BEYOND THE HEADLINES || LINGORM (ON HOLD)

CHAPTER 6

Lingling removed her coat and stood up from the swivel chair. Her body protested, screaming in agony because she had spent too long hours in the hospital; it was already past eleven, but she did not budge from her office. She became a silent witness to her exhaustion. Very effortlessly, she picked up her car keys and bag, and the weight of the day and her thoughts were bearing down on her.

The soft hum of her car's engine was the only sound as Lingling slid into the driver's seat, and she started up the car-then instead of turning toward home, she turned the wheel in the opposite direction.

The night stretched out before her-a canvas of uncertainty. She turned in the direction of the beach, to the place she hadn't been in five years, not since that last time she had been there with her.

A seemingly endless road threatened to swallow every streetlight and shadow. Hour was late, but not of any concern. Her eyes kept pinned to the road ahead, her hands gripping the wheel with a quiet intensity. But in her thoughts, everything went about like a whirlwind, dragging her back to the woman she once loved-the actress who would have been everything for her. This actress still burned within her heart, though it has been quite a while since then.

A faint ache had begun to stir once again in her chest. Lingling's heart, long silent, now thudded painfully in her chest. Nothing had changed. Not in her heart. She still loved the woman.

"This is messed up...." Lingling muttered to herself, her voice tight with frustration.

She knew this moment would come. But she never thought it would hit her now, when the cuts still ache and questions are still alive in her mind. It feels like time hasn't passed at all, as if she were back at the very point she had begun from-lost and wanting answers that never were to be.

And within an hour and a half, Lingling stopped her car near the beach and stepped out into the gale-laden air that rushed to say hello. Wrapping her arms about her torso, she felt the stinging breeze like that of old, known sorrow. Waves rolled ashore; they were both balm and heartbreak-to remember, each one, the love that had been there.

Her feet took her to the water as the full moon silvered the grains of sand. She stood, weighed with the memories: confessions whispered under the stars, their first anniversary, the warmth of their kiss on the first day that counted to their future. How they had celebrated the first Christmas, the first New Year. till the day the actress left.

It was a wound that never been healed.

"I have so many questions, Orm," she whispered to the wind, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

If Orm had been an open book, easy to read and easy to understand, Lingling was the opposite-a mystery, an enigma. She was the unread novel, her heart a puzzle too complicated for anyone to solve. No one knew if she was hurting or didn't care; no one could decipher the layers buried beneath her carefully composed exterior.

Lingling sat down on the sand, her knees up tight to her chest. She held herself into a cocoon, her legs hugging tight. Five years have passed since she last stood here; five years have passed since she lost herself and the woman she loved in one cruel moment, that last final painful instant.

The question still reverberates unanswered in the hollow of her mind: Why?

No explanation. No closure. There was no reason why Orm walked away. And that was the hardest part-because she didn't give her answers, she didn't give her a closure. She couldn't move on. She was stuck, bound to the past, her feet rooted to the memories she couldn't run from.

She began to cry every night. Silent, wailing cries that no one could see. And she would ask herself, each and every night, had she enough time for Orm? Had she proved to Orm how much she loved her and cared for her? But she had silently carried all the pain, silently endured all the agony alone.

She still hurt. Still grieved over the love she believed she had long buried, tormented by feelings she had consigned to the past.

Lingling leaned her head back, her eyes on the stars, her voice barely above a whisper. "What did I do to deserve this?" Her words were shaky, her heart battered, but she shed no more tears.

She had wept all the tears that there were to weep. Her eyes were too tired and red to weep more. Her heart was hollow; there was no more left to fall from it. The pain had drained her away, leaving just an echo of what used to be, hollow and devoid of life.