The click of the lock was barely audible.
Ling felt it more than heard it.
She turned her head just in time to see the bathroom door open slowly. Rhea stepped out, eyes swollen, robe wrapped tight around her like she was still protecting something fragile. She didn't look at Ling. Not once.
Without a word, Rhea crossed the room and climbed onto the bed.
She lay down with her back to Ling.
Ling froze for a second, afraid to move, afraid that even breathing too loudly might send Rhea away again. Then she shifted, carefully, turning onto her side so she faced Rhea's back. She didn't touch her. Didn't pull her close.
Tears slid silently down Ling's face, soaking into the pillow.
"Rhea," she whispered, voice already breaking. "Please… don't do that."
Rhea's shoulders stiffened, but she didn't turn.
"Don't curse yourself," Ling begged softly. "Don't blame yourself for things you don't understand yet."
Rhea let out a shaky breath. Her voice came out small, exhausted. "Then help me understand."
Ling closed her eyes hard.
"I can't," she said, almost inaudible. "Not yet."
Rhea's fingers curled into the sheets. Her breath hitched, but she didn't argue. She didn't snap back like she usually did.
She just cried—quietly, stubbornly—like she was afraid that if she spoke, she'd fall apart completely.
Ling inched closer, the smallest movement possible, until her forehead rested lightly against Rhea's shoulder blade through the fabric. Still no arms. Still no claiming.
Just presence.
"I'm not pushing you away," Ling whispered through tears. "I swear on everything… I'm holding myself back because if I don't, I lose you. And I can't survive that."
Rhea swallowed. A tear slid down onto the pillow.
"You already are losing me," she murmured—not accusing, just tired.
Ling flinched like she'd been struck.
"I know," she said hoarsely. "And that's why I'm terrified."
Rhea didn't respond. She stayed turned away, crying quietly, breathing uneven.
Ling hesitated.
Her arm lifted on instinct before her mind could stop it—slow, careful—reaching for Rhea's waist, wanting nothing more than to hold her, to anchor her, to say I'm here without words.
Her fingertips barely brushed fabric.
"Don't even think," Rhea said quietly.
Not sharp.
Not angry.
Just final.
Ling froze.
The words hit harder than shouting ever could. Her hand stilled in the air for half a second—then she pulled it back like she'd been burned.
"I'm sorry," Ling whispered immediately, voice breaking. "I won't."
She turned away then, deliberately, giving Rhea her back just as Rhea had given hers first. The space between them felt wider than the room, wider than the house.
Both of them curled inward.
Ling clenched her jaw, teeth digging into her lip to keep from making a sound. Her shoulders shook anyway, silent tears soaking into the pillow she faced now. Her hand curled uselessly near her chest, aching with the habit of protecting, touching, claiming—none of which she was allowed to do tonight.
Behind her, Rhea cried too.
Soft, broken breaths. A sniff she tried to swallow. Fingers clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
Neither of them spoke again.
No apologies.
No accusations.
No comfort.
Just two backs turned to each other, both shaking, both hurting for the same reason and unable to say it out loud.
The bed was shared.
The pain was shared.
But the distance—
that belonged to both of them equally.
The room stayed dark.
No clocks ticked loud enough to mark time, but both of them felt every minute crawl by. The air was heavy with quiet sobs that came and went, breaths uneven, chests aching. No one moved. No one slept.
Ling lay rigid on her side, eyes open, staring at nothing. Tears kept slipping down anyway—silent, relentless—soaking into the pillow until it felt cold beneath her cheek. Every now and then her jaw would tighten, like she was forcing herself not to turn around.
Behind her, Rhea cried too.
Not loudly. Never loudly. Just the kind of crying that came from exhaustion and hurt layered too deep to scream. Her face was wet, lashes clumped together, throat burning from holding things back.
Midnight passed without either of them knowing exactly when.
Then Rhea coughed.
It was small at first, like she tried to suppress it. Then another—sharper, dry.
Ling reacted instantly.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, turning halfway despite herself. "Rhea?" Her voice was rough, raw from crying. "What happened?"
Rhea didn't answer.
She sat up slowly, wiping at her mouth with the sleeve of the robe, movements stiff and distant. She swung her legs off the bed and walked to the table, poured herself water with trembling hands.
Ling stayed sitting, watching her back, heart pounding like she was waiting for something to shatter.
"Are you okay?" Ling asked again, softer now.
Rhea drank the water in small gulps. She didn't look back. Didn't nod. Didn't shake her head.
She just finished, set the glass down carefully, and returned to the bed.
She lay back down exactly as before—back turned, space intact.
Ling swallowed hard and lay down too, turning away again, respecting the silence even though it tore at her.
Their faces were both wet when the room finally stilled again.
Tears dried only to be replaced by new ones. Eyes burned. Heads ached. Chests felt tight with things unsaid.
They both knew it.
No one slept.
They lay there until the night thinned toward morning—two bodies sharing a bed, two hearts wide awake, each painfully aware that the other was crying just inches away and choosing, for now, not to reach across the space between them.