Fraying Edges

Lingling woke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the bedroom curtains. She blinked a few times, trying to piece together why she felt so uneasy. Then it hit her—last night's argument with Orm. Or, more accurately, the half of an argument that never fully happened.

She glanced at the empty spot beside her. The sheets were rumpled, still retaining a bit of warmth on one side, but Orm was gone. Lingling remembered waking briefly in the night to see Orm's silhouette slipping out of bed, shoulders bowed as though carrying a heavy weight. Now, the space was cool. Did she sleep on the couch again? The realization tightened Lingling's chest with guilt.

Sliding out of bed, she headed into the hallway. The condo felt painfully quiet—no gentle clatter in the kitchen, no murmured greeting. When she reached the living room, she found Orm curled up on the couch under a thin blanket, her face turned away.

Lingling paused, heart aching at the sight. She was here all night. Torn between wanting to wake Orm and leaving her to rest, Lingling hovered for several seconds, guilt gnawing at her conscience. We used to wake up together, talk about our day before it even started. Now, it seemed Orm couldn't bear staying in the same bed.

Deciding not to disturb her, Lingling moved into the kitchen. She flicked on the kettle for tea, a pang hitting her as she recalled how Orm always made them coffee in the mornings, back when conversation flowed easily. Now, they barely talked.

Halfway through preparing a mug, she heard a soft shuffle from the living room. Lingling tensed, unsure if she was ready for a conversation. The memory of last night's tension fluttered behind her eyes.

"Morning," came Orm's voice, rough with sleep.

Lingling turned, mug in hand. Orm stood in the doorway, arms folded protectively. She wore the same T-shirt from the night before, hair slightly mussed, and her eyes carried a deep weariness.

"Morning," Lingling replied, offering a small, shaky smile. "I... saw you were on the couch. Did you, um...?"

Orm's gaze flickered away. "I couldn't sleep. So I ended up out here."

Lingling swallowed, remembering how she'd glimpsed Orm slipping away in the middle of the night. She wanted to apologize, but the words stuck. Instead, she nodded, feeling every bit as distant as the hallway between them.

"Well, I have to head to the office soon," she mumbled. "Busy day."

Orm nodded slowly. "Right. I'll, uh, let you get ready."

Another uncomfortable pause stretched, neither sure how to breach the growing chasm. Lingling finally turned back to her tea, heart hammering. We'll talk tonight, she told herself. We have to.

Orm lingered a moment longer before disappearing down the hall. Lingling stared into the swirling steam of her mug, guilt pooling in her stomach. What happened to us? She didn't know if she feared the answer or if the answer was already staring her in the face.

Later that morning, Orm sat in her small design studio, a sketchpad open on the table in front of her. Rays of sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the bolts of fabric leaning in a corner and the half-finished garments draped over mannequins. Normally, this space brought her peace—an oasis where she could lose herself in color, texture, and possibility. But today, she felt like she was suffocating.

She tried to draw: a sleek evening gown with a daring silhouette. Every time she dragged the pencil across the paper, though, her mind shifted back to Lingling. The memory of leaving their bed in the dead of night gnawed at her. I couldn't stand lying next to her, feeling a million miles away.

Orm's phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. For an instant, she hoped it might be Lingling—maybe sending a thoughtful text, or a small apology. Instead, it was a spam notification. She let out a sigh and set the phone aside.

A soft knock on the studio door announced Becky, a fellow designer and longtime friend. Her brow knit with concern as she entered. "Hey, Orm. You got a minute?"

Orm nodded wearily. "Sure. What's up?"

Becky approached the table, eyeing the half-formed sketch. "Ooh, I love the lines there. But... you seem distracted. Everything okay?"

Normally, Orm would deflect, offering a casual "I'm fine." But she felt her emotional walls cracking under the pressure. She'd been holding her hurt in for too long. Setting down her pencil, she exhaled. "Becky, do you ever feel like... you're fighting for something, and you're the only one who cares?"

Becky tilted her head sympathetically. "Talking about Lingling?"

Orm nodded, her gaze fixed on the unfinished drawing. "She's so distant. I get that she's busy—she's always been ambitious—but it's more than that. Lately, it's like I don't even exist. We barely talk, and when we do, it's... tense. Hollow. I don't know how to reach her anymore."

Becky placed a comforting hand on Orm's shoulder. "I'm sorry, hon. That sounds tough."

"It is," Orm said, her voice trembling. "I'm doing everything I can, but she's just... gone."

Becky squeezed gently. "Have you told her exactly that? That you feel invisible, like she's left you behind?"

Orm's chest tightened. She thought of all the half-arguments, the words she'd almost said. "I've tried, in small ways. She's so stressed with work, I keep thinking if I push too hard, she'll shut down completely. But maybe I'm the one shutting down now. I can't keep... feeling this alone."

Becky studied Orm for a moment. "You need to lay it out for her, no holding back. She can't fix what she doesn't know—or won't acknowledge. And if she doesn't respond..." Becky trailed off, letting the unspoken "You have a decision to make" hang in the air.

Orm swallowed, nodding. Part of her hated the thought of giving Lingling an ultimatum, but she was beginning to see no other way. "Yeah," she whispered. "You're right."

Becky pulled her into a brief hug. "I'm here if you need to vent, okay? Don't bottle this up. It'll only hurt more."

After Becky left, Orm stared at the gown on her sketchpad. She wondered if she could design something to mend her marriage—like stitching together two mismatched fabrics to create a masterpiece. But relationships, she knew, weren't so easily patched up. She couldn't do it alone, and right now, that was exactly how she felt: alone.

That evening, the condo was quiet, illuminated by the warm glow of a single floor lamp. Orm stood in the kitchen finishing up a quick meal—pasta with a light sauce, something even Lingling might manage to eat despite her stress. She heard the front door open, followed by the soft click of Lingling's heels. Her heart clenched; the tension between them weighed on her constantly.

Lingling stepped into the kitchen, shoulders slumped. She wore her usual business-casual attire—crisp blouse, pencil skirt—but the look in her eyes spoke of utter exhaustion.

"Hey," Orm said softly, turning off the stove. "I made pasta if you're hungry."

Lingling nodded, not meeting Orm's gaze. "Thanks. I'll... get some in a minute."

Instead of heading to the fridge or table, Lingling dropped her bag near the couch and walked straight to Orm. Before Orm could react, Lingling slipped her arms around Orm's waist, pressing their bodies close. A bolt of surprise shot through Orm. Lingling's spontaneous displays of affection had become almost nonexistent—usually Orm was the one reaching out.

"Ling?" Orm asked, voice laced with cautious hope.

Lingling's eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned in to kiss Orm. The contact was warm, but something about it felt off—hurried, almost desperate. Orm tried to relax into the moment, but her mind buzzed with doubt. Is this real or is she just too tired to talk?

Without a word, Lingling tugged at Orm's hand, guiding her toward the bedroom. The lights inside were off, and the room was shadowy, lit only by the faint glow from the hallway. Lingling pulled Orm onto the bed, kissing her more fervently now, but Orm sensed an undercurrent of tension rather than genuine desire.

"It's been so long," Lingling breathed, her hands roaming Orm's sides. "We... we should be together."

Orm's heart pounded, torn between wanting to lose herself in Lingling's touch and the nagging feeling that something was amiss. She cupped Lingling's face, trying to peer into her eyes, but Lingling kept them shut, as though afraid to let Orm see too deep.

As they lay there, Orm's mind replayed Becky's words: "She can't fix what she doesn't know or won't acknowledge." The kisses felt frantic, like Lingling was crossing a task off a list. Orm's chest constricted with sorrow.

It wasn't that she didn't want Lingling's touch. She wanted all of her—the love, the fire, the warmth she used to find in her arms. But this felt... empty.

Orm blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the hollowness of the moment. Eventually, she gently disengaged, placing a trembling hand on Lingling's shoulder. "Wait, hold on," Orm murmured.

Lingling looked at her, confusion etched on her face. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

Orm searched for words. "Ling... I... I don't want this to be forced. Do you really want this? Or are you just... checking a box?"

Hurt flickered across Lingling's features. "I'm trying, Orm. You always say we never have time for each other anymore."

"I do say that," Orm admitted, tears threatening to surface. "But I don't want you to do this out of obligation. I need you... emotionally. Not just physically."

Lingling opened her mouth to respond but found nothing to say. After a moment, she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The silence echoed with heartbreak.

Orm gently slid off the bed, her heart pounding. "I'll... I'll be in the living room if you need me," she said softly. She left the bedroom, shutting the door with careful quiet. Once in the living room, Orm sank onto the couch, hugging a cushion to her chest. The forced moment of intimacy had only heightened the void they faced.

I can't keep doing this, Orm thought. Something has to change—or we're going to lose each other altogether.

The next day, Lingling sat at her sleek desk, phone buzzing incessantly as she tried to finalize a crucial contract. A chaotic symphony of typed messages, email alerts, and heated phone conversations drowned out any chance at introspection. She'd arrived at the office extra early, determined to bury her mounting guilt under mountains of paperwork.

Her assistant, Nicha, tiptoed into the office with a stack of folders. "Ms. Ling, I have the updated financials for Project Pegasus. Also, the client from last week is still waiting on your signature for the revised agreement."

Lingling rubbed her temples. "Fine, leave them here," she said, gesturing to an already cluttered corner of her desk. "I'll get to them."

Nicha hesitated, worry flickering in her eyes. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Lingling snapped, more harshly than intended. The instant Nicha's face fell, Lingling felt a wave of shame. She inhaled slowly. "Sorry. I'm just... under a lot of pressure."

Nicha gave a sympathetic nod before retreating from the office. Alone, Lingling let her head fall into her hands. She couldn't stop replaying last night's failed intimacy. The memory of Orm's pained expression stung like an open wound. She had tried to show Orm she cared, but the truth was, her mind had been racing with undone tasks, the next day's schedule, the guilt of being so absent.

Her phone rang, jolting her out of her thoughts. Another crisis. Another reason to push aside the fact that she hadn't even sent Orm a decent text this morning. She answered, forcing herself into her polished, professional tone. "Hello? Yes, this is Ling. I've reviewed the contract, but we need to discuss Clause 14 immediately..."

Yet even as she negotiated and delegated, a gnawing doubt tore at her: Is my career worth losing Orm? If I keep going like this, I might not have a marriage left to save.

That evening, Orm sat on the couch, aimlessly flipping through TV channels. She wasn't really watching anything—just trying to fill the silence. The pasta she had reheated for dinner sat untouched on the coffee table. She thought about last night's awkward intimacy, how she'd walked away feeling more alone than ever.

The front door finally clicked open around 8:30 p.m. Lingling entered, looking drained yet again. She met Orm's gaze with a fleeting nod before dropping her briefcase near the sofa.

"Long day?" Orm asked, voice subdued.

Lingling ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah. Too many fires to put out. Sorry I'm late."

They stood there for a moment, the tension palpable. Orm gestured toward the untouched plate of pasta. "I, uh, saved you dinner, but it's cold. I can heat it up if you want."

Lingling shook her head. "No... I'm not really hungry. Thanks, though."

Before Orm could respond, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at the screen—Ying. A flicker of apprehension stirred in Orm's stomach. She'd met Ying again at a recent event, and they'd exchanged numbers for potential collaboration. Now Ying was messaging her about a photoshoot idea.

Lingling noticed the caller ID, her expression darkening. "Ying again?" she asked softly.

Orm rubbed her brow. "Yeah, she's following up on some event photos. I promise it's nothing else."

A tension-laden silence followed. Lingling looked away, her voice barely above a whisper. "You do what you need to do."

The exhaustion in her tone broke Orm's heart. "Ling, I—"

"It's fine," Lingling interrupted, though it clearly wasn't. "I'm too tired to argue about it."

She headed toward the bedroom, leaving Orm feeling a swirl of frustration and sadness. Ying isn't the problem, Orm thought angrily. The problem is that we're drifting apart, and neither of us knows how to stop it.

Later that night, after Lingling had changed into pajamas and sent a flurry of work emails, Orm found her in bed, phone in hand. The only light in the room came from the phone's screen, illuminating Lingling's strained features.

Orm hovered by the doorway, every nerve on edge. She couldn't stop thinking about Becky's advice: "You need to be honest about how much this hurts you."

Clearing her throat, Orm stepped closer. "Do you have a second?"

Lingling glanced up, tension carving lines into her forehead. "What is it?" she asked, forcing a veneer of calm.

"You don't even see me anymore, do you?" The words escaped Orm's lips before she could overthink them. Her voice trembled with vulnerability and pent-up anger.

Lingling blinked, frowning. "What are you talking about? I'm right here."

Orm's heart thudded painfully. "No, Ling. You're not," she said softly, stepping around to stand beside the bed. "You're here physically, but I might as well be invisible."

Lingling bristled, sitting up straighter. "I was trying to be closer last night, wasn't I?"

Orm swallowed hard. "It felt forced, and you know it. It's not about just being in the same room or sharing a bed. It's about wanting to be with me, wanting to connect. It's about actually seeing me, hearing me."

A flicker of defensiveness crossed Lingling's eyes. "I have so much on my plate. You expect me to just drop everything?"

"I expect you to care," Orm fired back, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "I expect that when I tell you I feel lonely, you'll do more than just give me a half-hearted kiss or a forced cuddle."

Her voice choked. She wiped angrily at her cheeks, hating that she was crying. "You used to fight for us, Ling. Now it feels like I'm the only one trying."

Lingling's breath hitched, conflict warring in her expression. Guilt, anger, fear—Orm could see it all swirling. "You think I want this distance?" Lingling asked quietly. "I don't. But every time I try—like last night—you shut me down."

Orm shook her head. "Because it didn't feel real! Can you honestly say you were there, with me, mentally and emotionally?"

Silence reigned as Lingling opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Eventually, she looked away, tears glistening in her own eyes. Orm's heart twisted—she didn't want to hurt Lingling, but she was out of ways to pretend everything was fine.

Flashback

A memory surfaced unbidden in Orm's mind, carrying her back to their college days. They'd had a fight over something trivial—maybe an internship scheduling conflict or a misunderstanding about a party invitation. Yet it had felt massive at the time.

She recalled storming out of their shared apartment, tears in her eyes. Lingling had followed her, grabbing her by the wrist on the sidewalk and blurting, "Don't you dare walk away from me. We talk this out, no matter how ugly it gets."

Orm had spat back, "Then stop shutting me out!" and Lingling had snapped, "I'm not shutting you out; I'm scared I'll let you down!"

They'd ended up on a park bench, tears streaming down both their faces, hashing out their fears and insecurities. By the end of the night, they were laughing shakily, hugging as though the world might end if they let go. They'd listened to each other—really listened—and it made all the difference.

End of flashback

In the present, Orm's eyes refocused on Lingling, who was staring at her phone with a blank screen, not typing a thing. We used to fix things, Orm thought, heartbreak swelling in her chest. Now we can't even be in the same room without choking on unspoken words.

The tension in the bedroom felt like a tangible weight. Lingling finally set her phone aside, exhaling shakily. "I don't know how to fix this," she admitted in a near whisper. "Every time I try, I make it worse."

Orm let out a trembling breath. "I don't have the answers either, but doing nothing is killing us, Ling." She looked at her wife, voice tight. "If things don't change soon, I'm not sure how much longer I can—" Her words broke off, tears edging her vision.

Lingling's eyes widened, fear mingling with sorrow. For a moment, Orm thought she might say something—don't leave me, please—but Lingling remained silent. She doesn't know what to say, Orm realized, or maybe she's too exhausted to say it.

Without another word, Lingling stood, brushing past Orm and heading for the door. She disappeared down the hallway, possibly toward her home office. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, leaving Orm alone amidst the suffocating quiet.

Orm sank onto the edge of the bed, heart pounding. Her tears finally spilled over, hot and relentless. She wondered if Lingling was crying too, just behind a closed door. Yet the condo remained eerily silent.

Is this it? Orm thought, pressing a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Are we at the point where there's no turning back?

As minutes ticked by, Orm finally rose, grabbed a spare blanket, and slipped out of the bedroom. She couldn't bear sleeping in the same bed while they were both in such turmoil. She found the couch, curled up, and let the darkness envelop her.