Short Stories-Lingorm

Weights and Wishes

Lingling had always lived by the rules of iron and sweat. The gym was her sanctuary, a place where the world's chaos couldn't touch her. She was a beast with the dumbbells, a queen of squats, and every ounce of her day revolved around progress. She wasn't just lifting weights—she was lifting her entire life, bit by bit, day by day.

Her world was routine: wake up, train, eat, train, sleep, repeat. Everything else was secondary. And that included the flamboyant, spoiled girls she'd occasionally see drifting through the gym's lobby, dressed in designer athleisure that probably cost more than her rent. They were nothing like her, and Lingling preferred it that way.

One morning, as Lingling was finishing up her deadlifts, she saw a figure stroll past the gym's glass doors. A tall girl in a bright pink Louis Vuitton tracksuit, her heels clacking on the pavement, her hand clutching a designer handbag like it was some sort of sacred accessory. Lingling raised an eyebrow. "Another rich girl," she muttered under her breath, not bothering to hide the judgment.

But it wasn't just any rich girl. This was Orm, one of the most infamous shopaholics in town. Her entire identity was built around buying, flaunting, and living in a world of luxury. Orm wasn't at the gym to lift weights—she was there to make an appearance. She had an appointment with her personal trainer, but Lingling could tell she wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it.

Lingling, who had seen enough of Orm's social media posts to know exactly who she was, rolled her eyes. "She'll probably just take selfies and leave after fifteen minutes."

To her surprise, Orm walked into the gym, flashing a quick smile at the front desk, and then... froze. Lingling was finishing her set of pull-ups, and her muscles were tight, every motion full of purpose and strength. Orm gawked at her, and for a moment, Lingling felt that old, familiar awkwardness—the kind that came when she realized someone was watching her.

"Uh... can I ask you a question?" Orm ventured, her voice tentative, as she approached.

Lingling lowered herself from the pull-up bar, wiping sweat from her brow. "What's up?"

"Do you... do this for fun?" Orm gestured to the weights, the machines, the sweat-soaked atmosphere. "Like, you come in here every day and... work out?"

Lingling blinked. "What else would I do here?" she asked, genuinely confused.

Orm shuffled her feet, as if trying to find the right words. "I mean, you seem so... focused. I don't know how you do it. I can barely make it through ten minutes of cardio without getting bored."

Lingling couldn't help but smirk. "Maybe you're just not doing it right."

Orm's eyes widened. "You think so?"

"I know so," Lingling said, her tone serious but not unkind. "You can't just come here for the Instagram posts and the photo ops. If you're gonna lift weights, you've got to put in the work. It's not about looking cute or showing off your outfit."

Orm bit her lip. "I don't know. I'm kind of... out of my element. I've always been more about shopping and, well, things."

Lingling looked her up and down. It was obvious Orm had more money than sense, but there was something in her eyes—something that spoke of more than just surface-level frivolity. Lingling felt a flicker of curiosity. Maybe there was more to this girl than the designer bags and the perfectly curated Instagram feed.

"I'll tell you what," Lingling said, stepping toward Orm. "You give me one hour of your time. I'll show you how to do things the right way. You don't need to worry about what you're wearing or if your makeup's perfect. Just focus on the grind. Think you can handle it?"

Orm blinked, then glanced at her pristine, immaculately made-up reflection in the gym's mirror. "I mean, I guess I could try."

The next hour was a mix of awkwardness and hilarity. Orm, in her high-end sneakers and designer workout clothes, struggled to match Lingling's pace. Her form was all wrong, and she barely managed a set of squats without wobbling. But Lingling was patient—surprisingly so. She corrected Orm's posture, encouraged her when she seemed ready to quit, and even gave her a few tips on how to improve her stamina.

By the time the hour was over, Orm was exhausted, her face flushed with a combination of effort and disbelief. "I had no idea this was so hard," she admitted, sitting down on the bench with a dramatic sigh.

Lingling wiped her brow and offered a rare smile. "Told you. It's not about how you look. It's about pushing yourself past where you think you can go. And if you want to be good at this, you have to want it."

Orm hesitated. "And what if... I don't want it?" she asked, genuinely curious. "What if I just... enjoy shopping and my fancy bags more?"

Lingling thought for a moment, then shrugged. "That's fine. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. But if you ever get bored of the shopping and want something that actually challenges you—something that isn't just about spending money—you know where to find me."

Orm, still a bit winded, couldn't help but smile at the unexpected offer. "Okay, I'll think about it. Maybe... just maybe, I'll give it another shot. But only if you promise to take me on a shopping spree when I hit my first fitness goal."

Lingling raised an eyebrow. "Deal. But only if you actually earn it."

It was a strange, unlikely partnership, but somehow, over the next few weeks, Lingling found herself taking Orm under her wing. And Orm, in turn, found herself becoming addicted to the rush of progress—the feeling of overcoming something more challenging than a credit card bill.

And as for Lingling? She couldn't deny the subtle thrill she felt each time Orm showed up at the gym, her designer bags now swapped for a gym duffel. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to this shopping-obsessed girl than she'd originally thought.

They were an odd pair—one with muscles, the other with means—but somehow, in the middle of weights and wishes, they both learned a little bit about the other, and maybe even about themselves.

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