Forget Me Not

Chapter Twelve: A Memory Too Sharp

Bangkok – 3:21 a.m.

Ling wasn't asleep.

She hadn't slept much in the past three nights, ever since Orm collapsed into her arms on that rain-washed bench. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fan and the low buzz of the city outside the balcony window.

She lay on the couch, one hand on her chest, staring at the ceiling, trying to will her body into stillness.

Then—

A sound.

Soft.

Sharp.

A breath caught in a throat.

She sat up.

Orm.

Ling found her sitting on the floor by the bedroom window, knees pulled up, hands fisted in the hem of the shirt she'd borrowed. Her shoulders shook.

The light from the street cast pale ribbons across her face.

Ling knelt slowly beside her.

"Orm?"

Orm didn't turn.

"I remember," she whispered.

Ling froze.

"Remember what?"

Orm's voice broke. "The fight. The last night."

She buried her face in her hands. "We were screaming."

Ling swallowed. "Yes."

"You asked me to stay."

Ling nodded. "Yes."

Orm's voice splintered. "And I left."

Ling closed her eyes.

Finally. Finally, she remembered something real.

"I hurt you," Orm whispered.

Ling reached out, fingertips trembling, and touched her wrist. "You were sick. You didn't know."

"I knew."

"No, you didn't."

"I was scared. I told you to stop waiting. That I didn't love you anymore."

Ling inhaled sharply, like someone had pressed a hand to her chest.

"Don't say that," she said. "Even now."

Orm looked at her, eyes rimmed red. "You cried. I didn't stay to wipe your tears."

Ling leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Orm's.

"I forgave you the second you walked away."

Orm shook her head. "I don't deserve it."

Ling held her face, gently. "Yes, you do. You're here. That's enough."

Orm collapsed into her arms.

They sat like that, a heap of tears and silence and aching forgiveness, while the city slept.

5:42 a.m.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.

Ling poured hot water over tea leaves, watching them bloom, her hands steady even though she felt like glass.

Orm had fallen asleep in her bed after sobbing herself silent. Ling had tucked her in and sat beside her until her breathing evened.

And now, alone in the soft amber light of dawn, Ling allowed herself to cry.

Quietly.

Without sound.

Because what Orm had said—that she remembered the end—was both a gift and a knife.

Ling sipped her tea, hands cradled around the cup.

She should be relieved.

She should feel hope.

But the way Orm had collapsed...

It wasn't just memory.

It was guilt.

It was loss without context.

Ling looked over at the bedroom door.

And wondered how many more times Orm would have to lose her again.

7:08 a.m.

Orm padded into the kitchen, eyes puffy but curious.

"Morning," she said softly.

Ling stood, ready to offer breakfast.

But then she paused.

Orm was scanning the kitchen like she'd never seen it before.

"You okay?" Ling asked.

Orm nodded. "Did I... cry last night?"

Ling's heart sank.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "A little."

Orm looked down. "Sorry."

"No need."

Orm wandered to the fridge, pulled it open. "This milk's the good kind."

"You always liked that brand."

Orm blinked. "Always?"

Ling tried to smile. "Yeah."

Orm poured herself a glass. Sat down.

Then, casually: "Did we ever fight?"

Ling froze.

"What?"

"You and me. Before. When we were... us."

Ling sat slowly.

"Why do you ask?"

Orm shrugged. "I had a weird dream. Like I was yelling. Like I broke something."

Ling stared at her.

Orm sipped her milk.

"Anyway. Probably nothing."

Ling went to the bathroom and shut the door.

Sat on the closed toilet seat.

Covered her mouth with her hand.

And sobbed.

Because Orm had remembered.

And just as quickly—forgotten.

And Ling—

Ling would have to carry that memory alone.

Again.