Fragmented Paths

Lingling woke to the faint light of dawn filtering through the living room drapes. Her neck ached from sleeping on the couch, and her eyes burned from too many tears. For a moment, she struggled to recall why she wasn't in her bed—then last night's heartbreak returned in a flood: Orm left. She really left me.

She sat up, blinking at the emptiness. The condo, once filled with Orm's warmth, now felt like a hollow shell. Shadows stretched across the floor, emphasizing how alone she truly was. A pang struck her chest as she remembered Orm's final words at the end of their explosive fight: "I can't keep living like this..." She'd never heard Orm sound so resigned and hurt.

Lingling forced herself upright, every muscle protesting from her restless sleep. She trudged into the kitchen, where her first instinct was to brew coffee for two. Halfway through filling a second mug, she froze. Why am I doing this? She's not here. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, and she carefully poured the extra coffee back into the pot.

The small details stung the most. Orm's slippers were still by the couch—where she'd so often curled up to watch a show or sketch her designs. An unfinished piece of work lay on the dining table, one Orm had been tinkering with. Each reminder served as a painful jab: Orm was gone, and the fault weighed heavily on Lingling's chest.

She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over Orm's contact. A wave of anxiety gripped her. What if she refuses to answer? What if she's done for good? Fear paralyzed her, and she set the phone down. I'll... try later, she told herself, shuddering at the thought that "later" might never come.

While Lingling stared at her phone in the condo, Orm woke up in a spare bedroom at her friend Becky's apartment, feeling disoriented. She blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings—the small dresser piled with random books, the ceiling fan whirring softly overhead. This isn't home, she thought, a lump forming in her throat as memory rushed back: I walked out on Lingling last night.

A heaviness settled in her chest. She missed Lingling acutely—her voice, her presence, even the faint clacking of her laptop as she worked late. But something else curled in her gut: I had to leave. I couldn't stay there another minute, begging to be seen.

A soft knock on the door startled her. Becky poked her head in, holding two mugs of steaming coffee. "Morning, Orm," she said gently. "I figured you could use this."

Orm mustered a wan smile. "Thanks." She accepted the mug, wrapping her hands around its warmth. Becky sat on the edge of the bed, concern etched in her features.

"Did you sleep at all?" Becky asked.

Orm shrugged, taking a tentative sip. "Barely. My mind wouldn't shut up. I keep—" Her voice trembled. "I keep thinking about her, how I just... left."

Becky placed a comforting hand on Orm's shoulder. "You left because you were hurting," she said. "Sometimes stepping away is the only way to protect yourself, especially if Lingling's not ready to change."

A tear slipped down Orm's cheek. "I still love her, so much it kills me. But loving her doesn't stop the loneliness." She inhaled shakily. "I can't keep running back just because I miss her. I need... I need proof this time that she wants me. That she'll choose me over everything else."

Becky nodded. "Exactly. You're welcome to stay as long as you need, no judgment."

Orm swallowed hard. Her phone vibrated silently on the bedside table—Lingling's name blinking on the screen. She stared at it, heart pounding, but the call ended before she could make a decision. I can't pick up right now. Not until I know she's serious.

Back at the condo, Lingling paced the living room, phone clutched in her hand. She'd tried to compose an apology text: "Orm, I'm so sorry. Please come back. I love you and I'll do anything to fix this." She read it over a dozen times, hating how inadequate it sounded.

Send, she finally decided, pressing the button. Her heart hammered as the message whooshed away, but after ten minutes of staring at her phone, no reply came. Her chest felt hollow. She's ignoring me.

Her work phone buzzed on the coffee table, an urgent client request demanding attention. With a groan, Lingling answered. The client rattled off a contract issue, pressing her for an immediate solution. Lingling forced herself to sound professional, all the while her mind screamed, I need to fix my marriage, not just another contract!

When she ended the call, new messages awaited—both from clients and colleagues. Her job had always been stressful, but she'd thrived on it, prided herself on excelling under pressure. Now, it felt like an anchor pulling her deeper into a situation that had already cost her more than she'd ever imagined.

"I'm losing Orm," she muttered to the empty room. "And I'm stuck putting out fires at work like that's supposed to matter right now." She hurled her phone onto the couch, a wave of despair threatening to crush her. I have to reach her somehow...

At Becky's apartment, Orm sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand. Every few minutes, it buzzed—sometimes Lingling, sometimes a silent screen lighting up with the same missed calls.

Orm stared at the most recent text:

"Orm, I'm so sorry. Please come back. I love you and I'll do anything to fix this."

Her chest tightened. She wanted to believe Lingling. But memories of the forced intimacy, the endless nights of working dinners alone, the feeling of being invisible weighed her down like lead.

She nearly typed a reply, tears prickling her eyes: "I miss you too." But she couldn't bring herself to press send. Becky entered the room, noticing Orm's trembling hands.

"You okay?" Becky asked softly.

Orm shook her head, wiping her cheeks. "She's messaging me. Apologizing. Saying she'll do anything..." Her voice cracked. "But what if it's just another promise she can't keep?"

Becky sighed, sitting beside Orm. "You left because words weren't enough. If she really wants you back, she needs to show it in actions."

Orm closed her eyes, tears escaping. "I miss her so much, but I can't go back to half-measures."

Becky rested a hand on Orm's shoulder. "Stay strong. Give her time to prove she's serious."

Orm nodded, clinging to the advice like a lifeline, even as her heart screamed for Lingling's embrace.

The afternoon wore on, and Orm tried to distract herself by sketching potential designs for an upcoming runway project. She was staying at Becky's apartment to give both herself and Lingling time and space, but her heart hadn't stopped aching all day. Every time she picked up a pencil, her mind drifted back to Lingling's texts—apologies, pleas, confessions of love. I can't respond yet, Orm told herself, each unresolved feeling knotted in her chest.

She was finally hitting a flow—outlining a sleek evening dress with sharp lines—when her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The notification read Ying.

Orm grimaced. Of all times. She remembered how Lingling used to accuse Ying of wanting to swoop in. Now, it looked like she really might be taking her chances. Letting out a slow breath, Orm decided to answer. She owed Ying a firm boundary if nothing else.

"Hello?" Orm said tersely, bracing herself.

"Hey, Orm!" Ying's voice rang out, casual and bright, as though nothing were wrong. "We haven't talked in a while. I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee or dinner—maybe show me those new designs you mentioned last time?"

Orm stiffened, setting her pencil aside. Lingling had always suspected Ying's intentions, and this call confirmed it. "Ying," she repeated, her tone already cooling. "I'm... not available."

A brief silence on the line. "Come on," Ying said, voice turning lightly coy. "Just a casual outing. I know you're busy, but I'd love to see more of your work. You know I've always admired your style... and you."

Orm's grip tightened on the phone. She has no idea I left Lingling—or maybe she doesn't care. "Ying," Orm repeated more firmly. "I'm in love with my wife—no matter how broken we are. I'm not interested in anything else, personally or professionally, right now."

Another pause, this one charged with surprise. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't—I didn't realize you two were, um, still together..."

"We're..." Orm bit her lip, breath hitching as her emotions flared. She wasn't about to share her personal crisis with Ying. "It's complicated. But I'm not leaving her for anyone. That's never been the issue."

She could almost hear Ying's disappointment crackle through the silence. "I... got it. Sorry if I overstepped."

Orm exhaled, voice taut with suppressed anger and heartbreak. "Goodbye, Ying." She ended the call before more awkwardness could ensue, setting the phone aside with a trembling hand. A swirl of relief and anger churned in her chest. She was just taking her chances. The thought made Orm's eyes sting with tears. If only Lingling understood, this has never been about someone else. I just need her to see me.

From the hallway, Becky cleared her throat softly. She'd caught enough of the exchange to piece things together. "Everything okay?" she asked.

Orm shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "She had no idea about me leaving," she said, voice trembling. "She just hoped I'd be free, I guess."

Becky's brow furrowed. "You did the right thing shutting her down."

Orm swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I... I'm already hurting enough," she whispered, tears threatening to spill. "At least Lingling can't accuse me of turning to Ying. That's one less wedge between us."

Despite her rawness, a faint flicker of satisfaction lit Orm's heart. If nothing else, Lingling can never say I left because I wanted someone else. Steeling herself, she turned back to her design sketches, the longing for Lingling only sharper now that Ying's intrusion reminded her how fiercely she still loved her wife—and that she wouldn't betray that love for anything.

A pale glow from the setting sun stretched across the condo's windows when Orm fit her key into the lock. She stood on the doorstep for a long moment, heart pounding in her chest. I really shouldn't be here, she thought, fighting the urge to turn around. But she needed more clothes for the days ahead, and she refused to burden Becky by wearing the same outfits on repeat.

Taking a shaky breath, Orm turned the key. The door clicked open, and she slipped inside as quietly as she could. Maybe she could grab her things and leave before Lingling noticed—

"Orm?" came Lingling's voice from the kitchen. Light footsteps followed, and Orm heard the hurried shuffle of slippers against the floor. Anxiety flared in her stomach. So much for a quick exit.

Lingling appeared in the hallway, eyes glistening with both hope and fear. She froze when she saw Orm, and for a moment, neither woman spoke. The silence felt thick enough to suffocate them both.

"I'm just..." Orm began, lifting a small duffel bag. "I need more clothes." Her voice trembled at the edges, betraying the calm she tried to project.

Lingling pressed her lips together, tears threatening. She looked smaller somehow—shoulders drawn, eyes rimmed with red. God, she looks exhausted, Orm thought, battling a wave of guilt. But I can't let pity break me. I left for a reason.

"H-How are you?" Lingling managed, voice tight. "I've been worried."

Orm's jaw clenched. "I'm... fine," she said, though her tone lacked conviction. She glanced around, noticing little changes: a blanket folded on the couch—where Lingling had likely slept—an untouched mug of coffee on the table. Has she even eaten?

Swallowing, she turned toward the bedroom. She heard Lingling trail behind, each step fueling Orm's anxiety. She flicked on the light in the bedroom, relief and heartbreak colliding at the sight: the bed they once shared, half in disarray, the closet half-open where some of her clothes still hung.

"Orm, wait," Lingling whispered, stopping by the doorway. "Can we... please talk? Just for a minute?"

Orm paused, gripping the duffel strap. She exhaled shakily, her back to Lingling. "I'm not ready," she managed, forcing the words through the knot in her throat. "I need more time. That's why I left."

A soft sob escaped Lingling. "I know. I—I just—" She rubbed her face, fighting tears. "I'm terrified you won't come back at all."

Orm's heart twisted painfully. Tell her you love her. But she couldn't. Not like this—every time she tried to speak from emotion, she risked falling back into the same cycle. "I told you before," she said, voice subdued. "I left because I felt invisible. If you want me to come back, show me I'm not."

Lingling drew a trembling breath, wiping her eyes. "I'm trying, Orm. I swear I am."

Orm shut her eyes for a moment, then moved to the dresser. She plucked out a couple of spare shirts, socks, and a sweater. Each item brought memories she struggled to bury: mornings they dressed side by side, teasing and exchanging kisses before work. I miss that, she admitted silently, but it felt a million miles away.

She zipped the duffel, turning to find Lingling standing there, tears streaking her cheeks. "Orm, please," Lingling whispered, voice husky with grief. "I'm sorry. I don't know how many times I can say it, but I am."

A swell of emotion rose in Orm's chest. She fought to keep her composure. "I believe you're sorry," she said quietly. "But I can't just move back in, Ling. I need proof—actions—that you're willing to change... that I matter more than your job or your routine."

Lingling blinked, heartbroken. "You do matter..."

Orm clutched the duffel to her chest. Don't cry, she told herself. You can't break down now. She stepped past Lingling, heading for the bedroom door. Lingling followed, each step echoing the painful distance between them.

In the living room, Orm paused near the coffee table. She saw the half-full mug, cold by now, and realized with a jolt of sorrow how often she'd seen Lingling's neglected meals or beverages in the midst of her hectic life. Maybe she's neglected our marriage the same way, Orm thought grimly, tears pricking behind her eyes.

Lingling hovered behind her, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I'm scared you'll never come back," she admitted again, voice trembling.

Orm's chest squeezed painfully. She turned, meeting Lingling's gaze. Raw love and hurt clashed in her own eyes. "I still love you," she confessed, voice cracking. "But I can't stay." She pressed her lips into a thin line, forcing down the sob that threatened to escape.

Lingling's face crumpled. She took a half-step forward, arms twitching as if to reach for Orm. But Orm's posture bristled with heartbreak and resolve, stopping her in her tracks. After a moment, Lingling let her arms drop, a broken whimper escaping.

Orm shifted her weight, tears welling. She hated seeing Lingling like this—lost, desperate—but the memory of countless nights feeling alone hardened her resolve. "Show me you've changed," Orm repeated, voice unsteady. "That's... the only way I can come home."

Then, with trembling fingers, she gripped the door handle, shooting one last pained glance at Lingling. "Goodbye, Ling." She slipped out, letting the door click shut with a finality that reverberated through the silent condo.

Lingling remained rooted in place, tears falling unchecked. Her eyes flicked to the couch, the coffee table, the door. A strangled sob ripped free. Orm might still love her, but she'd still left. Again. What do I do now? she wondered, slowly sinking onto the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. The emptiness of the condo pressed in on her, colder and more suffocating than ever.

Lingling pushed through the bar's heavy door with more force than intended, nearly stumbling over the threshold. A few weary patrons turned to stare, their conversations halting mid-sentence. She blinked against the dim, hazy lighting, her heart hammering in her chest from something far more oppressive than mere embarrassment: Orm is gone, the thought echoed, and it felt like her entire world had fractured.

Shoulders hunched, Lingling made for an isolated stool at the far end of the bar, hoping to vanish into the darkness. The bartender, a tall man with kind eyes, approached carefully. "Evening," he said. "What can I get you?"

Her voice came out rough, slurred by the weight of her grief before any alcohol even touched her lips. "Whiskey. Straight." She didn't care about brands or taste—just the burn that might dull the ache devouring her insides.

The bartender's gaze flicked across her rumpled blazer, the circles under her eyes. He nodded, pouring a shot. Lingling snatched it up, downing it in one go. The fire in her throat distracted her for an instant, enough to push away the memory of Orm's tearful eyes. If only I could burn away that guilt, too.

She tapped the counter for another. The bartender hesitated, but poured. Where was Orm tonight? Probably somewhere else, free of the perpetual loneliness Lingling had unknowingly subjected her to. The second shot stung worse than the first, tears prickling behind Lingling's eyes. I told myself I was working for our future, but all I did was sacrifice her presence.

By the third shot, her fingers trembled around the glass, mind drifting through incoherent flashbacks: Orm waiting up with a cold dinner, Orm trying to cuddle on the couch only for Lingling to brush her off with a dismissive "I'm busy." She let out a strangled laugh, bitterness twisting her voice.

"Ma'am?" the bartender tried again, quietly sliding her a glass of water. "Might wanna pace yourself."

Lingling waved him off, nearly knocking over the water in her haste. "I'm fine," she insisted, the words a graceless slur. She wasn't fine. She was drowning, and she knew it. Yet she signaled for another whiskey—her fourth. Every swallow intensified the haze in her head, but not enough to silence the echo: I drove her away...

A muted chatter from a nearby table bubbled up with light laughter, jabbing Lingling with raw envy. She turned slightly, words spilling to an empty stool. "I h-had everything. She was... so patient," she hiccupped, voice cracking. A tear slipped down her cheek. "I just... ignored her. How c-could I—" Another sob threatened to break loose, and she pressed her sleeve to her mouth.

Her phone lay facedown on the bar, a silent judge of her negligence. She'd spent the entire day ignoring urgent work calls, but one call consumed her mind: Orm. If she still cared, maybe she'd pick up—though Lingling doubted it after all the broken promises. Another wave of self-disgust surged in her chest.

She grabbed the phone, fumbling through her contacts with clumsy fingers. The bartender glanced her way but said nothing. Lingling found Orm's name and pressed dial. The ring seemed to stretch into eternity, the bar's gentle music throbbing in her ears. Pick up, Orm... please, I beg you...

At last, a quiet, alarmed "Hello?" crackled through. Lingling's eyes flooded with tears of relief and shame. "O-Orm," she slurred, nearly dropping her phone. "I—I'm so sorry..." Her voice wobbled, thick with whiskey and regret. "Please... come back."

She squinted at the neon sign above the door, stammering the bar's name. "I'm at... the Brass Lantern," she managed, choking on a sob. "I can't... do this alone. I need you—"

"Oh god, Ling, are you drunk?" Orm's tone spiked with alarm. "Stay there. I'm coming—just don't move!" But Lingling's grip slipped, the phone clattering onto the counter. She heard the bartender's startled gasp as he saved it from falling completely to the floor.

"Ma'am," he tried, voice hushed. "Is your friend coming?"

Lingling stared at him through tear-blurred vision, a broken sob escaping her. Friend? My wife—my everything... Another sob tore loose. She didn't have a coherent answer to give him, just the crushing fear that Orm might not arrive in time—or at all.

Everything around her spun: the low thrum of music, the faint clink of glasses, the bartender's concerned face. She buried her head in her hands, tears dripping onto the sticky bar. If Orm didn't show—if she was truly done—then Lingling had lost her forever. The realization wrapped around her like a vise, her muffled cries carrying more regret than she could express in words.

Orm sat on Becky's couch, eyes heavy from hours of restless thoughts. The television droned softly in the background—some late-night talk show she wasn't paying attention to. Every so often, she'd glance at her phone, half-dreading, half-hoping for a message from Lingling. She hadn't responded to Lingling's earlier pleas. I can't go back so easily, she kept reminding herself. Words aren't enough this time.

When the phone buzzed in her lap, Orm's heart jolted. The screen read Lingling, her name glowing in the dim light. With trembling hands, Orm answered, bracing for another tearful apology. Instead, she heard loud bar music and a muffled voice slurring her name: "O-Orm... please... come back..."

Alarm shot through Orm. "Ling, are you drunk?" She struggled to parse the words rattling behind the distortion of bar chatter and Lingling's sobs. "Where are you?"

Lingling mumbled something about the "Brass Lantern," sounding distraught and borderline incoherent. Orm's heart pounded so hard it felt ready to burst. She's alone and wasted... oh God. "Stay there, Ling!" she instructed, voice taut with panic. "I'm coming—don't move!"

The call cut off abruptly, leaving Orm with a dial tone and a churning sense of urgency. She looked up to see Becky standing in the archway, concern etched on her face. "She's at a bar, drunk?" Becky asked quietly.

Orm nodded, already grabbing her car keys from the coffee table. "I have to get her. I know I said I wouldn't just rush back, but... I can't leave her like that." Her voice shook, love and worry overriding her vow to maintain distance.

Becky studied her, then exhaled softly. "Be careful. Don't let yourself get sucked into empty promises if she's not willing to change."

Orm swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I won't," she managed. "But I... I can't ignore her when she's in trouble." With that, she headed out, fear and longing fueling every step.

The night air felt colder than usual as Orm slipped behind the wheel of her car, heart hammering in her chest. She gripped the steering wheel, mind flashing with worst-case scenarios: What if she's too drunk to stand? What if she tries to leave the bar alone? What if she does something reckless? The engine roared to life under her trembling hands.

She navigated the city streets at a speed slightly above her usual caution, eyes flicking between the road and the neon-lit sidewalks. Every red light felt like an eternity. A swirl of memories haunted her: moments of laughter with Lingling, designing new collections side by side, sharing late-night takeout. And then the darker memories: nights alone, neglected date nights, forced touches that only highlighted the gulf between them.

"God, Ling," she whispered to the empty car. "Why did it have to come to this?"

Her phone sat in the passenger seat, half-tempting her to call the bar for more details, but she pushed the thought aside, focusing on not crashing in her haste. The city lights blurred past, her pulse drumming in her ears. She was going back to Lingling—if only to ensure she doesn't harm herself. Yet her heart ached with a different desire: I miss her. Even after everything, I can't stand the thought of losing her forever.

The bar's neon sign buzzed overhead in harsh blues and pinks when Orm finally pulled into an empty spot. She killed the engine, chest tight with apprehension. Outside, a couple of smokers huddled by the entrance, eyeing her tired figure as she rushed inside.

Muted jazz and low conversation enveloped her. She scanned the small crowd until she spotted Lingling in a corner booth, head bowed. Her hair was disheveled, tear tracks on her cheeks. A pang shot through Orm—She looks so lost. The bartender noticed Orm's frantic gaze and waved her over, relief apparent on his face.

Orm's throat constricted as she approached. Lingling was slumped forward, phone lying precariously on the sticky table. Hiccups rattled her slender frame, and every so often she mumbled an apology or Orm's name. It's worse than I thought, Orm realized, tears pressing at her eyes.

She leaned down, voice shaking. "Ling?" She gently touched Lingling's shoulder. Lingling lifted her head, blearily meeting Orm's gaze. Her eyes widened with a mixture of shock and relief.

"You... c-came," Lingling slurred, face crumpling into fresh sobs. "I... I'm so sorry... so sorry, baby."

Orm fought back her own tears. She glanced at the bartender, who nodded in understanding. "Let me get her home," Orm whispered, pulling some bills from her wallet to cover the tab and a generous tip. The bartender offered a sympathetic "Take care," as Orm slid an arm around Lingling's waist, helping her to her feet.

Lingling could barely stand. She clung to Orm, her face pressed against Orm's shoulder. "I... messed up," she mumbled, breath heavy with whiskey. "Needed you... I—God, Orm, I... c-can't lose you." Her words tangled in sobs, heartbreak etched into every syllable.

Orm's chest squeezed at each plea. I left because I was hurting, not because I wanted to abandon her. She coaxed Lingling toward the door, ignoring the curious stares from a couple of onlookers. "I've got you," Orm whispered, voice trembling with a painful mix of love and caution. "Let's get you home."

The cool night air slapped Lingling's flushed cheeks, momentarily jolting her from her drunken haze. She stumbled, nearly dragging Orm down with her. Orm braced them both, hooking an arm under Lingling's, guiding her carefully to the car. She's heavier than I remember—she's dead weight in her grief. Orm bit her lip, tears pricking. I did this. I left. But... she also neglected me. We're both at fault.

Lingling mumbled Orm's name repeatedly, tears spilling. "So... sorry... so s-stupid..." Orm swallowed a sob of her own, gently helping Lingling into the passenger seat. Lingling fell against the headrest, eyes half-lidded.

Orm slid behind the wheel, adrenaline still pulsing in her veins. She glanced at Lingling, who was clutching the seat belt with trembling fingers, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders. Orm exhaled, a tear slipping down her cheek. I can't be numb to this. She loved Lingling, even if she'd left to preserve her own heart.

Putting the car in gear, Orm pulled away from the curb. The streets were quieter now, the city lulled into a late-night hush. Lingling muttered incoherently at times—apologies or half-formed admissions of love. Orm gripped the steering wheel, heart raw. I left because words weren't enough... but seeing her like this...

She pressed her lips together, keeping her eyes on the road. "I'm right here," she murmured. It was all she could offer. At least for tonight, I'll make sure she's safe.

Lingling roused to a punishing throb behind her eyes, a searing reminder of how much whiskey she'd downed the night before. Even the low, early-morning light filtering through the curtains felt unbearably bright. A dull ache took root in every muscle as she squinted around the living room—her living room.

She tried to move, only to find a thin blanket falling away from her shoulders. For a heart-stopping second, she remembered the why behind this throbbing head and bleak morning: the bar, her drunken meltdown, the frantic phone call to Orm.

Orm.

That single name snapped her fully awake. She jerked her head around, nearly dizzying herself with the motion. And there—Orm—sat in the armchair a few feet away, posture rigid, arms crossed protectively. Lingling's heart twisted at the exhaustion shadowing Orm's eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept at all.

"Y-you're here," Lingling managed, her voice cracking with dryness. A wave of bile surged in her throat, prompting her to clamp a hand over her mouth. God, I'm going to be sick.

Orm leapt to her feet, alarm seizing her features. "Ling? You okay?"

Lingling shook her head, voice trembling. "I—think I'm gonna—" She didn't finish before a fresh spasm of nausea cut her off. Orm slid an arm under her shoulders and gently hoisted her upright, guiding her in a hurried shuffle toward the bathroom.

They barely reached the toilet in time. Lingling fell to her knees, retching noisily, tears welling in her eyes. She felt Orm's hand pressing between her shoulder blades, rubbing small, tentative circles. The humiliation crushed her: Oh God, this is embarrassing... and she's seeing me like this...

When the wave subsided, she slumped back, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. Orm handed her a damp washcloth from the sink, voice tight with concern. "Easy there. Breathe."

Lingling pressed the cool cloth to her forehead, eyes shut. "I'm... sorry," she mumbled between shallow breaths. "For last night, for all of this..."

Orm exhaled, helping Lingling stand once the worst had passed. "Let's get you some water," she said softly, her tone laced with equal parts worry and weariness.

Back in the living room, Lingling sagged onto the couch, stomach still churning. Orm disappeared into the kitchen briefly, returning with a glass of water. Lingling accepted it with trembling hands, forcing herself to sip. Despite the roiling in her gut, she couldn't help but keep glancing at Orm, half-expecting her to vanish at any second.

A horrifying realization struck: She could leave again. That single thought pounded harder than her hangover. Lingling set the glass aside and lurched forward, grabbing Orm's wrist with panicked force. "Don't go," she burst out, tears rekindling. "Please, don't walk out again. I c-can't lose you a second time."

Orm's eyes widened, tension rippling through her. "Ling, calm down," she said, voice cautious. She tried to pry Lingling's grip free, but Lingling only clung harder, tears tracking down her face.

"I'm scared," Lingling choked, voice raw. "Scared that if I let you out of my sight, you'll never come back. I know I messed up, but... I'm begging you." Her nails dug into Orm's sleeve as if the fabric was all that kept her anchored.

Alarm and sorrow tangled on Orm's face. "Ling," she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. "You're drunk—hungover—and upset. You don't have to—"

But Lingling wasn't listening, consumed by fear. She slid off the couch onto her knees, half-sobbing. "Please," she whispered, "I'll do anything—cut my work hours, therapy, whatever it takes. Just... don't leave." Her tears dripped onto Orm's hand. "I can't handle waking up alone..."

Orm's breath caught at the sight of Lingling kneeling, tears streaming. She gently lifted Lingling's arms, guiding her back onto the couch, though Lingling resisted with pitiful sobs. "Okay, okay," Orm said, voice breaking. "I'm not... leaving right now. But you don't have to do this," she added, tears in her own eyes. "It's not about humiliating yourself to keep me here."

Lingling sniffled, blinking rapidly. "It's just—I lost you once. If I don't hold on, I'm terrified you'll vanish again." Her voice quivered, thick with shame.

Orm's face pinched with conflicting emotions—love, hurt, exasperation. Finally, she sat beside Lingling on the couch, though her posture remained guarded. "I'll stay," she whispered, voice trembling. "At least for now." She swallowed. "But if I see the same old patterns, if you bury me under your work and forget I exist..." Her words trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy.

Relief, hot and overwhelming, coursed through Lingling. She leaned in, tentatively pressing her cheek to Orm's shoulder. To her grateful surprise, Orm allowed it, albeit stiffly. "Thank you," Lingling murmured, tears sliding anew. "I promise, I'm not just saying it this time. I'll show you."

Orm closed her eyes, lips trembling as she battled her own sorrow. "We'll see," she said, voice hardly above a whisper. "Right now, you need rest, and I need... I need to decide how I feel about all of this."

Lingling nodded against Orm's shoulder, hardly trusting herself to speak further. Her head pounded, her stomach still roiled, but none of that matched the colossal relief flooding her veins. Orm wasn't gone. Not yet.

The first rays of morning grew bolder, illuminating their tired faces. In that hush, Lingling felt Orm's unsteady pulse under her fingertips—an unwavering reminder that, although their bond was frayed and uncertain, love lingered. She clung to Orm's shirt as if letting go might crack the fragile peace.

Lingling let out a shaky exhale, relief flooding her. She set the water aside, reaching for Orm's hand, and was quietly grateful when Orm didn't pull away. "Thank you," she whispered, tightening her grip. "I promise I'll do everything I can to prove it's different this time."

The two of them stayed like that, hands loosely entwined, neither quite sure what came next. After a moment, Orm leaned over and gingerly pressed a hand to Lingling's forehead. "You're burning up," she murmured. "Let's get you some more water and maybe something to eat, if your stomach can handle it."

Lingling almost burst into sobs at the gentle care in Orm's tone. She let Orm help her stand, ignoring the dull throb of her hangover, tears still trailing her cheeks. She's really here, still looking after me... even though I let her down so badly.

They made a slow trek to the kitchen, where Orm pulled out some crackers and a packet of electrolytes from a cabinet. Lingling sank into a chair, pressing a hand over her eyes. Everything in her screamed with remorse—but also a flicker of hope. She had a chance, however fragile, to show Orm that her words weren't hollow.

"Eat this," Orm directed, sliding a small plate of crackers in front of Lingling. "Little by little. Don't force it."

Lingling nodded, tears moistening her lashes yet again. "I... I love you," she breathed, voice trembling. "I just hate that it took me losing you to see how far I'd let everything slip."

Orm's eyes glistened, but she said nothing, turning to refill a glass with water. Lingling took the hint—Orm wasn't ready to engage in deeper emotional talk yet. She picked at the crackers, nibbling while her stomach rolled. The quiet tension in the room was thick, but at least Orm was there. At least she hadn't walked out.

And for Lingling, that tiny concession meant everything.