When Hope Takes Root

Lingling stirred in the early dawn, heart beating just a touch faster than usual. The softness of the bed felt oddly unfamiliar after so many tense mornings. She rolled onto her back, blinking at the pale slivers of light slicing through the curtains. Another day, she told herself, another chance to prove I won't break my promises. A faint quiver of anxiety pulsed in her stomach. Even though she and Orm were on steadier ground now—no longer overshadowed by the threat of divorce or the raw bitterness that plagued them weeks before—a persistent hum of caution lingered.

She inhaled, recalling the previous evening's therapy session with Dr. Junji, in which Orm had quietly admitted she was "beginning to see" that Lingling's consistency wasn't just a fleeting gesture. Lingling nearly cried on the spot; the idea that Orm was no longer steeling herself against every disappointment felt miraculous. But it also unnerved Lingling, because being this close to regaining Orm's trust meant having that much more to lose if she faltered.

With that thought nipping at her heels, she rose from bed, slipped into a robe and tiptoed into the hallway. She passed by the slightly open door of the spare bedroom—Orm's chosen sleeping spot since their meltdown—and glimpsed the bed was empty. She's up already. Usually, Orm liked to sleep in or linger under the covers to avoid confrontation. But times were changing—Lingling's changes, Orm's changes. Perhaps they were both rising earlier nowadays.

The aroma of brewing coffee led her to the kitchen, where she found Orm standing by the sink. Her hair was bound in a messy bun, and she wore a soft gray sweatshirt over leggings—practical, comfortable, and somehow heartbreakingly familiar. She glanced over as Lingling entered, offering the smallest, real smile Lingling had seen in weeks.

"Morning," Orm said, voice still husky with sleep but notably free of tension.

"Morning," Lingling returned, heart lifting at that smile. She closed the distance between them, mindful not to invade personal space. "You're up early."

Orm gave a gentle shrug. "Couldn't sleep in. The therapy session last night was... still on my mind." She fiddled with the coffee machine's buttons. "I think I needed the time to sort through it all."

Lingling nodded, stepping closer. "Want to talk?" The question felt risky—she'd spent so long tiptoeing around Orm's boundaries. But Dr. Junji had recommended open-ended offers, reminding them both that healthy communication thrived on invitations, not demands.

Orm pursed her lips, considering. Then she shook her head softly. "Maybe over breakfast," she said. "I can try to put my thoughts into words then."

Relief glowed faintly in Lingling's chest. She's not shutting me out. "Sure," she said. "I can start something simple—omelets, maybe?"

Orm gave a small nod, stepping aside so Lingling could crack eggs into a bowl. In the hush of the early morning, they stood side by side, the sizzling of butter in a pan the only immediate sound. Lingling took a breath: No frantic phone checks, no stifling tension. Instead, an unspoken acceptance lingered in the air—an acknowledgment that they were both building something new, piece by piece.

They ate their omelets at the small dining table they'd once neglected. Lingling served them quietly, trying to keep her nerves steady. Orm chewed a bite, exhaling softly.

"So," Orm began, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Therapy last night... Dr. Junji asked about how we're handling the physical closeness stuff. I—I know I was quiet in the session, but I was thinking about it afterward." She lifted her gaze, meeting Lingling's eyes. "I feel... less afraid than I did a few weeks ago. I see you leaving work on time every day, I see you turning your phone face down when we talk." She swallowed, voice trembling slightly. "Thank you for that."

Lingling's heart soared. "Orm, I—thank you for telling me that. It means a lot to hear you notice." Her throat constricted with emotion. All these days of carefully delegating tasks at the office, ignoring urgent calls at 4:59 p.m., were not in vain. "I never want to neglect you again. I promise I won't."

Orm tore off a piece of toast. "I'm starting to believe you. It's... a relief." She paused, fiddling with her fork. "I know it's not easy for you to say no to your job. I remember how you used to pride yourself on handling everything. But..." She hesitated, tears barely hidden in her expression. "This is the first time in so long I've felt like I'm... part of your priority."

Lingling's eyes stung with gratitude. I can't let her down. "You are," she affirmed, voice thick. She reached across the table, placing her hand gently over Orm's. After a split-second of tension, Orm inhaled and let her hand relax under Lingling's touch. A spark of warmth lit Lingling's chest—Orm wasn't recoiling. That alone felt like victory.

That day at the office passed in a wash of tasks and calls, but Lingling found herself smiling more than once, recalling Orm's small acceptance at breakfast. Her near-constant fear that Orm might recoil, stonewall or quietly consider leaving was dissipating. They were forging a fragile new normal and though the memory of forced intimacy and lonely nights haunted them both, each daily step seemed to chip away at the old pain.

Around midday, Dr. Junji's office sent a reminder email about their next session that evening. Lingling read it, chewing her lower lip. Therapy had become both a lifeline and a source of heartbreak, forcing them to peel back raw scabs each time. But seeing Orm open up even a little made it worth it. She typed a quick response acknowledging the reminder, then texted Orm: "Therapy at 6 tonight. Still good? Can't wait to see you then."

Orm's reply came a few minutes later: "Yes, 6 is good. Thank you, Ling." A gentle warmth flooded Lingling at the affectionate sign-off—she was typically the one using nicknames or sweet closings, and Orm had rarely reciprocated since their meltdown. Maybe I can keep calling her the old names soon, she thought with a shaky smile, recalling how she used to affectionately call Orm "Sunshine," back when Orm's presence felt like the light that melted her stress away. She missed that simpler time, but recognized they had a chance at building something even stronger now—one that didn't ignore Orm's needs.

Therapy that evening was quieter than usual but in a good way. Dr. Junji asked about any near-slips. Lingling reported a small incident the previous day—she'd been about to check a work alert during dinner, but stopped herself. Orm listened, nodding. For once, the tension in Orm's shoulders was less acute, as though she fully believed Lingling's story of restraint.

"I can see your dynamic is shifting," Dr. Junji observed, a hint of a smile on her face. "Orm, how does it feel to notice Lingling's changes?"

Orm glanced at Lingling, exhaling. "I... appreciate it," she admitted. "She's actually leaving on time, not just once a week but daily. And I realize that's no small feat for her." She curled her fingers in her lap, voice trembling. "I'm starting to trust she won't revert to ignoring me. I'm still... careful, but it's less painful now."

Lingling had to bite her lip to keep from openly crying. She's trusting me again. Dr. Junji nodded, turning to Lingling. "And how do you feel hearing that from Orm?"

Lingling cleared her throat. "Incredibly relieved," she said softly. "I know I can't erase what I did, all the times I neglected her, but... I want her to see it's permanent change, not a phase."

The session gently pivoted to the matter of physical closeness. They recalled the "homework" from last time—small, nonsexual intimacy exercises like cuddling on the couch or giving each other short massages. Orm admitted she'd let Lingling hold her after a stressful day. "I'm still anxious about bigger steps," Orm said, cheeks coloring. "But it's less of a panic."

Dr. Junji encouraged them: "Keep building from that foundation. Perhaps a short dance in the living room, or a planned cuddle each night where neither of you checks a phone." She reminded them that their emotional closeness needed consistent nurturing. By the end, they left the session with an unspoken sense of progress. Lingling's heart felt light. Orm is acknowledging us. She's letting me in again. That night, Orm was tired, but not from heartbreak—merely from normal exhaustion, as though they'd started feeling like a functioning couple, albeit a still-fragile one.

A few days later, Orm texted Lingling around 4 p.m.: "Studio stress. Mind if we do a short dance tonight for the 'homework'? Need some calm."

Lingling's stomach fluttered. She wants me. The old Orm used to spontaneously dance with her in the kitchen, hips swaying to silly pop tunes. We haven't done that in forever. She left work at five, ignoring the stressed looks from colleagues, and hurried home with a renewed sense of optimism. If Orm was initiating closeness, maybe they were on the cusp of real healing.

At six, Orm arrived, shoulders slumped in fatigue. Lingling offered her a gentle smile. "Tough day at the studio?" she asked softly, leading Orm to the living room. Orm shrugged out of her jacket, nodding.

"Yeah," Orm sighed. "Clients are indecisive, the design team's frantic. I just... want a quiet moment." She hesitated, gaze flicking to the couch. "But I also want to... you know, do the therapy exercise. The dance."

Lingling swallowed a wave of emotion. "Of course." She found a track (I think they call this love - Elliot James Reay) on her phone, hooking it to a small speaker. The music filled the living room with a gentle, lilting melody. Orm stood by awkwardly, arms half-folded. Lingling stepped closer, slowly raising her arms in an unspoken invitation. "Whenever you're ready," she whispered.

Orm inhaled, letting her arms uncross. She tentatively slid one hand around Lingling's waist, the other resting on Lingling's shoulder. The initial contact sent a tender shiver through both—Orm was stiff, as if bracing for a reflex of old pain. But as the soft music carried them, Lingling kept her movements gentle, swaying in place more than actual dancing.

Gradually, Orm's tension ebbed. She let out a shaky breath, resting her head briefly against Lingling's shoulder. "I miss this," she murmured, voice cracking with tears. "Miss feeling safe when we're close."

Lingling's own eyes burned, tears threatening. "I miss it too. So much." She lightly stroked Orm's back with her free hand. "We don't have to rush anything else. Just... let me hold you."

Orm nodded into Lingling's shoulder, tears escaping. For a moment, they stood there, music drifting around them, bodies pressed in a comforting hush. Lingling recalled how forced intimacy had once felt hollow—Orm too distracted by heartbreak, Lingling too caught up in the guilt. Now, it felt like a slow sunrise, each second re-illuminating a once-dark landscape.

The track ended, leaving them enveloped in near-silence except for their soft breathing. Orm pulled back a fraction, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, voice trembling. "I needed that more than I knew."

Lingling brushed a thumb across Orm's cheek, catching a tear. "Thank you for trusting me." She yearned to lean in for a kiss but held back, letting Orm set the pace. Orm glanced at her lips, a flash of longing crossing her face, but eventually she turned away, stifling a sob. "I just... I'm not sure I'm ready for more," she said quietly.

Lingling swallowed the hitch in her throat, nodding. "That's okay," she reassured. "One step at a time. I'm here whenever you are."

Orm offered a watery smile, the tension in her shoulders less acute than before. They parted from the closeness, moving to the couch. Lingling flicked off the speaker, a faint sense of accomplishment warming her. We danced. We connected. We didn't break. All these baby steps felt monumental after so much distance.

Late that night, after a quiet dinner and some light conversation, Lingling found Orm lingering in the hallway near the bedrooms, uncertainty flickering in her posture. Lingling paused, heart pounding. "Everything okay?" she asked softly, noticing Orm holding a pillow under one arm.

Orm shifted, eyes lowered. "I thought I'd... maybe try sleeping in the main bedroom tonight," she murmured, voice unsteady. "Only if that's okay with you. I just... I miss it, but if I panic, I might go back to the spare room. I hope that's not weird."

Lingling's breath caught. She wants to share a bed again? That used to be so normal—yet now it was a milestone that felt both exhilarating and fragile. She forced an even tone, though tears threatened behind her eyes. "Of course it's okay. However you feel comfortable. I—" She broke off, voice trembling. "I've missed you so much, but no pressure. If you need to slip out, I understand."

Orm let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob. She pressed her forehead briefly against Lingling's shoulder. "Thanks," she whispered. With that, they slipped into the main bedroom, an air of both excitement and trepidation swirling. Lingling turned down the covers, heart galloping.

As they settled side by side in the dim light, a swirl of memories coursed through Lingling: the once-easy cuddles, stolen morning kisses, the warmth of waking up in each other's arms. She knew not to push too far. She simply lay there, letting Orm position herself in a comfortable space. After a few shaky moments, Orm exhaled, reached out, and found Lingling's hand under the blanket. Their fingers intertwined gently.

A hush of pure relief enveloped Lingling. She turned her head, seeing Orm's eyes glistening in the faint glow from the hallway. "Thank you," she mouthed, tears misting her own vision. Orm swallowed, leaning closer until their foreheads touched, breath mingling.

They stayed like that, a silent embrace, until Orm eventually closed her eyes. Lingling let her own lids fall, heart thrumming with the knowledge that Orm was letting her in again—not just physically but emotionally. She sees me. She trusts me. We're not fully healed, but we're trying. The terror that used to sit in Lingling's gut, imagining Orm vanishing, no longer suffocated her. They were forging a new intimacy, slow and meaningful.