, how to keep moving forward.
Hong Kong had welcomed her back without hesitation. The hospital she once called home had opened its doors to her as if she had never left, and she had thrown herself into work with a desperation that bordered on self-punishment.
For three years, she made herself indispensable.
Twelve-hour shifts stretched into sixteen. Conferences, research, emergency procedures—she took on every opportunity, every challenge, until exhaustion became her only constant companion.
If she was operating, she wasn’t thinking. If she was working, she wasn’t feeling.
And that was the goal, wasn’t it?
Because when the world quieted, when she had no scalpel in her hand and no patient to save, all she had left were memories.
Memories of her.
Memories of the way Orm used to look at her, with trust so pure it made Lingling feel like something good. Memories of laughter, of warmth, of the love she had so carelessly destroyed.
Lingling had spent three years trying to forget.
The air in the hotel lobby was filled with a low hum of conversation—renowned doctors and researchers gathered in groups, exchanging ideas, shaking hands, discussing their latest breakthroughs. It was the kind of environment Lingling had always thrived in. The kind of place where she belonged.
And yet, she had never felt so out of place in her entire life.
Because Orm was here.
Three years. Three long years had passed since the night she had shattered everything beyond repair. And yet, standing just a few meters away, surrounded by colleagues, Orm looked untouched by the weight of their past.
She was… stunning.
More than stunning.
She carried herself with an effortless confidence, the kind that only came with time and experience. Her golden hair was longer now, styled with precision, framing the sharp angles of her face. Her expression was unreadable, poised as she listened to whoever was speaking beside her, nodding at the right moments, but never quite engaging.
But what struck Lingling the most wasn’t how beautiful she had become—it was how different she seemed.
Older. Wiser. Stronger.
Lingling had spent three years convincing herself that Orm would always remain the same in her memories—the bright-eyed, passionate young woman who had trusted too easily, loved too deeply. But this version of Orm? She wasn’t that girl anymore.
And Lingling had no one to blame but herself.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she forced herself to look away, her nails pressing into her palms to keep herself grounded. She had been dreading this moment ever since she suspected Orm might be attending.
When she first saw the list of participating hospitals weeks ago, her breath had caught at the sight of one name—the hospital in Bangkok where Orm worked. It had sent a sharp jolt through her chest, a mixture of apprehension and something she refused to name.
But she hadn’t been sure.
Hospitals often sent different representatives to these events. Just because Orm’s hospital was listed didn’t mean that Orm would be here. Lingling had told herself that over and over again, clinging to the uncertainty, trying to convince herself that there was no reason to feel this way.
And yet, she had checked.
More than once, she had scanned the preliminary speakers, the scheduled panelists, the networking lists—searching for Orm’s name, searching for a reason to prepare herself. But she never found it.
So, she had let herself believe—hope, even—that Orm wouldn’t come.
But now that it was happening—now that Orm was here, so painfully close yet untouchable—Lingling felt like the most pathetic person in the world.
She wanted to move. To approach. To say something.
But she didn’t.
Because the truth was, she didn’t deserve to.
Orm had made that clear without saying a single word.
Every time they had to be in the same space—during panel transitions, in the bustling lobby, even in the large conference halls—Orm stayed on the opposite side of the room. It wasn’t a coincidence. She never even looked in Lingling’s direction.
Not once.
Lingling swallowed hard, her throat burning with regret, with longing, with something she didn’t even have the right to feel.
She had always imagined that if they ever saw each other again, she would have the chance to at least say she was sorry. Not that an apology would change anything. But still—she had wanted to try.
Now she realized how naive that hope had been.
Orm didn’t need her apology.
Orm didn’t need her.
And Lingling would have to live with that.
And yet, despite everything, she still watched her.
She couldn’t help it.
Even when Orm avoided her gaze, even when she stood at the farthest end of the room, Lingling’s eyes still sought her out, memorizing the little details that had changed, the subtle ways time had shaped her.
She had become someone Lingling no longer recognized.
But the worst part was that, deep down, she recognized Lingling perfectly.
That’s why she stayed away.
And Lingling deserved it.
She deserved all of it.
She exhaled shakily, gripping the coffee cup in her hand with unnecessary force as she turned away, willing herself to focus on anything—anything—other than the woman she had once loved.
But the past had a way of sinking its claws into her.
And just like that, memories came flooding back, dragging her to the moment it all fell apart.
To the night when Orm had stood in front of her, tears running down her face, holding up her phone with trembling fingers and whispering words that had shattered Lingling’s entire world.
“This happened.”
The way she looked at Lingling, like she didn’t recognize her anymore.
Lingling had known—God, she had known—that this day would come. That no matter how much she tried to compartmentalize, no matter how tightly she held onto the fraying threads of her double life, the truth would always find a way to unravel everything.
She had just been too much of a coward to stop before it was too late.
She had lost the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Her own selfishness, her own recklessness, had led her here. There were no justifications, no reasonable explanations. She had done this. She had broken Orm’s heart.
She was a liar. A coward. A traitor.
And there was no one to blame but herself.
–•–
Lingling took a slow sip of her wine, but it did nothing to dull the ache creeping into her chest. She was in her apartment in Hong Kong, gazing out at the city lights, their soft glow only highlighting the emptiness she felt inside. She had spent three years drowning herself in work, convincing herself that time would soften the edges of her mistakes. It hadn’t. The past clung to her like a shadow, always creeping in during the quiet moments—like now, when the city stretched endlessly before her, yet all she could see was the ghost of a life she had destroyed.
She exhaled, pressing her forehead briefly against the cool glass. Leaving Bangkok had been the only choice left. Those last few days had been unbearable—Orm’s absence louder than words, her silence cutting deeper than any insult ever could. Lingling had known then that there was nothing left for her to salvage, no second chance to beg for. And yet, walking away had still felt like tearing herself apart. She had lost Orm. She had lost everything. But that wasn’t the only goodbye she had to face back then, was it?
The hospital, once the place where Lingling had felt the most in control, had become unbearable.
Every day was a slow, excruciating punishment.
She saw Orm—felt Orm—before she ever heard her name spoken in the halls. It was in the way the younger woman moved, or rather, in the way she barely moved at all. Where there had once been easy confidence in her steps, there was now a heavy, dragging exhaustion. Where there had once been warmth in her interactions, there was now only cold professionalism.
And it wasn’t just her demeanor.
Orm was losing weight. The sharp lines of her cheekbones had grown more pronounced, her usually expressive eyes dulled with fatigue, her scrubs hanging a little looser around her frame. She barely spoke to anyone unless necessary, and even then, it was with a quiet detachment that hadn’t been there before.
It killed Lingling to see it.
She wanted to tell herself that Orm would have been okay if given enough time. That maybe, just maybe, she would have healed even with Lingling’s presence in the hospital. But the truth was impossible to ignore—Orm wasn’t just grieving a love lost. She was suffocating under the weight of Lingling’s continued existence in her space.
Lingling saw it in the way Orm tensed whenever they accidentally crossed paths.
She saw it in the way Orm’s hands trembled ever so slightly when they were assigned to the same case.
She saw it in the way Orm never, not once, looked her in the eyes.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of watching Orm deteriorate, of watching her push herself beyond exhaustion just to avoid thinking, of watching her become a ghost of the woman she once was.
Lingling couldn’t do it anymore.
She had already destroyed Orm’s heart. She refused to be the reason she lost herself completely.
And so, she made her decision.
There was no fanfare. No goodbyes.
No explanations.
One moment, she was in Bangkok, a world-renowned trauma surgeon, a woman who had spent years building a life in this hospital.
The next, she was gone.
By the time anyone realized what had happened, Lingling Kwong was already on a plane bound for Hong Kong.
She hadn’t even allowed herself to look back.
Thailand wasn’t her home anymore.
It hadn’t been since the moment Orm had told her to leave.
Hong Kong felt smaller than she remembered.
Or maybe it was just her.
Lingling stepped into her apartment, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. The familiar silence settled around her like a weighted blanket—oppressive, suffocating. She exhaled sharply and let her bag drop to the floor, her body finally catching up to the exhaustion she had been ignoring for weeks.
She didn’t turn on the lights.
Didn’t check her phone.
Didn’t tell anyone she had arrived.
Not her family.
Not her colleagues.
And certainly not Bam.
She wanted solitude. Needed it. Needed to sit with her own misery without the weight of expectation pressing down on her.
Lingling sank onto the couch, leaning her head back against the cushions as she closed her eyes. But the moment she allowed herself stillness, the thoughts came flooding in.
Bam.
She would have to talk to her.
The thought alone made her stomach twist.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care about Bam. She had. In her own way.
But love? Love had been something else entirely.
Their story had started years ago, when Bam had been just another patient on her operating table. A car accident. Multiple fractures. Internal bleeding. Lingling had done what she always did—she saved her.
Somehow, in the days that followed, between check-ups and hushed conversations in the sterile hospital room, something had sparked. Bam had been charming, quick-witted, the kind of person who could turn the most mundane moments into something memorable.
Lingling had fallen.
Hard.
For a while, it had been good. Easy, even. They had been happy—or at least, they had pretended to be. But then came the cracks.
Lingling felt the weight of the past two years pressing down on her like an iron chain, suffocating, unrelenting.
She remembered the moment the offer had come. One of the biggest hospitals in Bangkok, a position she had worked her entire career for—chief of trauma surgery. It was everything she had wanted. Everything she had sacrificed for. And yet, when she had sat across from Bam in their favorite little café, nervously stirring her tea, rehearsing how to tell her that she was moving to Thailand… she hadn’t expected Bam’s reaction.
Tears.
Not just sadness, but panic.
Bam had clutched her hands, shaking her head, repeating over and over again, “We’ll make it work, right? We always do.” And Lingling, ever the problem solver, ever the one who hated to be the cause of someone else’s pain, had nodded.
Of course.
They would make it work.
But they didn’t.
Not really.
Long-distance had only magnified the cracks that had already been there. The calls that had once been filled with laughter and easy conversation turned into strained silences, passive-aggressive comments, arguments that never truly ended. Bam hated when Lingling was too busy to talk. She hated the way Lingling’s life in Bangkok seemed to move forward without her.
“You don’t even miss me, do you?”
Lingling had lost count of how many times she had heard that.
And she had missed Bam, in the way someone misses a memory, in the way someone feels nostalgic for a time when things were simpler. But she had also felt relief. Relief at the space. At the quiet.
And she had hated herself for that.
She had known it was over.
Had felt it in her bones.
But before she could say it—before she could gather the courage to finally set them both free—Bam had done the one thing Lingling never expected.
She had proposed.
It had been sudden.
A rushed, emotional plea disguised as a grand gesture, a last-ditch effort to fix what had already unraveled. Lingling had been so shocked, so caught off guard, that the words had slipped past her lips before she could stop them.
“Yes.”
And just like that, she had sealed her fate.
Because how could she take it back? How could she look at Bam, who had been crying, trembling, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping her afloat, and say, I don’t love you the way I used to?
She had told herself she would find a way to end things eventually. That she just needed time.
But Bam was persuasive.
Bam always had a way of making Lingling feel like she owed her.
For staying.
For trying.
For not giving up on them.
And every time Lingling had tried to pull away, Bam had found a way to pull her back in.
Bam’s apartment felt exactly the same.
The warm scent of vanilla candles lingered in the air, the same ones she always burned in the evenings. The soft hum of music played from the speakers, a comforting rhythm that had once felt like home. And there, standing in the doorway of the living room, was Bam—eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise before breaking into a smile.
“Baby,” she breathed, stepping closer. “You’re home.”
Lingling felt something twist inside her.
Home.
The word felt wrong.
Bam reached for her, but Lingling didn’t move, her body stiff as stone. The moment stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The smile on Bam’s face faltered as she took in Lingling’s expression.
The sadness.
The exhaustion.
The grief.
“Ling?” Bam’s voice wavered slightly.
Lingling swallowed the lump in her throat. “We need to talk.”
Bam’s brows furrowed, but she nodded, stepping aside to let Lingling in. The apartment was warm, inviting, but Lingling felt cold as she moved inside, standing in the middle of the space as if she didn’t belong.
Because she didn’t.
Bam turned to face her, tilting her head, searching her face. “Okay… what’s wrong?”
Lingling opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The words sat in her chest, sharp and jagged, cutting her from the inside.
Bam must have sensed her hesitation because she stepped forward, hands reaching for Lingling’s arms in a familiar touch meant to comfort.
The moment Bam touched her, Lingling tensed.
It was barely noticeable. A subtle stiffening of her shoulders, a sharp inhale. But Bam noticed.
Her hands faltered. “Ling…”
Lingling forced herself to meet her gaze. “I want to break up.”
Silence.
For a moment, Bam just stared at her, as if she hadn’t understood. Then, slowly, she shook her head.
“I thought…” Her voice cracked slightly before she steadied it. “I thought we were done with this.”
Lingling felt her stomach drop.
This.
As if it were just another rough patch. Another hurdle to overcome.
But it wasn’t.
It never had been.
Lingling let out a slow breath, pressing her fingers to her temple, feeling the weight of it all crashing over her. She closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was months back—standing in this same apartment, saying these same words.
The first time she had tried to leave.
It had been before Orm. Before she had let herself slip into something that felt like warmth, like something real. She had known back then, deep down, that she and Bam were only holding onto something long since broken.
She had tried to tell her.
But Bam had cried.
Had looked at her with wide, desperate eyes, telling her that she couldn’t lose her, that she didn’t know how to be without her.
And Lingling had stayed.
Not because she had changed her mind.
Not because she had wanted to.
But because she had felt guilty.
Because she had been a coward.
For the first time in years, Lingling didn’t hesitate.
She had spent too long being careful, tiptoeing around Bam’s emotions, swallowing down her own discomfort, convincing herself that she could endure it a little longer. But this time, there was no room for endurance. She had shattered the heart of the one person who had truly seen her, who had loved her not out of habit, not out of dependency, but out of choice.
She couldn’t keep pretending.
“I cheated on you.”
The words came out quietly, but they felt deafening.
Silence.
Bam’s brows knit together, confusion clouding her face. As if she hadn’t truly processed what Lingling had just said. As if the possibility of Lingling being capable of such a thing was so absurd that it couldn’t be real.
Lingling swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Bam’s gaze.
And then, realization dawned.
The confusion twisted into disbelief, then into something sharper, something wounded.
Bam let out a breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“What?”
Lingling clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Her body felt unbearably tense, as if her bones themselves were rejecting this confrontation.
But she wasn’t going to back down.
She nodded, forcing herself to repeat it. “I cheated on you.”
Bam’s mouth parted, but no words came out.
Then, suddenly, she exhaled sharply and shook her head, as if trying to shake away the very idea.
“Why?” Her voice was unsteady. “Why would you do that to me?”
Lingling inhaled deeply, steadying herself before she gave the only answer she could.
“Because I fell in love with someone else.”
The moment she said it, she saw something break in Bam’s eyes.
Not just sadness. Not just anger. But something deeper. Something almost like… fear.
Bam’s voice wavered when she spoke again. “Who?”
Lingling hesitated. Not because she wanted to hide it, but because she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. The truth wouldn’t change the outcome.
She didn’t want to weaponize Orm’s name.
So she simply shook her head. “That doesn’t matter.”
Bam let out a bitter laugh, stepping back as if Lingling’s very presence repulsed her. “Doesn’t matter?” Her tone sharpened. “Are you serious? You— you come back here, out of nowhere, and tell me you cheated on me, and I don’t even get to know with who?”
Lingling remained still. “Knowing won’t change anything.”
“It changes everything!” Bam snapped, her voice rising. “It proves how little I actually meant to you.”
Lingling flinched but didn’t look away. “That’s not true.”
Bam scoffed, shaking her head. “So, what? You came all the way back to Hong Kong just to end things? That’s it?”
Lingling exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly. “I’m not working in Thailand anymore.”
Bam blinked.
For a moment, all the anger seemed to drain out of her, replaced by something unreadable. “…What?”
Lingling nodded, her voice quieter now. “I quit.”
Bam studied her, eyes searching, trying to piece together the implications of that statement.
Lingling saw the shift immediately.
The subtle flicker of hope. The unspoken “does that mean you’re staying?” hanging between them.
And Lingling realized, with a sinking feeling, that Bam still didn’t understand.
Bam’s expression shifted as realization dawned.
“Are you still with her?”
Lingling’s breath caught in her throat.
She didn’t answer.
And that silence was all Bam needed.
Bam’s brows furrowed, her eyes scanning Lingling’s face, searching for something—maybe confirmation, maybe denial, maybe just any sign that she had misunderstood. But there was nothing for her to find. Just a hollow resignation in Lingling’s features.
Then, ever so slightly, Bam’s lips parted. “…She left you too.”
Lingling swallowed the lump in her throat.
She didn’t nod. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t need to.
Bam exhaled slowly, rubbing her hands over her face before letting them fall limp at her sides. “Ling, this… this is just another obstacle.”
Lingling blinked. “…What?”
Bam took a shaky step closer. “This doesn’t have to be the end.” Her voice softened, filled with the same desperate tenderness Lingling had heard too many times before. “You’re here now. We can fix this. We’ve always gotten through things together, haven’t we?”
Lingling felt something cold seep into her veins.
Her first instinct was disbelief—because how could Bam possibly still think there was anything left to salvage? But then, just as quickly, that disbelief twisted into something else. Something raw.
Lingling clenched her jaw.
She should have ended this years ago.
She should have never said yes to that proposal.
She had known, deep down, that she wasn’t in love with Bam anymore. But she had stayed. Because it was easier. Because it was what was expected. Because every time she tried to leave, Bam’s voice would shake, her hands would tremble, and she would say Please, don’t do this to us in that small, broken voice that made Lingling feel like a monster.
And Lingling had caved. Again and again.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she didn’t know how not to.
And now, standing here, with Bam looking at her with those same pleading eyes, that same fragile hope—Lingling felt a suffocating, unbearable urge to rip off her own skin.
She had to force herself to breathe evenly. To keep her voice steady.
“No, Bam.”
Bam flinched, as if those two words physically struck her. “Ling—”
“This isn’t something we can fix. This isn’t something we should fix.”
Bam shook her head quickly, panic flashing across her face. “You don’t mean that.”
Lingling exhaled through her nose. “I do.”
Bam reached for her hands, gripping them tightly. “You’re just upset right now. You’re hurting. You think this is what you want, but you—”
Lingling pulled her hands away.
Bam froze.
And for the first time since she walked through that door, Lingling let every ounce of guilt and exhaustion and finality settle into her expression.
“I should have left a long time ago.”
Bam’s breath hitched.
Lingling swallowed the lump in her throat and took a small step back. “I don’t love you the way you want me to, Bam.”
The words left her mouth like a knife. And she knew, as soon as they landed, that they had finally cut deep enough.
Bam’s shoulders tensed, her face crumpling with something almost like betrayal. But she didn’t argue.
She just stood there.
Silent.
And Lingling knew—this time, she had finally been heard.
Bam’s voice came out small, barely above a whisper.
“You don’t love me anymore?”
Lingling felt something inside her twist, not with regret, but with the weight of everything unspoken between them. The truth was, she should have said it a long time ago. She should have been honest when the love started fading, when their relationship became more of a routine than a partnership, when every “I love you” felt like an obligation rather than a declaration.
She should have left before she hurt Bam. Before she hurt Orm. Before she ruined everything.
But she didn’t.
And now, here they were.
Lingling inhaled deeply, meeting Bam’s eyes with as much steadiness as she could manage. “No.”
The word was absolute. Final.
Bam’s lower lip trembled, and she looked away, blinking rapidly as if she could force herself to accept it.
Lingling sighed, rubbing her fingers against her temples before letting her arms fall back to her sides. “I’m sorry, Bam. For everything. For not ending things sooner. For not being brave enough to tell you the truth when I should have.” She paused. “For cheating.”
Bam let out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “At least you’re admitting it.”
Lingling swallowed hard. “We should have ended a long time ago.”
Bam didn’t say anything to that. Maybe because deep down, she knew it too.
A thick silence stretched between them, suffocating and heavy.
Lingling exhaled slowly, forcing her voice to remain gentle. “I hope you find someone who makes you happy, Bam. Someone who loves you the way you deserve.”
Bam’s eyes flashed with something unreadable—anger, sadness, maybe even relief. But she didn’t stop Lingling as she turned toward the door.
She didn’t reach for her hand.
She didn’t beg her to stay.
And as Lingling walked out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind her, she realized she had finally done the right thing.
Lingling let out a slow breath, swirling the last of her wine in the glass as if it could somehow settle the weight in her chest. Leaving Bangkok had been a mercy—a coward’s mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. She hadn’t been able to bear it any longer, watching Orm fade into something smaller, quieter, colder. So she had walked out of that hospital for the last time, boarded a plane back to Hong Kong, and ended things with Bam in the most detached way possible. Then she buried herself in work, in surgeries, in research, in anything that would keep her too exhausted to think. Three years passed like that. And yet, standing in that conference hall, one look at Orm unraveled it all.
Orm was breathtaking.
Not just beautiful in the way Lingling always remembered, but radiant, commanding. She had always carried herself with a natural grace, but now there was something else—something stronger, more refined. Her features were sharper, her presence more assured. She no longer moved with the eagerness of someone trying to prove herself. She didn’t have to. She was already there.
And Lingling… Lingling had never felt smaller.
She had spent three years trying to erase the ache, convincing herself that time would dull the edges of her guilt. But, standing in the same space as Orm again, she knew the truth—time had only sharpened it.
Because Orm was still the most beautiful thing she had ever laid eyes on. And Lingling had been the fool who let her go.
–•–
It was surreal.
Lingling had spent years preparing herself for the possibility of running into Orm again—at conferences, in passing, at the little coffee shop in Hong Kong that she always thought Orm would love. But she had never imagined that it would happen like this.
She had come to Bangkok at the invitation of her mentor, a renowned trauma surgeon and the head of one of the most prestigious private hospitals in the country. He had called her a week ago, asking if she would assist in an incredibly complex pediatric case—one that required the highest level of expertise. Lingling had accepted without hesitation. She owed so much to him, to his guidance. And beyond that, surgery had always been her escape, the one thing that made her feel like she was still worth something.
She hadn’t set foot in Bangkok in five years. The last time she had been in Thailand, she had walked away from everything. From the city, from her life there—but most painfully, from the woman she had loved more than anything.
And now, as she stood in the hospital room the morning after the procedure—discussing the patient’s condition with her mentor and the child’s mother—she felt the air shift.
And then she heard her voice.
“Good morning.”
Lingling turned.
Orm stood at the door, a tablet in hand, her white coat crisp, her expression unreadable.
Five years. Five years since they had last spoken.
Two years since Lingling had last seen her.
And yet, in that moment, it felt as though no time had passed at all—because the same pull was there, the same instinct to reach for her, to close the unbearable distance between them.
For the briefest of moments, something flickered in Orm’s dark eyes—surprise, maybe, or something else that Lingling couldn’t quite name. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by pure professionalism.
Lingling’s throat tightened.
She looked so different.
Her presence, her posture—it was composed, assured, effortless. She carried herself with the kind of quiet confidence that came from years of hard work and dedication. And yet, despite the transformation, despite the way time had sharpened her features, made her even more striking—Lingling knew, deep down, that this was still Orm.
Just not hers anymore.
Orm greeted the mother warmly, then turned to Lingling’s mentor, exchanging pleasantries as if this were just another routine patient visit. Then, finally, her gaze landed on Lingling.
“Dr. Kwong.”
Lingling’s heart lurched.
She wanted to say something. Wanted to respond—to call her Orm, like she used to. But her voice failed her.
So she just nodded.
Her mentor, oblivious to the tension, glanced between them with mild curiosity. “You two know each other?”
Orm’s answer came without hesitation.
“We worked together a few years ago.”
Her tone was polite. Distant. As if those years hadn’t meant anything at all.
Lingling felt something crack deep inside her chest.
The moment they stepped out of the patient’s room, Lingling knew she couldn’t let this slip away.
Her mind raced as she followed Orm’s movements, watching the way she carried herself, the way she exuded an aura of unwavering control. But Lingling had always been good at reading people—especially Orm. And no matter how composed she seemed, Lingling caught the almost imperceptible flicker in her eyes when their gazes met again in the corridor.
“Orm—” Lingling started, her voice just above a whisper, careful not to disrupt the quiet of the hospital wing.
Orm, who had been walking ahead, didn’t stop. “If this is about the patient, I’ll speak directly with Dr. Thanawat.” Her tone was calm, professional, entirely indifferent.
Lingling exhaled sharply. She had expected resistance—Orm wouldn’t make this easy. “I know,” she said, stepping forward. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
Orm finally stopped. She turned, her dark eyes sharp, unreadable. “Then what?”
Lingling hesitated, then forced herself to push forward. “I wanted to talk about us.”
A beat of silence. Then, Orm let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“There is no ‘us,’ Dr. Kwong.” Her voice was measured, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. “There hasn’t been for five years. There never really was.”
The words hit Lingling harder than she expected.
She had known this would be difficult. She had known Orm would be cold, distant. But hearing her say it—hearing her dismiss everything they had, everything they were—it was like a knife twisting deep in her chest.
And yet, Lingling wasn’t ready to walk away. Not yet.
Orm turned on her heel, making to leave.
But before she could take another step, Lingling reached out, wrapping her fingers gently but firmly around Orm’s wrist.
Orm stilled.
Lingling’s heart pounded as she felt the warmth of her skin beneath her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words barely audible.
Orm turned sharply, her movements controlled but tense, her dark eyes piercing straight into Lingling’s. Her expression was unreadable—cold, distant—but there was something in her voice, a slight tremor, that Lingling caught the moment she spoke.
“You feel sorry?” Orm asked, her voice low, measured, yet laced with something dangerously close to pain.
Lingling held her gaze, her fingers still wrapped lightly around Orm’s wrist, hesitant but unwilling to let go just yet.
“For what, exactly?” Orm continued, her tone sharper now, her eyes narrowing. “For lying? Or for getting caught?”
Lingling’s breath hitched.
She had known this moment would come eventually—that if she ever saw Orm again, she would have to face the full weight of what she had done. But nothing could have prepared her for the way Orm was looking at her now. For the way her presence alone—after all these years—still had the power to make Lingling feel like her chest was caving in.
She swallowed, tightening her grip just slightly, afraid that if she let go, Orm would disappear again.
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Lingling said at last, her voice quieter now, heavy with regret. “It was the worst mistake of my life, and I regret it every single day.”
Orm didn’t react—didn’t move, didn’t blink. But Lingling could see it. The way her throat bobbed just slightly, the way her fingers curled faintly into her palm as if grounding herself. Lingling had always been good at reading people, and she had spent so much time studying Orm—loving Orm—there was no way she could miss it now.
“I should have been honest,” Lingling continued, her voice cracking ever so slightly. “I should have told you everything from the start. I could try to explain, I could tell you how everything happened, why I—” She stopped, shaking her head. “But none of that matters, does it? Because the truth is, I betrayed you. And I understand why you hate me for it.”
Orm inhaled sharply through her nose, her jaw clenched so tightly that Lingling wondered if she was keeping herself from saying something—something cruel, something that would hurt just as much as Lingling had hurt her.
“I just…” Lingling exhaled, eyes searching Orm’s, desperate for something—anything. “I just needed you to know that I understand. That you have every right to never forgive me, to never want to hear another word from me again. But, Orm—” her voice dropped to almost a whisper now, raw and desperate “—I’m sorry. More than I could ever put into words.”
Orm didn’t move.
Lingling didn’t either.
For a long moment, they just stood there, staring at each other in the quiet corridor, as if the weight of everything—of the past, of the pain, of every unsaid word between them—was suffocating the air around them.
The walls that Orm had so carefully built were cracking, Lingling could see that much. But whether that would work in her favor or completely destroy any chance she had left, she didn’t know.
Orm’s nostrils flared, her jaw clenched tight—but it was her eyes that shattered something inside Lingling. There was anger, yes, but beneath it, barely held back, was something raw. Something wounded. A sheen of unshed tears clung to Orm’s dark lashes, and Lingling felt a painful lump rise in her own throat.
“Let go,” Orm said, voice low, restrained.
Lingling didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, firmer this time. “I mean it, Orm. I—” she swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “I know that doesn’t change anything. I know I can’t take back what I did, but I—”
Orm let out a sharp breath, yanking her wrist free. “You don’t get to do this.”
Lingling’s chest tightened. “I—”
“You don’t get to come back after five years and act like an apology will fix it,” Orm cut in, voice steady but seething. “You don’t get to stand here and look at me like that, like you actually regret it.”
“I do,” Lingling said, firmer this time, stepping closer. “I regret everything.”
Orm’s throat bobbed, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.
For a split second, Lingling thought she might actually listen. Might let her explain.
But then Orm blinked, her expression closing off once more.
“Go to hell, Dr. Kwong.”
She turned to leave, but Lingling’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“I’ve been there, Orm,” she said, and the weight of it made her voice shake. “I’ve been there every single day since I lost you.”