hourglass stories of me and you

I

The soft murmur of the crowd was drowned by the steady hum of grief that seemed to blanket the entire hall. Lingling stood near the back of the room, her eyes fixed on the black-and-white photograph at the altar, framed with delicate white lilies. Her heart felt heavy, burdened with the loss of their mutual friend, someone they had once shared countless moments with in the entertainment world.

She hadn't expected to see Orm here today, seated quietly at the front, her posture tense, yet graceful as always. Even from a distance, Lingling could sense the turmoil behind Orm's calm exterior. She wondered if Orm had been able to sleep at all last night. Lingling herself had spent hours tossing and turning, thoughts of untimely demise of her friend, and their memories together flooding back like an unstoppable tide.

It had been three years since Orm and her last spent any significant time together. A few Instagram likes here and there, some shared online banter for the fans. But their days of being inseparable, of attending fan meetings and events side by side, projects that they worked on together day and night, felt like a distant memory. They had once been the embodiment of the perfect GL visual pairing—#LingOrm—captivating fans worldwide with their chemistry both on and off screen. But over time, the schedules thinned out, and with it, their interactions.

Lingling felt a familiar ache building in her chest, the one she tried to suppress for so long. She had feelings for Orm—still have them, if she was honest with herself. But she could never be sure if Orm's feelings for her went beyond that of a partner, a co-star. Their careers were everything, and she worried that trying to push for something more would ruin the dynamic that had brought them closer. So she kept her feelings buried, locked away.

As the eulogy began, Lingling quietly made her way to an empty seat next to Orm, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Orm's usual spark was gone, replaced with a sadness Lingling knew all too well.

They hadn't spoken more than a handful of words in months, and yet, as she sat down, the air between them felt charged with unspoken things—emotions, regrets, what-ifs. Orm seemed like a satellite that had drifted far away, caught in orbit yet still visible, always up there, somewhere—watching, waiting, but just never within her reach.

— 10 Years Ago —

The acting class at CH3 was packed that day, buzzing with the energy of hopefuls eager for their big break. Orm, always full of energy, found her attention drawn to one person sitting quietly in the corner—P'Ling.

Lingling Kwong, seven years older than her, had a presence that was hard to ignore. Her quiet intensity commanded respect, and Orm had admired her from a distance.

Ling's talent was undeniable—she could slip into any role effortlessly, her emotions so raw and genuine that Orm often forgot she was watching someone act. That talent was intimidating, and Orm, normally confident, felt hesitant about approaching her. As Covid hit shortly after their acting class finished, they only meet each other occasionally and would pass by, exchanged birthday wishes, nothing more.

A few years later; when Orm found out she'd try for casting alongside Lingling in TSOU, she was excited but also nervous. Ling had been cast as Dr. Fahlada—strong, composed, graceful—while Orm will try to get casted as N'Earn, her warm, expressive love interest. It felt like a reflection of their real selves.

Their first casting scene together was simple—N'Earn wishing Dr. Fahlada a happy birthday. Orm expected it to go smoothly.

Orm's voice softened as she stepped closer. "Happy birthday, P'Mor," she said, offering a genuine smile, her heart pounding slightly as she handed over the gift.

But then Ling did something unscripted. Her hand brushed against Orm's cheek, her gaze softening as she leaned in—closer than the script called for. Before Orm could react, Ling's lips were on hers.

Orm froze. The kiss felt too real—too natural. But as much as Orm's heart raced, she convinced herself this was just part of Lingling's exceptional acting. Still, Orm's body responded instinctively, her lips moving gently in return.

When they pulled apart, Orm's cheeks flushed, her gaze lingering on Ling. She felt something stirring inside her, but quickly pushed it down. She respected Lingling too much to believe the emotions exchanged in the scene were anything more than acting. Ling was that good, after all.

The casting director's awkward cough broke the moment. "That was... really good. I think we're done for today." The crew also seemed flustered, but Orm couldn't shake the feeling that she was the only one left wondering what had really happened.

— definition of safe zone —

After the casting, Orm spent nearly every day with Lingling in the workshop. They worked through intense scenes, diving into the emotional depths of their characters. Lingling, as always, was perfect. Every glance, every touch felt genuine, but Orm was hesitant to trust her own instincts.

Sometimes, after long days of filming, when they were back to being just Ling and Orm, it didn't feel all that different. Ling would brush her hand against Orm's arm in ways that felt far too intimate for off-camera moments, and Orm would laugh just a little too softly, a little too affectionately, whenever they were alone. It felt like they were stuck in some sort of limbo—neither fully Ling and Orm, nor entirely P'Mor and N'Earn.

TSOU became a massive hit, launching both of their careers to new heights. And the fire inside her kept growing, despite her best efforts to keep it contained.

Their second project, Only You, took things to a whole new level. Orm played N'Ira, an idol who falls for her bodyguard, P'Tawan. This time, the tension and longing between their characters felt even more real.

Lingling had once mentioned in an interview that she hoped Orm would "explore her life," meet new people, and have experiences outside of their professional world. Ling's stance on their ship was clear—she encouraged Orm to live her life fully, as if wanting to give her room to grow.

That statement had left Orm in her own version of a "safe zone." She could stay there, safe, as long as she didn't push the boundaries. Ling was older, wiser, and Orm couldn't imagine being the one to make the first move.

So Orm waited—patiently, quietly—hoping that if Ling felt the same, she would be the one to step forward. If Ling ever felt the same way, surely she would say something, wouldn't she?

Now, as Orm sat beside Lingling at the funeral, her mind wandered back to those moments. So many chances, so many times she had convinced herself that her feelings were one-sided. She had stayed in her safe zone, afraid to disrupt what they had. But now, as they sat in silence, Orm wondered how much longer she could wait.

Maybe Ling had been holding back too. If there was ever a moment to take a chance, maybe today was the day.