WHISPERS OF LINGORM : A One-Shot Anthology - Chapter 18: Chapter 18

I didn’t know where I was driving, and for the first time in years, I didn’t care. Bangkok outside my window was drowned in a silver blur—rain tracing memories down the windshield like ghosts I couldn't shake off. It wasn’t just the city that was wet; it was me, soaking in a storm I had carried for two weeks straight. My body was exhausted, not from work or sleepless nights, but from feeling too much. My mind? A battleground. Scattered arguments, silence that cut deeper than words, and her—always her—Orm, standing in every corner of my consciousness like the one truth I couldn’t unsee.
We fought again. Or maybe "I" fought. It’s always me these days—snapping, pushing, yelling about little things, breaking glass with words and hoping she’ll still pick up the pieces. But how do I explain to her that I’m not angry at her—I’m angry at the ache inside me, the one she planted without meaning to? How do I tell her that it’s not her fault, but it’s always her name my heart bleeds when it breaks?
Orm. My best friend since the first scraped knee. My quiet constant. My home before I even knew what homes were supposed to feel like. I grew up with her fingerprints all over my life—my childhood laughs, my teenage chaos, my first heartbreak, my every dream. She’s the one who remembers how I used to cry when my mom was late from work. The one who knows I only eat mango sticky rice when I’m truly happy. The one who held my hand at the cremation when I had no words left. She's been there, always, quietly, steadily—my north star in human form.
And that’s the cruel part. Because somewhere between late-night noodle runs and her hand falling asleep in mine on movie nights, I stopped looking at her like a best friend and started seeing her as something more. As "the"one. As the girl I wanted beside me when I grew old, grey, wrinkled, annoying—but never alone. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t "try" to fall. But I did. And God, I fell "hard".
Two weeks ago, I finally told her. Told her I loved her—not just as my person but as my "person". I told her I wanted more, that we were grown now, settled, stable—she with her career in publishing, me with my law firm—and I didn’t want to keep dancing around a feeling that had become my truth. I stood in our apartment, trembling, eyes burning, heart in my hands—and she… she gave it back to me, untouched.
“You’re my friend,” she said.
No explanation. No soft denial. Just that. Friend.
And I’ve been spiraling ever since. Because she knows me. She sees me. How can she not see this pain in my eyes when she’s always been the one to read them best? I know she cares. I see it in how she still brings me ginger tea when I cough, in how she turns the bathroom light on low because she knows I wake in the dark gasping. She cares. But she still said no.
And now every word we exchange feels like we're dragging a knife between us. Every glance feels like pretending. I fight with her not because I hate her—but because I can’t bear how close we are and yet how far. How she still smiles at me like nothing’s changed, when everything has. How she touches my shoulder and I flinch—not from her touch, but from what it reminds me I can’t have. I don’t know what hurts more—that she doesn’t love me back, or that she still loves me… just not that way.
And God, it’s killing me.
I miss her in the apartment even when she’s sitting on the other side of the room. I cry silently in the same bed we built memories in. I hold onto our shared toothpaste and her left-behind hair tie like they’re relics of a love story that never had a chance to begin. She’s still everything to me. And maybe that’s the problem. Because when someone is your home, your heart, your peace—how do you live when they draw a line and say you can't cross it?
My thoughts were spiraling, drowning me louder than the rain hammering on my windshield, when my phone buzzed again. Of course. Orm.
She’d been calling nonstop since I left the apartment—since I stormed out in another one of my chaos-colored moods, too loud, too hurt to even hear her side of the silence. I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t. Not this time. Not when even breathing felt like betrayal.
I turned the screen over, face-down, like that could hide my guilt too.
Tell me, how am I supposed to talk to her? With what face do I even speak to the one person I love most when all I can do is push her away? I’m not just mad at her—I’m mad at myself. For expecting. For hoping. For confessing. For bleeding my heart bare when I knew she wouldn’t catch it.
So I ignored the call. Again.
And took a random left through a narrow cut I didn’t recognize. Maybe I was hoping getting lost on the road would feel less like getting lost in life.
But fate? That bitch had other plans.
Barely had I turned when someone stepped right in front of my car.
I slammed the brakes—tyres screaming, my heart crashing into my throat. The car skidded to a sharp stop just inches away from her.
“What the hell!” I screamed as I jumped out of the car, soaked instantly by the pouring rain.
My blood was already boiling. The rain felt more like an insult than water. And she? She just stood there… smiling.
SMILING.
“You got a death wish or what?! Are you blind?” I barked, stepping closer, every nerve frayed, ready to snap.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes half amused, half amused-er.
"Wow. I just cheated death, and instead of "thank God", I got "the storm herself"
I blinked.
Was… was that sarcasm?
"Are you seriously SMILING after almost becoming a pancake under my car?"
"And are "you" seriously dripping like a broken faucet just to scold a stranger?"
I looked down. My clothes clung to my body like regret. Meanwhile, she was standing under a perfectly calm umbrella, dry as sarcasm, her eyes trailing me up and down like she was watching a strange animal perform tricks in a zoo.
My jaw twitched. “You think this is funny?”
She smirked, took one slow step forward. “No. But you? Standing in the middle of Bangkok monsoon season, hair like a drowned cat, yelling like you’re starring in some rainy movie climax? Yeah. Kinda hilarious.”
I had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Rain dripped from my lashes. My throat closed around a scream that melted into a breathless laugh.
Who was this girl?
Before I could bite back, I shot one last glare and turned to walk back to my car, only to hear her say casually, “I was trying to cross. I got late for work thanks to this dramatic weather and you!”
"Excuse me? What do you mean huh?"
“And what exactly you do?” I muttered, trying to sound indifferent.
“I work at a girls’ massage centre down the street. If I don’t reach in ten minutes, my boss will massage my paycheck to zero.”
I paused.
She was late. Because of the rain. Because of my car. And somehow, that was now my fault because I took the turn sharply.
"Where exactly?"
She pointed. I sighed.
“Get in.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re already alive. Let’s try and keep it that way. I’ll drop you.”
She gave me a slow grin, then gracefully stepped into my passenger seat like she belonged there. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite. On first dates.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not a date.”
“Sure. But if it was, you'd definitely get points for drama.”
We drove in silence for a minute, the rain tapping on the roof like secrets it couldn’t keep.
Then she glanced at me and said, “Your clothes are soaked. You’ll fall sick. You should dry them at the centre. We’ve got those warmers.”
“And walk around in a towel while my jeans dry?” I scoffed.
“Well, we do have robes. Silk. Fancy. Also... you look like you need a massage.”
I looked at her. She was serious.
“Massage?”
“Look at you. Your shoulders are screaming. Your eyes haven’t slept. And your soul?” she smiled, “That’s carrying way too much.”
I stared at the road ahead, her words landing a little too perfectly.
Maybe I did need to breathe. Even if for a moment. Even if it was in a stranger’s world where Orm didn’t exist, where pain hadn’t set up camp in my chest. A place where I wasn’t the girl who got rejected. Just a tired woman with soaked clothes and a stiff heart.
"Hmm" i murmured.
I pulled up in front of a modest glass-fronted space tucked between a vegan café and a tarot-reading auntie who was probably scamming people with glitter and gaslighting. A small flickering neon sign read in bold cursive:
"UNHOLY : Massage & Wellness for the emotionally dehydrated."
I blinked.
“…The hell kind of name is that?”
The girl—yeah, her, the chaotic umbrella-wielding menace from earlier—walked ahead and shoved the door open like it owed her rent. She turned back to look at me, grinning as the chime above the glass jingled like an innocent shop… which this clearly wasn’t.
“Welcome to Unholy,” she said, dropping her bag like a dead body. “We rub you the right way. Emotionally. Mostly.”
I stared at her.
“You know ‘unholy’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘trust me with your spine’, right?”
She stretched like a cat and smirked. “Well, it *screamed something*—you’re here, aren’t you?”
I hated how she had a point. And a nice jawline. And no sense of danger.
She led me inside, flipping on warm lights that somehow made the whole place smell like cinnamon, lemon balm, and poor decisions.
“The locker room’s on the right,” she said. “Dry clothes inside. Don’t ask how I know your size—I’m gifted.”
I squinted. “Creepy.”
“Efficient.”
“…You’re a lot.”
She shrugged. “You’re wet.”
Touche.
I changed in silence, wondering what fever dream I’d walked into. But when I stepped out—wrapped in soft cotton, still mildly suspicious—she was already waiting outside with a clipboard and two other girls beside her, both looking at me like I was a guest judge on a reality show.
The one with purple hair leaned back in a chair, eyes glinting. “And *this* is the emergency car rescue you were talking about?”
“She was yelling at me in the rain,” Rain Girl said proudly. “It was hot.”
“It was chaotic,” I corrected.
“Same thing,” she shot back.
The second girl, probably the manager or the witch of the coven, looked me up and down. “You didn’t even get her name?”
Rain Girl smiled like this was her personality trait. “I’m building tension.”
Purple Hair snorted. “You’re building a lawsuit.”
They all laughed. I stood there, hands on my hips, staring at the room full of women with scented oils and no impulse control.
This was not how my evening was supposed to go.
But damn, my back was killing me.
Rain Girl patted the massage table. “Lie down, mystery woman. I’m about to erase all your trust issues.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You have healing hands?”
She winked. “No, I have guilt and three years of formal training.”
I sighed, gave in, and climbed up. “Don’t kill me.”
“No promises.”
One hour later, I walked out of Unholy with slightly wobbly knees, no tension in my shoulders, and at least 60% less emotional baggage. I felt like I had just been gently murdered by lavender-scented kindness.
“Name?” she asked as I opened my car door.
I paused.
“Ling.”
She grinned. “Rain”
Of course. I chuckled. “Fitting.”
By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. The lights were dim. Orm was waiting, arms folded, anger practically glowing off her like an LED sign that said
“You’re dead.”
“Where. The hell. Were you?”
I didn’t answer. Just walked past her like a reformed sinner in soft pants. She followed.
“I called you. You vanished. I thought you were in a ditch—!”
I turned to her, leaned against my bedroom door, and sang—soft, casual, deadly.
“Mommy don’t know Daddy’s getting hot…..
"...What?!”
"doing something unholy…”
I opened the door, winked. “Night"