Chapter Text
The day began with a crash.
But which day didn’t for a house with a pair of four-year-olds?
Not the alarming kind, the apartment had long ago been proofed against anything truly catastrophic, but enough to rattle the thin walls and send Uni, the little pomeranian, barking. Orm groaned into her pillow, one arm flung out in search of quiet that didn’t exist in a home with two four-year-old boys.
“MAE! HE TOOK MY DINOSAUR!”
“I DID NOT! IT WAS ON MY BED FIRST!”
Orm squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s seven in the morning,” she mumbled to no one. “Why are we already yelling?”
From the other side of the apartment came a calmer voice, steady and practised. “Okay. Pause. Both of you! Hands where I can see them.”
There was a brief silence, then two overlapping protests. Lingling sounded unimpressed. “I said pause, not argue.”
Orm smiled into the pillow despite herself. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, listening. The sounds were familiar enough that she could picture the scene perfectly: Lingling crouched between the boys in the hallway, one hand holding a bright green plastic dinosaur hostage, the other gently herding them apart. Her hair would already be tied back neatly, sleeves rolled up, expression patient but firm, a look she’d perfected sometime in the past four years.
It wasn’t a look Lingling had planned on ever needing.
Orm pushed herself up and swung her legs out of bed. The apartment smelled faintly of toast and coffee. Lingling must have been up for a while already. She padded toward the hallway just in time to see one twin, Kai, stamp his foot dramatically.
“He always takes my things!”
Lingling raised an eyebrow. “And you always take his storybooks. Should we bring that into evidence?”
The other twin, Jun, gasped. “You did not!”
“That was ONE TIME!!”
Orm leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with fond exhaustion. “What’s the verdict, Judge P’Ling?”
Lingling glanced up, lips twitching. “Shared custody of the dinosaur,” Lingling said after a slight deliberation. “Kai gets it for breakfast, Jun gets it tonight.”
Both boys groaned, but nodded solemnly. “Fair,” Jun muttered.
Orm shook her head. “You’re too good at this.”
Lingling stood, handing the dinosaur to Kai. “I had good practice.”
They exchanged a look, one of those quiet, loaded moments that had become second nature between them. It carried years in it. History. Choices. Things said and unsaid. The boys scattered toward the kitchen, already arguing about cereal.
Orm exhaled. “I swear, they wake up with chaos pre-installed.”
“They get that from you,” Lingling smiled.
“Hey.”
Lingling stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Coffee’s ready. Eat something before they drain your soul.”
Orm followed her into the kitchen, barefoot, hair still a mess. Lingling moved easily around the space, opening drawers without looking, reaching for bowls and spoons as if she belonged there. Which, in every way that mattered, she did. They worked side by side without needing to speak. Orm pouring milk, Lingling cutting fruit, both of them redirecting wandering hands and reminding the boys to sit properly. It was efficient, practised, and almost seamless.
It struck Orm, not for the first time, how easy it felt. How natural.
This wasn’t the life she had imagined at twenty, standing in a sterile clinic room, hands shaking as the doctor explained things gently, carefully. Pregnant, the doctor had said, as if Orm might break. Orm had felt like she already had. She had been twenty. Newly single. Terrified.
Lingling had been the first person she called.
--- --- --- --- ---
Lingling had known Orm since Orm was fifteen, back when Lingling was still a university student, coming over twice a week to tutor Orm’s younger brother in math. She had been older, composed, and intimidating in a quiet way. Orm had hovered at the edges then, listening, occasionally chiming in with a sarcastic comment just to see if she could get a reaction.
And somehow, over time, they had become friends. Real ones, the kind that survived age gaps and life changes, the kind that stuck. The seven-year age gap was never an issue. Lingling shared wisdom that Orm didn’t have to suffer to learn, and Orm shared with her the latest Thai slang and trendiest news.
So when Lingling showed up at Orm’s door that night, hair still damp from the rain, eyes full of concern, Orm had broken down in her arms. Lingling hadn’t hesitated. She had stayed. First overnight. Then for a week. Then longer. “Just until things settle,” she’d said.
Things never really had.
--- --- --- --- ---
“P’Ling,” Orm said, snapping back to the present. “You’re going to be late if you keep letting them negotiate like diplomats.”
Lingling checked the time. “I know. But if they feel heard, they’re less likely to riot later.”
“We are diplomats!” Kai beamed proudly.
Jun nodded. “Like superheroes.”
Orm laughed. “Eat your cereal, superheroes.”
After breakfast came the familiar scramble. Shoes that vanished mysteriously, backpacks that were exactly where they were left but somehow still wrong, jackets refused on principle. Lingling tied shoelaces while Orm hunted for Jun’s missing water bottle.
“You have a meeting today, right?” Lingling asked.
“Mhmm. Ten o’clock. You?”
“Let’s bring them to daycare together. Full staff at Kwong Kee today, so things won’t be that chaotic.”
“Famous last words,” Orm teased. “But thank you.”
Lingling glanced at her. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know,” Orm said. “But I still want to.”
They herded the boys out the door, Lingling carrying Jun on her hip when he decided suddenly that walking was beneath him, with one hand tightly holding onto Kai’s. Orm locked up, keys jingling.
The walk to daycare was loud and full of questions, about trees, and buses, and why dinosaurs couldn’t come to school. Kai soon ended up getting carried by Orm, negotiating for an extra bedtime story.
After drop-off, they walked back together, the street quieter without the boys. Orm stretched her arms over her head. “It’s weird,” she said. “How empty it feels without them.”
Lingling hummed in agreement. “I used to think quiet was something to chase.”
“And now?”
“And now I think I like noise,” Lingling said softly.
They reached the apartment, slipping back into the calm they’d carved out together. Orm grabbed her bag, checking her phone. “You ever think about leaving?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
Lingling paused, keys still in hand. She looked thoughtful rather than startled. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “About travelling. About the things I thought I would do by now.”
Orm’s chest tightened. “You could still—”
Lingling shook her head gently. “I could. But I don’t want to leave this.” She gestured vaguely to the apartment, the life, and Orm herself.
Orm swallowed. “You have given up a lot.”
“I chose this,” Lingling said, firm but kind. “There’s a difference.”
They stood there for a moment, the weight of it pressing in. Love, unnamed but heavy in the room. Lingling glanced at the time. “We’re both going to be late if we keep standing like this.”
Orm laughed, the tension easing. “Right. Go. I’ll see you tonight.”
Lingling hesitated, then reached out and squeezed Orm’s shoulder, a brief, grounding touch. “Dinner?”
Orm nodded. “Always.”
As Lingling left, Orm watched the door close behind her. The apartment felt different without her, emptier in a way that had nothing to do with the children.
She didn’t know yet that something was shifting. That the balance they had lived in for years was about to be tested. That soon, jealousy would creep in, quiet and unwelcome, forcing truths they’d both been carefully avoiding.
For now, though, it was just morning. Just breakfast dishes in the sink. Just the comfort of a life that fit so well it was easy to forget it had never been meant to exist this way at all.
--- --- --- --- ---
By the time Lingling arrived at Kwong Kee Roast, the kitchen was already alive.
Heat rolled out to meet her as she pushed open the back door, sweet, smoky, and unmistakable. The scent of crackling pork skin, soy, star anise, and something caramelised hung thick in the air, clinging to clothes and skin the way memory did. Knives knocked rhythmically against chopping boards. Woks hissed. Orders were shouted in a familiar shorthand that only long practice could sharpen.
This place had been hers long before her life became what it was now.
“Boss Ling!” someone called.
Lingling lifted a hand in greeting, slipping on her apron without breaking stride. She moved through the kitchen with quiet authority, checking stations, tasting a glaze, nodding once at a cook who straightened instinctively under her gaze. She was good at this. Confident. Grounded. She’d been this person before she’d become something else too, before midnight feedings and daycare schedules and learning which cartoon characters caused meltdowns if skipped. Before Orm.
“Jie.”
Lingling stopped just short of the prep table.
Danny leaned against it, arms crossed, grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was younger by four years but carried himself like someone who thought he was older. Hair slicked back neatly, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked under one arm. He ran the cooking side of Kwong Kee Roast now: making sure the chefs are cooking with the right proportions, suppliers delivering on time, store and staff schedules. The one who made sure people do not end up having food poisoning, and Lingling’s vision doesn’t collapse under its own success.
“What?” Lingling asked warily.
Danny’s grin widened. “You were smiling.”
Lingling frowned. “I was not.”
“You were,” he insisted. “The Orm smile.”
She sighed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Danny continued lightly, walking beside her as she checked inventory, “normal people don’t come in at ten in the morning already smelling like home-cooked breakfast and domestic bliss.”
Lingling shot him a look. “I came straight here.”
“Exactly.”
She swatted his arm with a folded cloth. “Focus.”
Danny laughed but followed her lead, flipping open his clipboard. “Michelin inspectors were spotted in Chinatown again last week.”
“I know,” Lingling said. “The pork supplier called me twice about it. Said they tried to act normal but stood out like a sore thumb.”
“Good news,” Danny said. “Means we are still relevant.”
Lingling hummed, distracted. She signed off on a few things, asked after a staff member’s sick leave, and corrected a seasoning ratio out of habit. The motions were automatic. Danny watched her for a moment, then lowered his voice. “You okay?”
Lingling paused.
That was the thing about Danny. He teased relentlessly, but he noticed things. Had always noticed. Probably because he’d watched her quietly reroute her entire life without ever announcing it.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been fine for four years.”
Lingling didn’t answer immediately. She wiped her hands, leaned back against the stainless steel counter, eyes drifting toward the front of the restaurant where customers were already trickling in. Locals, tourists, and regulars who ordered the same thing every time and still acted surprised by how good it was.
Kwong Kee Roast had started as a risk. She had poured everything into it, savings, time, and ambition. She loved eating, and she wanted to do something that combined her love for food with her heritage.
You see, Lingling Kwong was born in Hong Kong to a Chinese father and a Thai mom, before moving to Thailand when she was 12. She thought of the famous roasted pork in Hong Kong, and although Thailand had something similar, it was still different. She brought in the authentic Hong Kong taste in roasted pork and char siu, with some limited-time-only specialities where her father’s recipes met her mother’s Thai spices, refined and disciplined until the flavours sang. The Bib Gourmand recognition had come two years later. Then again. And again. And it never went away.
By every measurable standard, she had succeeded.
And yet.
“She asked me if I was seeing anyone last night,” Lingling said finally.
Danny blinked. “Who?”
“Orm.”
That earned her a long look. “And?” he prompted.
Lingling exhaled. “I said no.”
Danny tilted his head. “Was that a lie?”
Lingling shot him a warning look.
“I’m not accusing,” he said quickly. “Just… asking.”
She folded her arms, the weight of the question pressing into her ribs. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is,” Danny said gently. “But four years is a long time to live in complicated.”
Lingling closed her eyes briefly. Four years. Four years since she had told herself it was temporary. Since she had moved into Orm’s apartment with a duffel bag and a vague plan. Four years since the twins were born, impossibly small, red-faced and loud, changing everything before she could even catch her breath.
She remembered the first night after the twins arrived. Orm slept from exhaustion, the twins crying in alternating turns, and panic clawing up her throat as she held one baby while preparing a bottle with the other hand. She hadn’t known what she was doing. She had just… did it. Then she did it again. And again. Midnight feedings. Daycare pickups when Orm’s meetings ran late. Birthday cakes shaped like dinosaurs and buses. Doctor appointments. Fevers. Nightmares.
At some point, she’d stopped thinking of it as helping. It had simply become her life.
“You ever think about what you wanted before all this?” Danny asked quietly.
Lingling opened her eyes. “All the time.”
She had wanted to travel. To go back to Hong Kong and study the food scene there. To open another branch overseas, preferably somewhere out of Asia, so everyone can have a taste of Hong Kong and Thailand. To disappear into cities where no one expected anything from her beyond the food she served. She had imagined herself alone and free, measuring success in stamps on a passport and new menus scribbled in notebooks.
Instead, she knew the names of every teacher at the twins’ daycare, which pyjamas can prevent bedtime arguments, and what breakfasts best start a day after a difficult night. She knew how Orm took her coffee without asking. “I don’t regret it,” Lingling said, firm. “I just—”
“Wonder,” Danny finished.
She nodded.
Danny set his clipboard down. “You know people already think you’re married, right?”
Lingling snorted. “I know.”
“Do the kids?”
She hesitated. “They think… I’m family.”
Danny smiled softly. “Sounds about right.”
“They also think you are family.”
“I am,” Danny replied, giving his sister a soft smile.
The front bell chimed as another group of customers entered. Lingling straightened instinctively, slipping back into the role she wore so well.
“I have a date,” she said suddenly.
Danny’s eyebrows shot up. “You— What?!”
“It’s nothing,” Lingling added quickly. “Just… dinner. Someone Junji knows.”
Danny studied her face. “And how do you feel about that?”
Lingling thought of Orm that morning, barefoot in the kitchen, hair tied up messily, with that one strand that always fought its life to stand up, laughing as she negotiated peace between two small boys. Thought of the way their lives fit together so easily, it had become invisible.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I think I should find out.”
Danny nodded slowly. “That sounds like a good place to start.”
She pushed off the counter. “I should get back to work.”
Danny grinned, teasing tone returning. “Don’t forget to tell Orm.”
Lingling froze.
“Just saying,” he added lightly. “If it’s nothing, it shouldn’t matter.”
She didn’t reply.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of orders and decisions, of praise and complaints, of the steady rhythm that grounded her. But underneath it all, the questions hummed.
What did she want? What had she put on hold? And what would happen if she reached for it now?
Most importantly, what about Orm?
That evening, as she wiped down the counter and prepared to head home, Lingling caught her reflection in the glass, apron smeared, hair slightly undone, eyes thoughtful. She thought of the apartment waiting for her. Of dinner plans. Of the couch they shared at night, close but careful.
She didn’t have answers yet.
But for the first time in four years, she was letting herself ask the questions.
--- --- --- --- ---
Dinner was loud.
It always was.
Orm stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, trying to stir without burning anything while two small bodies circled her like satellites, each demanding attention in a different octave.
“Mae, can we have sausages and eggs?”
“But I don’t like eggs today!”
Orm sighed theatrically. “Well, today is an eggs and sausages household. Democracy.”
“That’s not democracy,” Kai said solemnly.
Jun nodded. “That’s dic…dictatorship!”
Lingling, who had just come home and was leaning against the counter, laughed outright. She rolled up her sleeves without thinking and stepped in, reaching for plates. “Alright, diplomats,” she said. “You get eggs. You get sausages. And if you argue again, I will keep the dessert.”
That worked.
The twins scrambled to the table, suddenly obedient. Orm shot Lingling a look, half amused, half grateful.
“You’re too powerful,” Orm said.
Lingling smiled, easy and familiar. “Years of practice.”
They moved around each other without friction, passing plates, refilling cups, and intercepting flying eggs. Orm caught Lingling’s eye more than once across the table, shared smiles blooming in the middle of the chaos. The boys talked over each other about daycare politics, who sat with whom today, who cried, who didn’t share crayons, while Lingling listened attentively, asking questions like she’d been there herself.
At some point, Jun leaned sideways and rested his head against Lingling’s arm.
Dinner ended with sticky fingers, a minor disagreement over who had more sausages, and Lingling theatrically declaring the kitchen closed while ushering the boys toward the bathroom.
Bath time followed, splashes, laughter, and the inevitable negotiation over whose turn it was to pour water over whose head. Orm dried hair while Lingling laid out pyjamas. The routine was so practised it felt choreographed. Two bedtime stories by Orm later, one about talking animals in a zoo, one about a bus that somehow turned into a spaceship, the twins finally surrendered to sleep. Having finished washing the dishes, Lingling lingered by the door, watching their chests rise and fall.
“They were extra energetic today,” Orm whispered.
Lingling smiled softly. “They had a good day.”
She pulled the door closed gently, and for a moment, they stood there in the hallway, the apartment suddenly quiet in a way that felt earned.
Their night routine followed naturally.
Orm poured two glasses of red wine instead of the usual chamomile tea. Lingling noticed but didn’t comment, just accepted the glass and followed Orm to the couch. They sat close, shoulders brushing, legs angled toward each other without conscious thought. The wine was warm and grounding. The apartment lights were dimmed. Outside, the city hummed faintly.
For a while, they talked about everything. Orm’s marketing meeting, a new supplier Kwong Kee Roast was considering, and the daycare notice about an upcoming overnight ‘camping’. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did.
Then Lingling set her glass down. “Can I ask you something?” she said.
Orm turned to her. “Of course.”
“Earlier,” Lingling began slowly, “you asked me if I was seeing anyone.”
Orm nodded, heart picking up speed. “I did.”
“Why?” Lingling asked.
The question hung between them, gentle but sharp.
Orm stared into her wine, swirling it absently. “I don’t know,” she said at first. Then she sighed. “That’s a lie. I do know. I just… wasn’t sure if I should ask.”
Lingling waited.
“It felt like something I should know,” Orm continued. “Like…that would change things.”
“Change what?” Lingling asked softly.
Orm swallowed. “Us.”
The word landed heavier than either of them expected.
Lingling’s breath stilled. “You think we…we would change?”
Orm glanced at her, eyes searching. “Wouldn’t we? I just felt there’s something different recently…”
Lingling didn’t answer right away. She leaned back into the couch, one arm draped along the backrest behind Orm, close but not touching. The familiarity of it made Orm’s chest ache.
“I’ve been talking to someone,” Lingling said finally.
Orm’s stomach dropped. “Oh,” she said, too evenly.
Lingling watched her carefully. “It’s nothing serious. Just light conversations. Dinner once.”
Orm nodded, forcing a smile. “That’s good. You should—” She stopped herself. “You should do that.”
Lingling tilted her head. “You sound very convincing.”
Orm laughed weakly. “I’m working on it.”
Silence stretched. The wine tasted sharper now. “How do you feel about it?” Orm asked, surprising herself with the question.
Lingling considered. “Confused,” she admitted. “I thought it would make things clearer. Remind me of who I was before.”
“And did it?”
Lingling shook her head. “It made me realise how much has changed.”
Orm’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Changed for the better?”
“Yes,” Lingling said immediately. Then she hesitated. “But also… complicated.”
Orm let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “That seems to be our theme.”
Lingling smiled faintly. “We’re very consistent.”
They shared a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly, leaving something more vulnerable in its place. “I never meant to ask you that,” Orm said suddenly. “About seeing someone. It just slipped. I think… part of me just assumed you would always be here.”
Lingling’s gaze softened. “I am here.”
“I know,” Orm said. “I just…just sometimes I forget that you chose this. That you could choose something else.”
Lingling reached out then, resting her hand lightly on Orm’s knee. The touch was steady, grounding. “I didn’t put my life on hold,” she said gently. “I built a different one.”
Orm looked at her, emotion flickering across her face. “And if you decide you want more?”
Lingling met her eyes. “Then I want to be honest about it.”
The words sat between them, fragile and sincere. Neither moved away. Neither leaned closer. Outside, a car passed. Somewhere down the hall, one of the twins shifted in his sleep.
Orm took another sip of wine, then set the glass down decisively. “I think,” she said carefully, “that if you start seeing someone seriously…we’ll need to talk.”
Lingling nodded. “I think so too.”
Not a confession. Not yet.
But something had shifted. The ground beneath them no longer felt quite so stable nor so distant. Lingling reached for her glass again, her fingers brushing Orm’s as she did. The contact was brief, accidental.
Neither of them pulled away right away.
They sat there, sharing the quiet, the wine, the weight of words finally spoken. Aware, now, that whatever they were pretending not to feel had begun asking to be named.
And neither of them was ready to ignore it anymore.
--- --- --- --- ---
Days passed.
After the talk, after red wine and half-truths and words that hovered too close to something dangerous, life simply continued. The world didn’t tilt. The apartment didn’t feel any smaller. Lingling still woke before everyone else, still moved through mornings with the same calm efficiency, still handed Orm a mug of coffee without asking how she took it. The twins still woke like small storms.
“MAAAEEE!!!! Jun won’t wear his socks!”
“They’re itchy!”
“They are not itchy!”
Orm stumbled out of bed on autopilot, already tired, already smiling despite herself. Lingling was already in the hallway, crouched down, holding two pairs of socks like offerings. “These are the soft ones,” she said patiently. “The ones you like.”
Jun eyed them suspiciously. “He touched mine.”
“I did not!”
Lingling didn’t sigh. She never did. “Alright. Swap.”
The crisis dissolved.
Orm leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene with a familiar ache in her chest. This easy choreography had become the backbone of her days. It was what made everything else manageable. They moved through breakfast, through spilled milk and forgotten books, through the walk to daycare where the twins argued about clouds and held Lingling’s hands without thinking. Other parents smiled at them, waved, and made small comments. “See you tonight,” someone said casually, as if it were a given.
Orm smiled back. It always felt like a given.
Work filled the hours that followed. Orm answered emails, took calls, juggled deadlines. Lingling ran the restaurant and sent the occasional messages.
Lunch was chaos.
Danny says hi.
They met again in the evening, as they always did, coming together like two halves of a routine. Dinner was noisy. The twins asked questions, endless, earnest, impossible questions.
“Why is the sky orange?”
“Why can’t dinosaurs come back?”
“Why does Aunty Lingling know everything?”
Lingling laughed. “I do not know everything.”
“Yes, you do,” Jun said confidently.
Orm caught Lingling’s eye across the table. The look they shared was brief but full. Fond, amused, something softer beneath. Nothing had changed.
That, somehow, made everything feel more fragile.
--- --- --- --- ---
The text came on a Wednesday.
Orm was still at her desk when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it absently, expecting a grocery question or a reminder about daycare forms.
Lingling Kwong 11:55AM
I’m going to be home late tonight.
Don’t wait up. Will miss dinner.
Sorry.
Orm stared at the screen.
Her first instinct was to ask why. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, the question already formed. Work? How late? Do you want me to save you some?
She deleted the draft.
Capybara 11:59AM
Okay. Drive safe.
She sent it before she could rethink it. The words sat there, polite and distant. Orm told herself it wasn’t her place to ask. Lingling had her own life. Had always had one, even if it ran parallel to Orm’s for so long that the lines had blurred. Orm finished her work and picked up the twins from daycare alone. They didn’t notice at first, not until they were halfway home.
“Where’s Aunty Lingling?” Kai asked suddenly.
Orm kept her voice light. “She’s working late today.”
“Oh,” Jun said, processing this. Then, “She hardly works late.”
Orm gave Jun a small smile. “Just sometimes.”
Jun frowned. “But she reads the dinosaur book. And tonight, it’s dinosaurs.”
Orm smiled tightly. “I can read it tonight.”
They accepted that. For now.
At home, the apartment felt subtly wrong. Not empty, exactly. Just quieter in a way that didn’t sit right. Orm moved through the motions, cooking dinner while the twins played on the floor. She set four plates out of habit, then stopped, embarrassed with herself, and put one back.
Dinner was messier than usual.
The twins talked over each other, voices louder, questions sharper. They asked too many questions, something that felt normal on days when Lingling had dinner with them. And they asked about Lingling again.
“Is she coming back?”
“Why can’t she eat with us?”
Orm answered patiently, but the words felt weaker each time.
After dinner came bath time. It was much harder alone. Water splashed everywhere. Questions asked were left unanswered when Orm was stretched thin, making sure one boy didn’t start drinking bath water. Someone cried when shampoo got in their eyes. Orm dried hair with aching arms, her movements a little less sure without Lingling there to catch what she missed.
“Aunty Lingling does it better,” Kai said without malice.
Orm swallowed. “I know.”
Bedtime was worse.
The boys were extra clingy tonight, both wanting a bit more of Orm, now that Lingling is not beside them. The first story was interrupted twice. The second took longer than usual, with Jun insisting Orm do the voices properly and Kai correcting her when she mixed them up.
“She makes the bus sound different,” Kai said.
Orm forced a smile. “I’m doing my best.”
They finally fell asleep, tangled in their blankets, exhaustion winning out. Orm lingered at the doorway longer than she usually did, watching their faces soften in sleep. Lingling should have been there, she thought. The idea came suddenly, sharp and unwelcome, and Orm had to stop herself.
She closed the door quietly and stood in the hallway, unsure what to do with herself. There was no shared cleanup routine tonight. The dishes sat unwashed in the sink, waiting for Orm to pick herself up and get done with them. No quiet conversation in the kitchen. No reaching for two mugs.
Orm poured herself a glass of wine instead. She sat on the couch alone, the apartment too still around her. She checked the time once. Then again.
It’s fine, she told herself. She said she would be late.
Late could mean anything. Eleven. Midnight. Later. Orm tried to distract herself, scrolled through her phone, and put on a show she barely watched. Her thoughts kept circling back, unwanted and persistent.
Where was Lingling?
Who was she with?
Was she laughing the way she did at home, the way that crinkled her eyes, making it seem like she had four eyebrows when her eyes squinted into lines?
Orm pressed her lips together and took another sip of wine. This wasn’t fair, she told herself. She had no claim. No right to feel this way. Lingling had given years of her life freely. Orm couldn’t cage her with unspoken expectations.
And yet.
The wine glass emptied. Orm didn’t pour another, afraid of what it might loosen. She checked the time again. Past ten. Past eleven. There was no message. She moved through the apartment restlessly, straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened, touching Lingling’s abandoned jacket on the back of a chair as if it might hold answers.
The absence hurt more than she had expected.
It wasn’t just that Lingling wasn’t there. It was how much of Orm’s evening had been built around her presence without Orm ever noticing. The way their routines interlocked. The way silence had always been shared.
This loneliness was new.
Orm sat on the edge of her bed, wine glass forgotten on the coffee table. The clock glowed softly in the dark. Midnight passed. She lay down, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tumbling over each other.
I like her.
The realisation landed quietly, but it stayed.
Not the abstract kind of liking. Not the comfortable affection she’d explained away for years. This was sharper. More frightening.
I like her, and I’m afraid of losing her.
Orm turned onto her side, curling in on herself. Tears came without warning, hot and sudden. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from making a sound, as if Lingling might hear her even if she wasn’t home. She cried for the years she hadn’t questioned. For the ease she’d taken for granted. For the fear that she’d waited too long. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under. Her breathing evened out, tears drying on her cheeks.
Lingling still wasn’t home when Orm fell asleep.
The apartment held its breath, waiting.
--- --- --- --- ---
Lingling came home at one in the morning.
The lock clicked softly behind her, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. She paused just inside the door, keys still in her hand, listening. No loud and chaotic shenanigans from the twins. No television murmuring from the living room. No low hum of conversation. Just the steady, sleeping hush of a home that had already moved on without her for the night.
She slipped off her shoes and set them carefully by the door, an old habit born from coming home after the twins were asleep, especially when they were babies. If one twin woke up from the noise, the other would be up within the next ten seconds. The lights were dim, just the small lamp by the sofa left on, casting a warm pool of yellow across the room.
Lingling took in the details slowly, the way she always did when she returned late. The couch cushions are slightly indented. A folded blanket draped over the armrest, unused. And then the kitchen.
She walked over and stopped.
There were dishes in the sink. Not many, just enough to notice. A pot soaking, plates stacked neatly beside it. Orm’s efficiency written into the small order of it all. Lingling swallowed. Orm never left dishes overnight if she could help it. It meant the evening had gotten away from her. Or maybe she’d been too tired.
On the coffee table sat a single wine glass, finished, the red darkened where it had dried against the crystal. Lingling reached out and touched the rim lightly, as if it might still be warm.
She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into the empty room, the words instinctive and useless all at once.
She had told Orm she would be late. She had every right to go out, to see someone, to explore something that wasn’t folded into school runs and grocery lists. She reminded herself of that as she moved quietly through the apartment, setting her bag down, washing her hands.
Still, guilt settled in her chest, heavy and persistent.
She imagined the evening without her. The chaos she usually helped absorb. Bath time alone. Two bedtime stories instead of one shared between them. The way the twins always asked for her when she wasn’t there. Lingling pressed her lips together. She had known it wouldn’t be easy. Had known that Orm carried more weight on the nights Lingling was gone.
Knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
She rinsed the wine glass and set it in the rack, the clink too sharp in the quiet. Her movements were careful, almost reverent, as if she were moving through someone else’s space rather than the home she had lived in for years. When everything was settled, she leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.
The date replayed itself, unprovoked.
--- --- --- --- ---
Bam had been easy to talk to.
That was the first thing Lingling had noticed. How the conversation flowed without effort, how there were no awkward pauses to fill, how they knew what each other was going through at work. They had met at a small bar not far from the restaurant, somewhere neutral, away from both of their usual haunts.
Bam was warm, easy-going, with a laugh that came quickly. She worked in the food industry too, ran a small chain of cafés that focused on sustainable sourcing and local partnerships. It was easy to find common ground there, commiserating over supply chain nightmares, staffing woes, and the strange mix of passion and exhaustion that came with feeding other people for a living.
“People think it’s glamorous,” Bam had said, smiling wryly over her drink. “They don’t see the hours. Or the margins.”
Lingling had laughed, genuine and relieved. “Or the nights you spend recalculating costs because one thing went wrong.”
They talked about Thailand, about how hard it was to build something lasting there without burning out, about the pull of elsewhere that never quite went away. Bam spoke of opportunities overseas, of friends who had left and thrived. “I thought about it,” Bam admitted. “Leaving, I mean. But in the end, I stayed. This is home, even when it’s hard.”
Lingling had nodded. “I stayed too.”
For a moment, she hadn’t explained why.
Later, she had.
“Family,” she’d said simply.
It wasn’t a lie. Just incomplete.
The connection had been real. Lingling couldn’t deny that. There was a spark of recognition in talking to someone who understood her world, who didn’t need explanations for why some nights stretched into dawn or why success never felt as stable as it looked from the outside.
They laughed and shared stories. At one point, Bam’s hand had brushed hers on the table, a light, accidental touch that lingered just a second too long.
Lingling had felt it. Had acknowledged the warmth, the possibility.
And yet.
Something had been missing.
It wasn’t the absence of attraction. There was plenty of that. It wasn’t the conversation, which had flowed easily enough. It was the quiet pull back toward home. The awareness of time passing. The way her phone had sat heavy in her pocket, unread messages waiting.
The way, when Bam had asked, “Would you want to do this again?” Lingling had hesitated before answering.
“Yes,” she had said. Because she meant it, at least in part.
But even as she had said it, her mind had flickered to Orm standing in the kitchen, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. To the twins arguing over which dinosaur they each wanted for the night in bed with them. To the rhythm of a life that wasn’t exciting in the way dates were supposed to be, but was steady, and warm, and real.
On the way home, Lingling had tried to unpack the feeling. Tried to tell herself it was just nerves, just the strangeness of stepping back into something she hadn’t done in years.
Still, the sense of holding back hadn’t left her.
--- --- --- --- ---
Now, standing alone in the apartment, Lingling felt it again. Stronger.
She moved down the hallway, careful to avoid the loose floorboard that creaked if stepped on wrong. She peeked into the twins’ room first, as she always did. They were sprawled across their beds, blankets tangled, faces soft in sleep. Lingling smiled despite herself, adjusting Jun’s blanket where it had slipped down, brushing Kai’s hair back from his forehead.
She lingered a moment longer than usual, chest tight.
Then she turned toward Orm’s room.
The door was closed, but not fully latched. Lingling hesitated, hand hovering over the knob. She hadn’t planned to wake her. Just to check. She pushed the door open slowly.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the light from the hallway. Orm lay curled on her side, facing the door, still dressed in the clothes she had worn that day. She must have been exhausted, Lingling thought. Orm slept with one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other wrapped around herself. Lingling stepped closer, heart thudding quietly in her chest.
That was when she saw it.
The faint, dried tracks along Orm’s cheeks. Tear streaks, barely visible unless you were looking for them, but unmistakable once you did.
Lingling froze.
Her breath caught, sharp and painful. She stood there, unable to move, the weight of the sight pressing down on her. Orm’s face was peaceful now in sleep, but the evidence of the evening lingered there, fragile and damning.
I did this, Lingling thought, the realisation heavy and immediate. She hadn’t meant to hurt her. Had told herself that honesty, distance, and exploration were all necessary steps. That she couldn’t stay frozen in place forever.
But looking at Orm now, alone, exhausted, marked by tears she hadn’t been there to witness, Lingling felt something in her shift. She reached out, stopping herself just short of brushing Orm’s hair back. Didn’t touch. Didn’t wake her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, the words barely sounded. She stood there a moment longer, memorising the shape of Orm in the dim light, the quiet trust of her sleep.
Then Lingling stepped back, closing the door softly behind her.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, heart racing.
Whatever she was searching for out there, she realised, it wasn’t going to come without a cost.
And she wasn’t sure anymore that the cost was one she was willing to pay.
--- --- --- --- ---
Lingling woke before the alarm.
For a moment, disoriented, she lay still and listened to the hum of the refrigerator down the hall, the distant sound of traffic beginning to stir, the soft, even breathing coming from the other side of the wall. Morning, familiar and inevitable.
She got up quietly, washed her face, and tied her hair back. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, she had already made a decision she wasn’t entirely proud of.
She would act like she hadn’t seen the tears.
Breakfast unfolded the way it always did, controlled chaos wrapped in routine. The twins barreled out of their room, arguing about who got the blue cup, their energy boundless in a way only four-year-olds could manage so early in the morning. Lingling flipped eggs at the stove. Orm moved around the kitchen beside her, efficient, wordless. They didn’t look at each other much.
“How was dinner yesterday?” Lingling asked lightly, as if the question hadn’t kept her awake half the night.
Orm didn’t pause. “Fine,” she said. “They ate more than usual.”
Jun perked up immediately. “But Aunty Lingling wasn’t there.”
Lingling crouched down so she was level with them. “I wasn’t. I had something to do.”
“What thing?” Kai asked, brow furrowed.
“A grown-up thing,” Lingling said, smiling. “Sometimes adults have to meet friends or talk about work.”
“Did you eat?” Jun pressed.
“I did,” she said honestly. “I missed you, though.”
“What about me?” Kai asked.
“I miss you just as much.”
That seemed to satisfy them.
Orm watched the exchange from the counter, her expression carefully neutral. They finished breakfast, packed bags, and wrangled shoes. The goodbye routine at daycare was quick. Hugs, reminders, and promises to come back soon. Lingling lingered a second longer than usual, watching Orm kneel to fix Kai’s jacket.
“I’m going straight to work,” Orm said quietly as the twins disappeared into the daycare. There was something final in the way Orm said it, like a door closing gently but firmly.
They could have walked back home together. It was a short walk, fifteen with the boys but five minutes if it was just them. But Orm left, without waiting for Lingling, and Lingling simply watched her walk away, the familiar twist tightening in her chest. She couldn’t explain this feeling. Or maybe she could, but it hurt too much to.
--- --- --- --- ---
After daycare, Orm didn’t linger.
She walked away briskly, phone already in her hand, posture set with the kind of purpose that came from wanting, or rather needing, to stay busy. If she slowed down, if she let herself think too much, the morning would catch up with her. The way Lingling had smiled too carefully at breakfast. The way her voice had been gentle when she explained her absence to the twins, packaged neatly so it wouldn’t bruise small hearts.
Orm knew that tone. It was the same one people used when they didn’t want to tell the whole truth.
She got home without Lingling. She knew they could have walked together. No matter how rushed Orm’s mornings were, especially during new marketing campaign launch days, she would always have time to walk home with Lingling.
But not today.
Today felt too heavy. Every second together felt suffocating for Orm.
She got into her car and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that came from raising four-year-old twins, but a deeper one, emotional, bone-settled.
She started the engine. Work helped. It always did.
Orm’s office was small but efficient, tucked into a shared building with other startups and agencies. She greeted her coworkers with practised warmth, slipped into her chair, and let the familiar rhythm of tasks take over. Emails. Calls. Deadlines. The steady click of her keyboard grounded her, gave her something measurable to complete.
Still, her mind wandered.
She replayed the previous night in fragments. The unanswered questions from the twins, the way the apartment had felt too quiet, the wine she had poured and barely tasted. The way she’d checked the time, again and again, pretending it didn’t matter.
You don’t get to be upset, she told herself firmly. You knew this was coming.
Lingling had been honest. Hadn’t hidden the fact that she was talking to someone. Had warned her, gently, that life might shift.
Orm swallowed and focused on her screen.
At lunch, she ate alone at her desk, scrolling absently through her phone. Messages from other parents popped up, playdate confirmations, and reminders about daycare events. Someone sent a photo from last weekend, the twins laughing while Lingling held them steady on the climbing frame.
Orm stared at it longer than she meant to.
People assumed things because of pictures like that. Because of the way Lingling always stood just a little too close. Because of how natural it looked.
Maybe they’re right, a small, traitorous part of her thought. She closed the app and put her phone face down.
By mid-afternoon, the ache returned, not sharp, but persistent. A dull awareness of something unspoken sat between her and the person she shared a home with. Orm found herself drafting imaginary conversations in her head, each one ending the same way: with her stopping short, afraid of asking for something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want.
She finished her work early, more out of restlessness than efficiency. As she packed up her bag, she caught herself hoping, irrationally, that Lingling would text. That there would be some small reassurance, some acknowledgement of the quiet tension. Her phone stayed silent.
On the drive home, traffic crawled. Orm watched the city pass by in slow motion, the familiar routes blurring together. She thought about the first year after the twins were born, how Lingling had moved in temporarily, how exhaustion had knitted them together in ways neither of them had expected.
She hadn’t planned on falling in love.
It had happened anyway. Softly. Gradually. In the way Lingling learned the twins’ preferences without being asked. In the way she stayed, year after year, choosing this life even when she didn’t have to. Orm parked the car and sat there, engine off, hands trembling just slightly.
I don’t know how to do this without her, she admitted to herself.
That scared her more than anything else.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and got out of the car. Evening would come. She would go pick the twins up. Dinner would need to be made. The twins would be bursting with stories over dinner.
Life would continue. And somewhere between all of it, Orm would have to decide whether staying silent was still enough, or whether the truth she had been holding back was already demanding to be seen.
--- --- --- --- ---
Kwong Kee Roast was already buzzing when Lingling arrived.
The scent of char siu and roast duck filled the air, comforting and grounding. Danny was near the counter, clipboard in hand, barking instructions with the confidence of someone who had grown into responsibility earlier than expected. He spotted Lingling immediately. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“Good morning to you too,” Lingling said dryly.
He grinned. “Date hangover?”
She froze for half a second, then sighed. “Is it that obvious?”
Danny motioned her toward the back, away from staff and customers. “You gonna tell me or just stand there looking guilty?”
Lingling leaned against the prep table. “I went out with someone. Bam. She’s… nice.”
Danny raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Nice?”
“She’s smart. We get along. Same industry. I enjoyed our conversations,” Lingling hesitated. “But it felt incomplete.”
Danny didn’t interrupt. He never did when she got like this.
“I kept thinking about home,” Lingling continued. “About N’Orm. About the boys. About how late it was.”
Danny crossed his arms. “And that bothers you.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re surprised.”
Lingling shot him a look. “I’m not blind.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re very good at pretending.”
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “She cried last night.”
That got his attention. “N’Orm?”
Lingling nodded. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
Danny’s voice softened. “You didn’t know if it was because of you.
Lingling shot her brother a look. “I thought we were being honest here?” Lingling sighed. “I just don’t want to see her sad because of me. Of my choices.”
Danny sighed. “Intent doesn’t matter as much as impact.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the restaurant humming around them. “So what do I do?” Lingling asked quietly.
Danny shrugged. “You stop lying to yourself. Either you’re in, or you’re out. But P’Ling…you can’t keep half-living there.”
Lingling closed her eyes.
“Because from where I’m standing,” he added, “you already chose. You’re just scared to say it out loud.”
She didn’t argue.
Some truths didn’t need defending.
--- --- --- --- ---
Saturday arrived gently.
There were no alarms, no frantic rush out the door. The twins padded into the kitchen in mismatched pyjamas, hair sticking up at odd angles, immediately demanding pancakes. Lingling flipped them at the stove while Orm supervised syrup distribution like a negotiator handling volatile assets.
For a while, it almost felt like nothing was wrong.
Almost.
Lingling caught Orm watching her once, unreadable, and looked away first. They moved around each other carefully, as if the air between them had grown delicate. When Lingling mentioned she would be out for most of the afternoon, Orm only nodded, her expression polite, contained.
“Have fun,” she said, and meant it in the way people mean things when they’re trying to be kind.
The twins asked where she was going, who she would be with, and what she would have for lunch without them. Questions that Orm wanted to ask but didn’t dare to let slip, thankful for the boys’ inquisitive nature. But Lingling shared almost nothing, not sure how the boys would react if they heard that she would be going on a date. Not sure how Orm would feel if she explicitly mentioned the date.
Lingling left with that weighing on her more than she expected.
--- --- --- --- ---
She met Bam near the river, where the afternoon sun softened everything it touched. This date was different from the last. Longer, unhurried, built around walking and talking rather than a single table and a couple of drinks. They wandered through a weekend market first, commenting on produce and street food, stopping for iced tea when the heat became too much. Bam laughed easily, pointed things out, and asked questions that showed she was genuinely paying attention.
It would have been easy to slip into something comfortable.
They found a quiet café later, tucked away from the crowds. Bam ordered for both of them, remembered Lingling’s preference without being showy about it. “You seem… lighter today,” Bam said, studying her over the rim of her cup.
Lingling smiled faintly. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“Different, then,” Bam amended. “Like you’re deciding something.”
Lingling hesitated, then nodded. There was no reason not to be honest. Bam had earned that much already. “There’s something you should know,” she said slowly. “About my situation.”
Bam leaned back, attentive but relaxed. “Okay.”
Lingling took a breath. “I live with my best friend. N’Orm. We’ve known each other for years. She has twins. I help raise them.”
Bam didn’t interrupt.
“We’re not dating,” Lingling continued. “But…we co-parent. In every way that matters. The boys see me as family. Even though we are not blood-related.”
Bam considered this. “And that’s complicated.”
“Yes.”
“P’Ling…Are you in love with her?”
The question was gentle, not accusatory. It still landed like a stone dropped into water. Lingling looked down at her hands. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think… maybe I have been acting like I don’t need to know. ”
Bam nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me.” She didn’t recoil. Didn’t retreat. Instead, she reached for her coffee again, thoughtful. “I won’t lie,” Bam said. “That’s a lot.”
“But…?”
“But it’s not a dealbreaker.”
Lingling looked up, surprised.
“I’m not scared of complicated,” Bam continued. “And I’m not asking you to abandon anyone. I’d be willing to try. For you. For whatever this could be.”
The words settled between them, warm and earnest.
They talked more after that. About boundaries, expectations, what trying might actually look like. Bam was careful, respectful. She didn’t diminish Orm’s role, didn’t frame it as a competition.
As the afternoon faded toward evening, they walked along the river again. The city hummed around them, alive and indifferent.
Bam stopped suddenly, turning to face Lingling fully. “Can I ask you something?”
Lingling’s chest tightened. “Okay.”
“Would you be my girlfriend?”
The simplicity of the question was what made it hard.
Lingling felt the pull. Towards the possibility Bam offered, a life that might be lighter in different ways, something chosen deliberately, not grown accidentally. She also felt the pull back home. Towards bedtime stories and shared glances, Orm’s quiet presence, and the boys’ unquestioning trust.
“I need time,” Lingling said softly. “To think.”
Bam smiled, a little sad but understanding. “I figured you might.”
They stood there for a moment longer, neither rushing to close the space between them. “Take the time, P’Ling,” Bam added. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Lingling nodded, grateful and heavy all at once.
As she headed home later, dusk settling over the city, she realised something with startling clarity.
She wasn’t choosing between two people. She was choosing between the life she had built without naming it, and the courage to finally name what it was.
And Lingling wasn’t sure what was the right choice for her.