The bathroom door closed softly.
That was what hurt the most—that Ling hadn't slammed it, hadn't followed, hadn't stopped her. Just… let her go.
Rhea turned the lock and leaned her forehead against the cool mirror.
For a second she just stood there.
Then her shoulders shook.
She pressed her palm over her mouth, but the sound still escaped—broken, uneven, ugly. She slid down until she was sitting on the cold floor, robe clutched tight around her like armor she didn't believe in anymore.
"Idiot," she whispered to herself.
Her eyes burned. She scrubbed at them angrily. "Why do you always think it's about you?"
But the thought wouldn't leave.
Maybe she's not comfortable with me.
Maybe I push too much.
Maybe I want more than she does.
The mirror reflected her back at her—flushed cheeks, red eyes, lips still swollen from kisses that had stopped too soon.
"You begged," Rhea muttered bitterly. "You literally begged."
She hugged her knees, nails digging into her own skin like she deserved it. "She wants you close. She wants you open. And then she shut herself."
Her breath hitched again.
"Maybe I'm not… enough," she said, voice cracking. "Maybe I'm too much."
She laughed once, hollow and sharp. "God, listen to you."
Rhea rested her head against her knees, tears dripping onto the tiles.
"She doesn't owe you anything," she scolded herself. "You're the one imagining things. You're the one expecting."
But her chest ached in that quiet, aching way that came from wanting to be chosen fully—not halfway, not paused, not stopped.
"I just wanted to feel wanted," she whispered.
Ling sat down slowly outside the bathroom door.
Not leaning.
Not pacing.
Just sat—back against the wall, knees bent, like if she stayed still enough, she wouldn't scare Rhea further away.
"Rhea," she said quietly.
No answer. Just the faint sound of breathing—too fast, too broken.
Ling swallowed. "Open the door."
Silence.
Then Rhea's voice came through, thin and trembling. "Don't… don't do that."
"Do what?" Ling asked, already knowing.
"Sit there like I'm… something fragile you're waiting to pick up." Rhea let out a shaky breath. "I can understand, Ling. Really."
Ling's jaw tightened.
"You're controlled," Rhea continued, words tumbling out faster now, soaked in tears. "You always are. Maybe that's just how you are with everyone. Maybe I'm expecting too much."
Ling's hand lifted, hovering near the door, fingers curling into a fist instead of knocking.
"That's not true," she said, voice low but strained. "You don't understand."
Rhea laughed softly on the other side—bitter, self-directed. "See? You say that every time."
Her voice cracked. "You touch me like you want me. You look at me like I'm… everything. And then you stop. And I'm left thinking—what did I do wrong this time?"
Ling shook her head, eyes burning. "Nothing. You did nothing."
"But it feels like I did," Rhea snapped, then immediately faltered. "I keep thinking—maybe you're not comfortable with me. Maybe I make it hard for you. Maybe if I was different—"
"Don't," Ling said sharply.
Rhea flinched, even through the door.
Ling softened instantly. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
Rhea's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then explain it to me."
Ling opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her throat closed, the secret pressing against her ribs like it always did—too big, too dangerous. Her hand slid down the door uselessly.
"I can't," she said hoarsely.
On the other side, Rhea's breath hitched harder.
"Then this is on me," Rhea said, voice breaking. "It has to be. Because I'm the only variable here."
She cursed under her breath, angry and sobbing at once. "I hate that I keep doing this. I hate that I keep wanting more when you're clearly not—"
Ling's eyes blurred.
Tears slipped down before she even realized they were there.
"Rhea," she whispered, forehead pressing against the door now. "Please don't hate yourself for loving me."
The words stunned Rhea into silence.
Ling's shoulders shook once, barely controlled. "If this hurts you," she continued, voice cracking, "that's on me. Not you. Never you."
Rhea's sob turned quiet—confused now, raw. "Then why does it feel like I'm begging for something you don't want to give?"
Ling closed her eyes.
Because I want it too much.
Because if I let you touch me fully, everything breaks.
"I'm scared," Ling admitted softly.
Rhea's breath stuttered. "Of… me?"
"No," Ling said immediately, tears falling freely now. "Of losing you."
The space between them was a door—thin wood, unbearable distance.
Neither of them opened it.
Both of them cried on opposite sides, hurting for the same reason,
loving each other without the words that could save them yet.
Ling knocked again—soft this time, knuckles barely touching the wood.
"Rhea," she whispered. No dominance. No control. Just her name. "Please. Unlock it."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Ling slid closer to the door, knees drawn in, forehead resting against it like before. Her voice trembled now, stripped of everything sharp. "I won't touch you. I won't say anything you don't want. I just—please let me see you."
On the other side, Rhea hugged herself tighter. Her voice came out muffled, exhausted, raw.
"I need space."
Ling's breath hitched. "Just for a minute."
"No." Rhea swallowed hard. "Ling… go sleep. Rest. Please."
The word please broke something.
Ling's hands curled into the fabric of her shirt as if holding herself together. "Don't send me away," she said, barely audible. "Not like this."
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling again. "If you stay, I'll keep hurting. And I don't want to say something I can't take back."
Ling's chest tightened violently.
"So you'll push me out instead?" she asked, voice cracking despite herself.
"Yes," Rhea whispered. "Because if I don't… I'll break."
Ling pressed her mouth shut, shoulders shaking. Tears slipped down freely now, silent, relentless. She nodded even though Rhea couldn't see her.
"…Okay," she breathed.
She stayed there a few seconds longer, like her body refused to move without permission. Then she forced herself up—slowly, unsteadily.
"I'll be right outside," Ling said, even though she knew it wasn't what Rhea asked. "If you need me."
Rhea didn't answer.
Ling took that as her cue.
She walked away, steps heavy, vision blurred. When she reached the edge of the bed, she didn't lie down right away. She stood there, hands braced on the mattress, head lowered.
Her tears fell onto the sheets, darkening the fabric.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to no one. To Rhea. To herself.
She lay down eventually—but sleep never came. Ling stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, eyes burning, heart pounding with the fear she never voiced.
That one night, needing space, might become distance with Rhea.
And distance with Rhea Niorwas the one thing Ling Kwong had never learned how to survive.