faded echoes ¦ sk x ks

CHAPTER 25

It's been almost a month since Ling and Orm last spoke-an agonizing conversation supposed to give her closure, but instead, the wound deepened. Ling hoped for a moment of finality, a moment of peace she could let go of those haunting echoes that their past incessantly brings up. Yet again, the conversation dived her into darkness, nothing but eternal pain. The only solace she could find was to step away from everything.

She decided to take a break for the meantime from managing the hospital, a decision that felt almost necessary as the weight of her emotions dragged her under. The penthouse, which was once comfortable and warm, was now a fortress of isolation. She locked herself inside, avoiding not only work but the world itself. She hoped to gain control again, but the silence swallowed her whole in the quiet confines of the sanctuary.

Ling was no clearer than the day before, with every passing day feeling just like the others. Her brain continued to reel off the dialogue she had exchanged with Orm during their final moments together, their words haunting her, with the universe continually reminding her of what she's lost and remembering all those she's lost love for amidst all the leftover feelings.

Dawn was difficult. Ling woke, fully groggy and disoriented, to an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She'd stare blankly out the windows of her penthouse, where morning sunlight filtered through the curtains; it did nothing to soothe the darkness inside. In the dead of night, when sleep eluded her, she would seek out the small box of gifts Orm had once given her-a piece of their history, a thread connecting her to a past she couldn't escape. She would hold it in her hands, trying to find solace in the tangible reminders of a love that once seemed so certain.

Her mother, Dew Pinkamol, said nothing when Ling decided to take a break from managing the hospital. No reprimands, no questions about what was happening. Dew just offered support, a quiet understanding that Ling needed time-time to heal or perhaps to simply exist without the pressure of expectations. Her sister, Milk, was a constant presence, visiting almost daily, as though trying to make sure Ling hadn't disappeared entirely. Milk would bring her meals, the comforting food her mother cooked, trying to reignite some semblance of normalcy. But Ling could barely bring herself to eat. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by a dull ache in her stomach that no food could fill. Sandwiches, boiled eggs, and the occasional vegetable salad were the only things she could manage.

Ling's life had become dull and colorless, as if the world around her had lost its color. Days passed like one another, and she was trapped in a fog, unable to break out of it. Her body reflected the toll she was taking on her emotional state. Dark circles under her eyes had replaced the vibrant gaze of the woman she once was. Her daily ritual, which had earlier been her source of strength and solace, was long gone; instead, her penthouse stood dark with curtains drawn tight. They only opened them when her mother or sister came over, but even on those occasions, the bright light that peeked through highlighted the hollowness in her eyes.

No one blamed Ling for retreating into herself. They knew she needed space, silence. They had seen this before, after her first breakup with Orm, but it was different this time. The change was more profound, more unsettling. Back then, Ling had shut everyone out completely, consumed by grief. She had drowned herself in alcohol, a desperate attempt to numb the pain, and the nights had been filled with tears and memories of Orm. Ling would call her name, mumbling it into a prayer. She'd mumble it aloud, as though she expected this miracle to breathe life back into her. There was never to be a miracle. And, when she ceased crying, there she would be, staring blankly at some point in nothingness, out of touch, drifting on what had once passed for thoughts of day and night.