Chapter Text
The workshop began the way all workshops did: folding chairs, lukewarm bottled water, and a room full of people pretending they weren’t terrified.
Lingling stood at the front, hands loosely clasped, listening as the coordinator introduced her with a list of credits that felt oddly disconnected from the version of herself standing there. Applause followed—polite, eager, a little starstruck.
Her eyes, however, found Orm immediately.
Orm sat in the second row, posture straight, hands folded in her lap like she was afraid of taking up too much space. She wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans, hair tied back—but there was a confidence there that hadn’t existed two years ago. Not loud confidence. Quiet, earned confidence.
Lingling had to force herself to look away.
“Today isn’t about technique,” Lingling began, voice steady. “You’ll learn that over time. Today is about surviving this industry without losing yourself.”
A few people nodded, notebooks already open.
Lingling spoke about rejection, about waiting, about the difference between being seen and being understood. She spoke carefully, deliberately avoiding Orm’s gaze, because every time she caught it, something inside her pulled too tight.
Then came the practical portion.
“We’re going to do scene work,” the instructor announced. “One short scene, cold read. Volunteers?”
Silence.
Lingling smiled knowingly. “I’ll pick.”
Groans, nervous laughter.
She scanned the room—really scanned it this time—and let her eyes settle on Orm.
Orm’s breath hitched.
“You,” Lingling said gently. “And—” she pointed to another trainee, a boy near the back. “You.”
Orm stood slowly, face composed but eyes wide.
Lingling handed them the script. It was short. Two pages. A reunion scene. Of course it was.
Orm glanced at the first line and froze for half a second—just long enough for Lingling to notice.
Not a coincidence, Lingling thought. Never is.
They took their positions.
The room quieted.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the instructor said.
The boy started. He did fine. Competent. Present.
Then Orm spoke.
“I thought you’d forgotten me.”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It carried.
Lingling felt it immediately—the same sharp recognition from two years ago, intensified by distance and time and everything unsaid.
The boy responded. Orm listened, reacted, adjusted. She wasn’t acting at him; she was acting with him. When her eyes filled with tears, it felt unforced, inevitable.
Then came the moment.
The script called for a pause. A look. A choice.
Orm hesitated—just a fraction longer than written—and in that pause, her eyes flicked toward Lingling.
It was instinctive. Unplanned.
But it changed everything.
Lingling’s breath caught audibly.
Orm looked away, cheeks flushing, and finished the scene.
Silence followed.
Then applause. Real applause.
The instructor grinned. “That,” he said, “is what happens when someone stops trying to impress.”
Orm bowed quickly, almost tripping over herself as she returned to her seat.
Lingling forced herself to breathe.
During the break, Orm tried very hard not to stare.
She failed.
Lingling stood near the window, talking to one of the coordinators, profile sharp in the afternoon light. She looked older than Orm remembered. Not aged—seasoned. Like someone who’d learned how to carry weight without letting it bend her spine.
Orm looked down at her hands.
She didn’t even look at me during the scene, Orm thought, heart sinking. That was just me being stupid.
“Orm.”
She looked up instantly.
Lingling stood in front of her, close enough that Orm could smell her perfume—something clean and faintly floral, painfully familiar.
“You did really well,” Lingling said.
Orm smiled automatically. “Thank you. I—I learned a lot from watching you.”
Lingling tilted her head. “Even when I wasn’t there?”
Orm froze.
Lingling hadn’t meant to say it like that. The words slipped out before she could soften them.
Orm’s fingers tightened around her notebook. “I follow… interviews. Sometimes.”
“I know,” Lingling said quietly. “I do too.”
Orm’s eyes widened.
“You—?”
Lingling nodded once. “I’ve watched every trailer you’ve been in. Even the test ones.”
Something fragile flickered across Orm’s face—hope, quickly masked by disbelief.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s… nice.”
Lingling hesitated. Then, softer: “I’m glad you’re here.”
Orm swallowed. “Me too.”
They stood there, suspended in something that felt like the space between heartbeats.
Then someone called Lingling’s name, and the moment snapped.
The workshop ended with promises of future sessions and group photos. Lingling posed easily, practiced smile in place, while Orm stood a careful half-step away, close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it meant nothing.
As people began to leave, Lingling turned to Orm.
“Are you free tonight?” she asked.
Orm blinked. “I—”
“Not like—” Lingling stopped herself, then laughed quietly. “I mean, to talk. Catch up.”
Orm nodded too fast. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
They exchanged numbers again, fingers brushing when Orm handed over her phone.
The contact name lingered on Lingling’s screen longer than necessary.
Dinner turned into coffee. Coffee turned into a walk.
They didn’t talk about the past at first. They talked about schedules, about the workshop, about how exhausting debut promotions were. Safe topics. Neutral ground.
Finally, Orm stopped walking.
“You never answered my messages,” she said, not accusing—just stating a fact.
Lingling closed her eyes briefly. “I know.”
“I thought maybe I’d imagined… whatever it was,” Orm continued. “Back then.”
Lingling opened her eyes. “You didn’t.”
Orm laughed softly, humorless. “Then why?”
Lingling looked at her—really looked at her. At the woman Orm had become.
“You were eighteen,” Lingling said. “And I was afraid of being someone you’d regret.”
Orm’s voice trembled. “I was afraid of being someone you’d never see.”
The words hung between them, heavy and fragile.
Neither of them reached out.
Yet.
A week later, the announcement dropped.
New Series: Untitled (Working Name) Cast List Pending Finalization
Orm stared at her phone, heart pounding.
Then Lingling’s name appeared.
Then hers.
They were in the same project.
Orm laughed, breathless, and immediately panicked.
The first table read was chaos.
Scripts shuffled. Chairs scraped. Introductions repeated too many times.
Lingling arrived late, apologizing quietly as she slid into her seat.
Orm didn’t look at her.
Not because she didn’t want to—but because she knew if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
They read.
Lingling’s role was complex. Layered. The kind of character built for her.
Orm’s role—originally—was small. A supporting character. Observant. Peripheral.
But when Orm spoke, the room shifted.
Again.
Lingling looked up.
Their eyes met over the script.
And this time, neither of them looked away.
The director noticed.
By the third rehearsal, everyone noticed.
They gravitated toward each other unconsciously—standing closer, reacting sharper, scenes humming with tension even when the script didn’t call for it.
Finally, the director pulled Lingling aside.
“Your chemistry with Orm,” he said carefully. “It’s… interesting.”
Lingling’s stomach dropped. “Is there a problem?”
“Quite the opposite,” he said, smiling. “We’re considering changes.”
That night, Orm received the revised script.
She opened it with shaking hands.
Her character’s name had been moved.
Her scenes doubled.
And in bold, unmistakable letters:
Love Interest
Orm stared at the page, heart racing.
Her phone buzzed.
Lingling: Did you get the new script?
Orm typed, erased, typed again.
Orm: Yes.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Lingling: We should talk.
Orm stared at the message, pulse thundering.
She whispered to herself, “How long is it going to take until we confess?”
The answer, she suspected, was: not much longer.