BEYOND THE HEADLINES || LINGORM

CHAPTER 8

"Let's take a break!" The voice of the director cut the air and seemed to call for just a moment of intermission.

Orm peeled off the leather jacket, clinging to her like a second skin. The cool air immediately hit her skin. Already there was her personal assistant, handing her a bottle of water with all the precision of someone who knew the drill too well. Orm sank into the chair, her body grateful for that moment of stillness.

Beside her, Namtan, her co-star and friend for far too long, slumped into the chair with a sigh of dramatic proportions. "That was freaking intense," she muttered, her voice dripping with both amusement and that something that gets a little exhausting.

Orm couldn't help herself; the sound her voice rang out in-out was soft, genuine laughter-that encompassed the years and camaraderie. "It sure is," she replied, leaning back. Her grip on the bottle eased.

Though this was not their first film together, the chemistry between them had changed. Their first project had been a romance series in which they played a couple that never worked out, much to their disappointment. While their performances were appreciated, something was missed-chemistry. Or rather, the right chemistry.

This time was different. In the action-packed drama they are currently filming, they were not lovers but partners-two agents on a highly volatile mission. It had been two long years since they last worked together, so when they found out they would be paired up again, they immediately called each other and hung out.

"And it's draining," added Orm, as she wiped her forehead. A grin was still active with Namtan's comment.

Namtan laughed, and the look on her face of weariness was erased for a moment. "Well, it is an action series, not a rom-com," she joked, her eyes rolling back to their previous romantic drama that flickered in her mind.

"Right. It's been two years since we did that." Orm's voice turned soft with a hint of nostalgia.

Namtan's expression became mock-serious. "And I still can't bring myself to watch it. Every time someone mentions the lack of chemistry, I just-" She paused dramatically, taking a sip of her coffee. "I just can't do it."

Orm chuckled at her honesty. "Fair enough."

"You two were fantastic in it," a voice broke in, drawing their attention.

The women turned to Lookmhee, a co-star who had been working alongside them. She sat in the empty chair beside Orm, her affable smile warm and inviting.

"Seriously?" Namtan raised her eyebrow playfully. "How was it? No chemistry, right?" she bantered.

Orm playfully smacked Namtan on the arm, laughing at Namtan's teasing as their laughter mixed with the mundane hum of the set around them.

Lookmhee laughed and shook her head. "I liked the series, though. And you both played well."

Orm and Namtan smiled together, the tension from that take dissipating as if steam was rising off of it. Still, though, Orm couldn't quite dispel the impression that the two of them had always just been more platonic, like family-certainly nothing that could translate to the onscreen intimacy the fans had hoped for. And, thank goodness, there hadn't been any intimate scenes in that series.

They somehow shift subjects to a lighter theme as the three women chatter over their multiple lives, the clock poised on its inevitable march toward evening. The set is running down. It is almost six, and they have only one scene to go between them and the end of the day.

Meanwhile, Lingling's mind was a battleground. She let out an exasperated sigh as she dropped the pen she'd been tapping relentlessly against her desk, the movement having become an unconscious tic since the rumor mill had spun its tale about her and Orm. Although the firestorm had quieted over the last week, Lingling's mind was still restless, unsettled by the past she couldn't quite shake.

The hum of the hospital, the antiseptic scent of sterility, the rhythm of her work-but nothing today would bring her the peace she so desperately needed. Orm, the events of that night, the haunting image of the wasted actress in her car-were all it would allow her to think of. It was as if the moment had branded itself into her soul, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

"You have to focus, Lingling," she whispered to herself, reaching back and balancing herself in the swivel chair, her lids dropping shut in an useless attempt to shut out the racing in her head.

But there it was, in all its helpless splendor: Orm's lost, bedraggled look. Lingling's eyes sprang open, and her body tautened with tension. There it was, hiding in plain view, deep inside her brain.

With a growl of frustration, she stood, shedding off the weight of the thoughts that were starting to cloud her clarity. She picked up the phone and left her office, her footsteps echoing in the quiet hallways as she began to move past the nursing stations, not one of which she made eye contact with-she was too confused.

She wanted to clear her head. She needed to get out-for just a moment-out of the relentless pounding of memories and questions she couldn't answer.

The coffee shop beside the hospital was a familiar hub of activity. She ordered her usual-something plain, something ordinary-and then sat wordlessly by the window. Outside, the world moved on, unaware of the storm churning inside her.

The barista placed her drink in front of her, and Lingling pulled her phone out. She snatched a shot of the coffee and immediately posted it to her Instagram story. In a way, this hollow gesture offered no actual solace.

But her mind would not rest. The look of Orm-the broken, wasted version of herself-she could not stop herself from seeing it, unable to call up. Lingling wanted to ask so many questions-words needed for expression-but they were all stuck inside and locked up in the compartments of her uncertainty. She drank her coffee, but comfort would not flow its way.

How could she forget something etched in her very being?