Distance in the Quiet Hours

Orm woke to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the weight of Lingling's arm draped limply across her waist. For a moment, the warmth of her wife's body against her back sparked a fragile sense of peace. She kept her eyes closed, savoring the rare closeness. Yet even half-asleep, she felt the rift that had grown between them—this wasn't the tender embrace of old but something automatic, as though Lingling had inched closer in the night out of habit rather than genuine need.

When the alarm on Lingling's phone blared at 6:00 a.m., Lingling jerked awake, retracting her arm almost instantly. Orm held her breath, feigning sleep, afraid that if she stirred, Lingling would hurry off even faster. She listened as Lingling sat up, rubbed her eyes, and then slipped out of bed. The rustling of clothes and the soft shuffle of footsteps told Orm that Lingling was heading to the bathroom, presumably to get ready for yet another busy day.

Orm opened her eyes to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. The bedside clock read 6:07 a.m. She lay there, unmoving, recalling a time when that morning alarm used to prompt sleepy kisses and playful banter. Now, it simply signaled Lingling's departure into a world that rarely included her.

By the time Orm mustered the courage to sit up, Lingling had already stepped out of the bedroom, likely en route to the kitchen for a quick coffee. Orm could faintly hear the drip of the coffeemaker. She stared at the small indent Lingling's body had made on the mattress, feeling a pang that the space was still warm—proof Lingling had been physically there, yet feeling so emotionally absent.

She slipped out of bed and padded toward the dresser, rubbing her arms against the cool morning air. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she noticed shadows under her eyes. Another restless night. Memories of the evening before floated in her mind—Lingling coming home late, the barely-there conversation, and that subdued apology that felt more like a courtesy than a genuine expression of remorse.

We can't keep living like this, Orm thought, tugging on a soft T-shirt and leggings. She glanced at the closed bedroom door, wondering if she should follow Lingling into the kitchen to at least say good morning.

A sudden wave of dread held her in place. Too many times she'd attempted to chat or share a moment, only for Lingling to respond with half-listening ears, her mind obviously somewhere else. Maybe she's in a rush again, Orm reasoned, sighing. I can try later.

But something deep inside her urged: Go. Show her you're still here.

She pressed her palm against the doorknob and opened the door.

Orm found Lingling leaning against the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. A half-eaten piece of toast lay on a small plate, the corners nibbled in a hasty fashion. Lingling's phone buzzed, and she glanced at it, brow furrowing as if the message contained something troubling or urgent.

"Morning," Orm offered softly, stepping into the kitchen.

Lingling looked up, startled. She managed a quick nod. "Good morning. Sorry, I have a million things on my mind today."

Orm nodded, forcing a gentle smile. "Yeah, I figured. Another busy one?"

"Mm," Lingling affirmed, sipping her coffee. Her eyes flicked back to her phone.

A pang of yearning tugged at Orm's heart. She can't even meet my gaze for more than a second. Determined to connect, Orm sidled closer, brushing her fingers lightly against Lingling's elbow. "Hey... last night, you kind of crashed right after you came home. I wanted to ask—are you okay?"

Lingling's gaze remained glued to her phone screen, though she paused for a beat before answering. "I'm fine. Just... deadlines." Her tone was dismissive, more a reflex than true conversation.

Orm swallowed. She attempted a playful approach, mustering the brightness that used to make Lingling laugh. "Maybe we can do something fun tonight? I could try that new recipe—something quick but delicious. And you can be my taste-tester."

She made a small, teasing gesture—tapping Lingling's chin to coax her attention. For a moment, Lingling offered a ghost of a smile, then her phone buzzed again, and her expression hardened with focus.

"Sorry, Orm. I really have to go." She set down her coffee cup, grabbed her bag, and half-turned away. "Rain check on that dinner, okay?"

Disappointment crushed Orm's fleeting hope. "Sure. Of course."

Before Orm could say anything more, Lingling had slipped out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. The faint click of heels on the polished floor gradually faded, followed by the decisive thud of the door shutting. And then, silence.

Left alone, Orm traced the rim of Lingling's abandoned coffee mug, her heart heavy. I miss you so much, she wanted to say, but her words only echoed in the emptiness of their home.

That evening, Lingling returned late once again. The clock read 10:15 p.m. when Orm heard the door open. She turned off the TV—barely comprehending the drama she'd been watching—and went to greet her wife, only to find Lingling looking drained.

Orm tried to muster optimism. "Hey," she said softly, stepping closer, arms slightly open as if to offer a hug. "Long day?"

Lingling rubbed her temples. "Yeah. I'm wiped. I just want to shower and go to bed."

"Of course." Orm let her arms fall to her sides, her attempt at a hug slipping away. "I... I made soup. If you're hungry, it's in the fridge."

Lingling's nod was perfunctory, her gaze distant. "Thanks," she murmured before trudging down the hall.

Orm sighed, turning off the living room lamp to follow. She lingered outside the bathroom door, hearing the shower run and picturing Lingling in the warm spray, shoulders tense. I remember when we used to shower together, Orm thought with a wistful smile. They'd laugh, sharing intimate moments that made the rest of the world disappear. Now, she could hardly get Lingling to hold her for more than a few seconds.

Once Lingling emerged, hair damp and dressed in a loose T-shirt, Orm gently placed a hand on her wife's shoulder. "Hey, do you want me to help you relax a bit? I could give you a quick massage."

Lingling managed a tired smile. "That's sweet, but I'm honestly too exhausted. Maybe tomorrow."

Orm nodded, masking her disappointment. Tomorrow. That nebulous promise always dangled just out of reach, rarely fulfilled.

Later that night, in the darkness of their bedroom, Orm found herself wide awake. Lingling lay beside her, breathing steady, already lost in slumber. Orm stared at the ceiling, remembering a time when they'd fall asleep intertwined, limbs tangled like they couldn't get enough of each other's warmth.

She turned onto her side, peering at Lingling's silhouette. It's not that she doesn't touch me anymore, Orm mused, recalling the subtle brushes of Lingling's hand or the obligatory kisses. It's that she doesn't seem to want to. Not in the way she used to. Not in the way that made me feel seen.

Emptiness filled her chest, and she blinked back tears. There was an ache that went beyond the physical, a longing for the emotional closeness they once shared. She wanted Lingling to look at her, really look, and see the woman who was still head-over-heels in love with her. But how can I make you see me if your eyes are always elsewhere?

Eventually, exhaustion took hold. Orm drifted off into a restless sleep, haunted by memories of a passion that seemed to fade more each day.

Over the next few days, Orm tried to be patient—she really did. She told herself that Lingling was under unprecedented stress and that once the pressure lifted, their marriage would improve. But a gnawing doubt whispered that this was more than just a temporary phase.

One bright Saturday morning, Orm decided to seize a moment. She rose early, determined to bring a spark of joy into their routine. She brewed fresh coffee, humming a cheerful tune, and even whipped up some scrambled eggs with a sprinkle of Lingling's favorite herbs. When Lingling emerged from the bedroom, hair slightly mussed and eyes still heavy with sleep, Orm grinned, spatula in hand.

"Good morning, sunshine," Orm quipped, adopting a playful tone. "I've made you breakfast. And coffee, black, just how you like it."

Lingling's lips curved in a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Orm. That's sweet." She headed to the coffeemaker, taking a mug from the cabinet. Steam rose invitingly.

Feeling her heart lift, Orm decided to lean in—literally. She stepped behind Lingling, playfully brushing a strand of hair aside and pressing a gentle kiss to her neck. "Mmm," she teased, "you smell like sleep and shampoo. The perfect combo."

Lingling let out a soft chuckle, but Orm sensed her wife's mind wasn't entirely present. The giggle sounded polite, as if Lingling was going through the motions of laughter without feeling the spark.

Orm tried another small joke, wiggling her eyebrows. "Careful—if you keep smelling this good, I might burn our eggs while I'm distracted."

A fleeting smirk crossed Lingling's face, but then her phone buzzed on the counter. She tensed. "Sorry, let me just check this."

Almost instantly, Orm felt the magic slip away. Lingling's attention zeroed in on an incoming work email, her posture straightening. The brief moment of closeness dissolved like a puff of breath on glass. Orm set the spatula aside, swallowing the sting of rejection.

"I can't believe they're emailing me on a Saturday," Lingling muttered, scanning the message. "I have to reply to this—give me a minute."

She moved away, cup of coffee in one hand, phone in the other, finding her usual seat at the kitchen table. Within seconds, she was immersed in typed responses.

Orm stood by the stove, forced cheerfulness seeping away. The eggs sizzled, their comforting aroma suddenly tinged with bitterness. She imagined them both from an outsider's perspective: a couple in a sunny kitchen, but with an invisible wall of glass separating them. Even the simplest attempts feel forced now.

They ate breakfast mostly in silence. Lingling was too busy replying to emails to notice Orm's downcast eyes or the forced smile on her lips. Orm tried to mask her frustration, chatting idly about weekend errands, only to receive distracted nods.

After Lingling excused herself to make a work call, Orm cleared their plates with mechanical efficiency. She couldn't decide if she wanted to scream, cry, or just laugh at the absurdity of it all. I'm losing you,and you're too busy to even notice.

She was scrubbing the dishes when a sudden memory hit her—their wedding day.

Flashback

Their wedding had been a small but elegant affair in a secluded garden by a lake. Friends and family surrounded them, all teary-eyed and brimming with joy. Lingling had worn a sleek, off-white gown that accentuated her poised grace, while Orm opted for a stylish suit with a lilac boutonniere.

Standing under an arch draped in flowers, the sunlight turning the lake into a sheet of gold, Orm had taken Lingling's hands. With a voice quivering from emotion, she'd recited her vows:

Orm: "Ling, you are my steady rock, my guiding star, and the keeper of my heart. From the moment I met you, I knew I wanted to spend every day breaking through your serious facade just to see you smile. I promise to love you, protect you, and to never stop fighting for us—even when life gets tough, or when we forget how to laugh. You're my home, Lingling, and I can't wait to build a life with you."

Lingling's eyes had glistened with tears, and her normally reserved expression cracked into a radiant smile. She squeezed Orm's hands, voice trembling with emotion:

Lingling: "Orm, you're my sunshine. You melt away all my doubts and show me a world brimming with color and possibility. I promise to stand beside you, to encourage your dreams, and to share in every joy and challenge that comes our way. I never thought I'd find someone who'd make me want to be better, every single day. But I found you."

They had kissed amid cheers and laughter. Orm remembered that day as a moment of unassailable certainty—like their love could conquer any obstacle.

End of flashback

Returning to the present, Orm shut off the faucet, her eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall. Never stop fighting for us, she had said. Yet, here she was, barely recognized by the woman she'd vowed to cherish. Have I failed or has Ling given up?

Her vow felt hollow now, not because she wanted it to be, but because she sensed she was the only one still holding onto the promise.

She glanced at her phone on the countertop, tempted to text or call a friend for advice. But she felt too embarrassed to admit how disconnected she and Lingling had become. Everyone had idolized them as the "perfect couple." She wasn't ready to shatter that illusion—and maybe I'm not ready to confront how bad it really is.

Lingling came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, phone call finished. "Hey," she said, voice devoid of the warmth that used to be so easy between them. "I'm sorry about breakfast. Work stuff never ends."

Orm mustered a tiny smile. "It's fine," she lied. "I get it."

Lingling set her phone down. For a split second, Orm thought she might open up, share her stress, or at least ask about Orm's day. But her wife simply exhaled, grabbed her coat from the chair, and said, "I need to step out for a bit, clear my head. Maybe go for a walk. I'll be back soon."

Before Orm could reply, Lingling was already heading to the door. The echo of it closing behind her seemed to reverberate through the apartment, punctuating the growing sense of isolation that clung to every piece of furniture, every wall, every silent minute.