A Love Once Perfect

A dim orange hue stretched across the evening sky, soaking the horizon in a soft, fading glow. From the window of their modern high-rise condo, Orm could see the city slipping into dusk—streetlights flickering on, skyscrapers gleaming like tall candles against the darkening backdrop. It was beautiful in a way, how the city came alive at night. Once upon a time, she and Lingling would've strolled through those illuminated streets together, fingers intertwined, talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, however, she watched the scene alone.

The clock on the stainless-steel oven read 9:32 p.m., and she exhaled a breath she felt she'd been holding since sundown. She's late, Orm thought, a pang of disappointment tugging at her chest. Lingling had promised—well, not promised exactly, but Orm had asked if she could be home by eight so they could share a meal. It wasn't an unreasonable request. But as the minutes slid into hours, reality set in like an old familiar ache.

On the dining table sat two place settings: polished utensils, neatly folded napkins, and the once-steaming plates of food Orm had prepared. She lifted the foil from one dish—a seared salmon fillet in lemon-dill sauce, Lingling's undisputed favorite. A wave of crisp citrus mingled with cold air, a reminder that dinner had long since grown tepid. With a sigh, Orm replaced the foil, her fingers tapping the edge of the dish absently. She was trying to decide whether to just put everything away or keep waiting. Every night felt like this now: a silent debate between hope and resignation.

At last, she slid both plates into the refrigerator, the clang of glass on metal unnervingly loud in the hushed apartment. Its open-concept design made every noise echo—one of the condo's selling points when they bought it was the airy feel. Now it felt like a void, empty of the laughter that once reverberated off those pristine walls.

Orm headed toward the living room, flicking on a floor lamp for a softer glow. The overheads felt too harsh, too clinical, reminding her of the sterile environment that seemed to define Lingling's life these days. Work, work, and more work. Maybe she's stuck in traffic, Orm reasoned, though she knew it was more likely Lingling was tethered to her office. Her wife had once been driven but balanced, calm yet attentive. But in recent years, the line between determined professional and distant spouse had blurred until Orm could barely see her on the other side.

She slumped onto the plush gray sofa—an expensive piece they'd chosen together—and picked up her phone. The lock screen displayed a single, unremarkable notification: a reminder for an early morning design meeting. There was nothing from Lingling. Her previous messages—"Dinner at 8? Let me know if that works!" and "Thinking of you, can't wait to see you tonight."—remained unanswered.

Part of her wanted to send another text, but she resisted. She'd done that dance too many times, only to be met with a curt "Sorry, busy." or silence. It stung to recall how they used to talk throughout the day—silly emojis, random memes, even stolen pictures of each other at unflattering angles just to laugh. Now, every message felt too loaded, each one a fragile attempt at connection that often went nowhere.

Staring at the blank television screen, Orm realized the condo felt too still. She got up, wandered aimlessly, and found herself in the hallway that led to their shared bedroom. The walls were adorned with framed photographs—snapshots of travels, birthdays, and anniversaries. There was one from their first trip to Europe: Orm wore a chic trench coat, a bright scarf, and a wide grin; Lingling had a discreet smile that reached her eyes as she pressed against Orm's side, contentment radiating through the picture.

Orm paused before that photo, remembering how Lingling's typically stoic demeanor melted whenever they shared an adventure. She used to comment, "You're my sunshine," any time Orm made her laugh. And Orm, in turn, used to call Lingling her "moonlight"—steady, guiding, quietly glowing. The memory drew a bittersweet smile.

A gentle creak alerted her that the front door was opening. She returned to the living room to see Lingling slip inside, briefcase in hand, posture rigid from a long day. Her blazer was impeccably pressed, her pencil skirt unwrinkled, but faint dark circles lingered under her eyes. Lingling paused, as though sensing Orm's gaze, and looked up with a neutral, almost detached expression.

"You're home," Orm said softly, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. She didn't want to sound desperate.

Lingling nodded, setting her briefcase down by the entryway. "Yeah. Sorry I'm late. Had a last-minute meeting."

Orm's pulse quickened at the monotony in her tone. There was a time when Lingling would've bounded in with an exasperated story about incompetent coworkers or a funny anecdote from her day. Now, it was just flat, tired statements of fact.

"I made salmon," Orm offered. "Your favorite."

Lingling glanced toward the empty dining table, where only placeholders of their meal remained—a pair of wine glasses and half-melted candles. "I'm not really hungry anymore," she admitted. "I, uh, grabbed something earlier."

Orm nodded, forcing a small smile. "It's okay. I wasn't sure you'd be hungry. Long day, huh?" She wished she could summon her old playful banter, but the words felt stuck.

Lingling shrugged off her blazer, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. "Yeah... a contract negotiation went longer than I expected. I lost track of time." She paused, meeting Orm's eyes briefly. "I'm sorry."

It was a simple apology, but it felt more like a rote politeness than heartfelt remorse. Orm tried to reassure her anyway. "Don't worry about it. Work happens."

She wanted to say more—I miss you, or Can we at least talk?—but held her tongue. Lingling's expression was distant, eyes already drifting toward the hallway as if the bedroom or her laptop were calling her name. Orm remembered the days she yearned for: Lingling would drop everything to greet her with a kiss. That warmth was gone, replaced by a polite sort of emptiness.

"I'll just get changed," Lingling murmured, sidestepping Orm on her way to the bedroom.

Orm watched her go, feeling that familiar knot of hurt tighten in her stomach. She considered following Lingling, starting a conversation about their day—anything to form a bridge—but something in Lingling's posture warned her it would end in half-answers and exasperated sighs. Orm opted for a gentler approach, letting her wife decompress in peace.

Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water, the hum of the refrigerator mocking the otherwise quiet space. She tried to swallow her frustration along with the water, but the ache in her chest remained. It was the same ache she felt every time Lingling came home late, every time their conversation fizzled out, every time Orm reached out and found no one there.

Flashback

A different kitchen, smaller and cluttered with textbooks, sticky notes, and takeout boxes—their old off-campus apartment during college. Orm was humming some 80s pop song as she attempted to chop vegetables for dinner.

"We could just order pizza," Lingling said from the couch, flipping through a thick stack of notes for her economics midterm.

"Nope," Orm replied, brandishing the knife like a sword. "I'm determined to make something healthy. We can't live off greasy pizza forever, especially if we want to stay awake for those all-nighters."

Lingling rolled her eyes playfully. "Fine, but you owe me if you burn the place down. We can't fail out just because you decided you're Chef Extraordinaire tonight."

Orm feigned offense. "Oh, ye of little faith. You'll thank me later, once you taste my sautéed masterpiece."

Moments later, Orm accidentally sliced her finger. It wasn't deep, but she yelped. Instantly, Lingling sprang up, exam notes forgotten, and rushed to Orm's side.

"Let me see," Lingling demanded, her voice laden with worry. She turned on the faucet, guiding Orm's hand under the water. "Does it hurt?"

"A bit," Orm admitted, feeling the sting. But her eyes were on Lingling—on the crease in her brow, the tenderness in her touch. She was always so serious, but it was in these moments that Lingling's stoic façade cracked, revealing a warm heart beneath.

Lingling bandaged the cut carefully, her hands trembling slightly. Then she pulled Orm into a tight hug, pressing her face into Orm's neck. "You scared me," she murmured.

Orm laughed softly. "It's just a tiny cut. I'll survive."

Lingling didn't let go. "Still..."

The hug stretched into a tender moment of reassurance. Orm could feel Lingling's heartbeat, could sense the unspoken words: I care about you more than I can say.

End of flashback

Orm blinked away the memory, the sting of nostalgic loss creeping in. She glanced down at her uninjured hands now; there were no remnants of that old wound, but the scar in her heart felt fresh every time she remembered how fiercely Lingling once cared.

A soft sound behind her drew her attention. Lingling stood in the kitchen doorway, now dressed in casual clothes—simple sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Her hair, still neatly pinned for work, looked out of place with the outfit.

"Orm?" she said quietly.

Orm turned, forcing a small, hopeful smile. "Yeah?"

Lingling shifted on her feet. "I'm sorry about tonight. I know you wanted to have dinner together."

A flicker of warmth lit Orm's eyes. "It's okay," she replied automatically, though it wasn't okay, not really. But in that moment, she'd take any shred of connection Lingling offered.

Lingling's gaze dropped to the floor. "I have some work to finish, but maybe we can spend time this weekend? I can see if I can clear out an afternoon."

An afternoon—a small portion of her time. It felt like a consolation prize, yet Orm nodded, swallowing the hurt she felt. "Sure. That'd be nice."

Lingling gave a curt nod and turned to leave. "Good night," she said over her shoulder.

Orm stood in the kitchen, mouth open as if to say something else, but the words wouldn't come. She heard the bedroom door shut with a soft click, followed by the low hum of Lingling's laptop powering on. Already back to work.

She caught her reflection in the dark window—eyes rimmed with a fatigue that mirrored her wife's, yet for an entirely different reason. Where Lingling seemed consumed by her job, Orm was consumed by their relationship's decay.

With slow, deliberate steps, Orm walked into the living room and sat on the couch. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let her head hang. She knew she still loved Lingling—she could feel it in the hollow ache that throbbed in her chest. But how long could love survive if one person kept drifting further away?

Flashback

They were standing on a beach during their honeymoon. The sun was setting, painting the sky in orange and pink. Lingling's eyes were full of wonder as she watched the horizon. Orm threaded their fingers together, pulling Lingling closer.

"I'm so happy," Lingling whispered, turning to press a soft kiss on Orm's cheek. "I never thought I could feel this... content. Like we have everything we need right here."

Orm grinned, kissing her back. "Me too. Let's never lose this, okay?"

Lingling smiled. "Never."

End of  flashback

Those words replayed in Orm's mind, a broken promise echoing through the years. We'll never lose this. Yet here they were, the gulf between them so wide that Orm wondered if they could even see each other clearly.

She glanced at her phone again. No new messages. Nothing from Lingling. She considered sending a simple "Good night. I love you." but feared the dispassionate "love you too" that might follow. Instead, Orm placed the phone face-down on the coffee table, silently acknowledging that their emotional distance stung more tonight than usual.

Feeling restless, Orm switched on the TV for background noise—just enough to fill the quiet that gnawed at her. A news anchor droned on about political unrest in some far-off country. She didn't pay attention, her mind drifting to the swirl of thoughts about how to fix this, if it was even fixable.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Then half an hour. She turned off the TV. No matter what distraction she tried, the emptiness remained. Finally, she mustered the courage to go to the bedroom.

Lingling was already in bed, propped up by pillows, her laptop illuminating her focused face. A pair of blue-light glasses perched on her nose, which crinkled slightly as she read something on the screen. Orm couldn't recall the last time she saw Lingling read anything not related to work.

"Hey," Orm ventured softly, walking to her side of the bed. "Still working?"

Lingling nodded, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Just a bit more to go," she mumbled. "You can sleep; I'll be done soon."

Orm felt a pang of longing for the nights they used to talk, cuddled up, sharing stories about their days until they drifted off in each other's arms. She slipped under the covers, letting the cool sheets envelop her. She could see Lingling's silhouette in the laptop's glow, separated from her by just a couple of feet. Yet it felt like miles.

She lay on her side, facing Lingling, hoping for the chance to make eye contact. Lingling, however, was locked into her work, fingers tapping sporadically at the keyboard. Minutes stretched into an hour. Finally, Lingling saved her file, shut the laptop, and sighed.

Orm closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She heard Lingling set the laptop on the nightstand, remove her glasses, and settle under the blankets. Then the soft click of the bedside lamp being turned off. In the darkness, Orm felt Lingling shift, her warmth radiating across the small distance between them.

For a moment, Orm prayed Lingling might scoot closer, perhaps drape an arm around her waist. Instead, Lingling stayed where she was, a gentle but definitive reminder of the gap that had formed between them.

I'm right here, Orm wanted to whisper. Do you even see me? But she stayed silent.

In the quiet blackness, sleep eluded her. She thought of their wedding day—Lingling's rare, unguarded laughter and Orm's effervescent joy. Friends and family had said they were the perfect match. College sweethearts turned forever. Orm had believed it without question.

And maybe they still could be, if they both tried. If Lingling recognized how much Orm needed her warmth. If Orm could find the courage to voice her hurt instead of burying it behind politeness.

Eventually, exhaustion won out, and Orm felt her awareness drift. Her last conscious thought was a single question repeating in her mind: When did we stop trying to hold onto each other?

Outside, the city's glow shimmered across the skyline. Cars zipped by on distant roads, an endless hum of nightlife. Inside the condo, two people lay inches apart in the same bed, yet somehow lived in separate worlds. And as the night deepened, the silence between them spoke louder than any words they might have shared.