4️⃣

LINGLING

It was her.

Orm.

Orm... Thanomchai. That's her last name. It took me a few minutes to dig through the mental fog of old memories, but there it was. I hadn't thought about her—or that summer—in years.

I shake my head as my boots crunch against the gravel on the narrow path leading to my rental cottage. This part of Point Reyes is peaceful, tucked away from the chaos of Main Street and the crowded pier. The cottages here are small but luxurious, with secluded pathways leading to private stretches of sand.

Ever since my awkward coffee meeting with Elijah and Harry this morning, I've been wandering aimlessly, keeping mostly to these quieter streets. The fresh sea breeze, the smell of salt in the air—it's soothing. A welcome break from the crowded chaos of Los Angeles.

But now, my mind is anything but calm.

Seeing Orm—Orm Thanomchai—threw me completely off balance. She hasn't changed much in twelve years. Her features are sharper now, more refined. Her posture carries an air of quiet authority, and her hair... it's longer than I remember, tumbling in soft waves down her back.

Not that I paid that much attention to her back then.

Scoffing at myself, I kick a loose stone across the road. It's ridiculous, really, how a brief, accidental meeting on the sidewalk could knock me so far off course.

What is she even doing here?

Does she live here?

Or is she here for the wedding, too?

I let out a dry laugh under my breath. A wedding. Of course. This entire town feels like it's holding its breath, anticipating the event of the decade.

I haven't thought about that summer in a long time. Not because it was terrible, but because it was... complicated.

Camp Hannefort. Happy camp, they called it. It's where kids from different families were sent for eight weeks while their parents untangled themselves from their messy, expensive lives.

I was seventeen when my father—Anthony Kwong—decided it would be best for me to spend the summer in small town in Oregon , far away from the media circus surrounding my parents' separation. My mother, Daphne Shay, the Hollywood darling, and my father, the stoic businessman with roots in Hong Kong, had finally called it quits.

It wasn't a surprise to me. My mother lived her life under the glow of studio lights and red carpets, while my father conducted his business with the cold efficiency of a man who didn't have time for sentimentality. Their marriage was more of a brand partnership than anything else.

When they finally announced their divorce, every tabloid and gossip blog had a field day. Paparazzi camped outside my high school, cameras flashing every time I stepped out of the house. So yeah, when my father suggested I spend the summer at Camp Hannefort, I didn't argue.

The camp itself wasn't terrible. Rustic, sure—mosquitoes, bunk beds, bad cafeteria food—but it wasn't unbearable. It was set by Lake Tahoe, and there was plenty to do. Swimming, kayaking, hiking, horseback riding.

Group sessions, private sessions, art therapy, journaling—they threw every tool in the emotional toolbox at us. Some kids thrived. Some kids lashed out. Me? I mostly kept my head down, stayed quiet, and avoided any unnecessary conversations.

Except for Orm.

She was impossible to avoid.

Orm was... bright. She was popular, outgoing, and relentlessly optimistic. Every group therapy session, she'd raise her hand, flash that confident smile, and talk about how things were going to get better. How we all just had to hold on and stay positive.

She annoyed me.

Not because she was loud or fake, but because she meant it. She really believed all those things she said. And deep down, I envied her for it.

Most of the other kids adored her. Some of the counselors, too. They treated her like some kind of unofficial camp mascot—the golden girl of Camp Hannefort.

And me? I stayed in the background, watching from the shadows.

But then there was that night.

The last night of camp.

I let out a slow breath as I approach the stone walkway leading to my rental cottage. It's painted sky blue with white shutters, the kind of charming aesthetic you'd expect from a magazine spread. The cottage is small, but it's private, and it has a direct path to the beach.

I step inside, toe off my boots, and let the screen door swing shut behind me.

The past is supposed to stay buried. That's what I've always told myself. And yet, here I am, letting those memories claw their way to the surface because of a two-minute encounter on a crowded street.

I sink down onto the edge of the small couch and drop my head into my hands.

It was just a fluke. A one-off encounter. Maybe Orm didn't even recognize me.

That would be the best-case scenario. If she doesn't recognize me, I can just... stay out of her way. Attend the wedding, smile politely, and leave without stirring up the past.

I push myself up from the couch and head toward the corner of the cottage where my laptop sits. There's a small wooden desk by a window overlooking the narrow path between the dunes. The view is breathtaking—grassy sand dunes sloping down to the choppy gray waves of the Pacific Ocean.

But I'm not here for the view.

I flip open my laptop and bring up the program I was working on during my flight. Lines of code fill the screen—clean, logical, and orderly. Exactly how I like it.

I force myself to focus.

Work, I remind myself. Focus on the one thing you can control.

For the next hour, I lose myself in debugging scripts and optimizing algorithms. But no matter how hard I try, the sound of Orm Thanomchai's voice keeps echoing in my mind.

[Twelve Years Ago]

The girl across the table from me won't stop talking.

I'm tempted to think it's because she's obsessed with the sound of her own voice, but the reality is far more annoying: she won't shut up because everyone keeps begging for her attention.

It's exhausting to watch—the way both the boys and the girls lean in when she speaks, the way they smile too hard and laugh too loudly at things that aren't even that funny. They gush over the ribbon in her hair, the strawberry earrings dangling from her lobes, the glitter on her nails.

I sigh through my nose and poke at the mess of tangled embroidery floss in my hands. If I could move to one of the empty tables in the corner of the cafeteria, I would. But apparently, that would count as "isolating behavior," and I've been explicitly told by Dr. Sands that I need to "make an effort to engage with my peers."

"You should participate more, Lingling," he said in our one-on-one therapy session this morning. "I'm concerned that you're isolating yourself. You're shutting down, and that's not going to help you process your feelings."

I told him I liked being alone. I told him that's just how I am. I'm not sulking because of my parents' divorce; I'm always like this.

"Let's unpack that," he replied.

I'd rather not.

"Oh my goodness, Orm! That's the cutest thing ever!" squeals Abby, a redhead with a bun piled high on her head and freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Wait, let me see!" whines Katrina, a girl with sleek black hair and catlike eyes. She leans in, eyes wide with admiration. "How did you do that? Can you teach me?"

Orm giggles, the sound light and pleasant. "My cousin and I love making these. Here, Trina, let me help."

She's making friendship bracelets—perfect, colorful little braids of string. And she's effortlessly charming while doing it.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting three feet away, unheard and unseen, staring down at my mangled attempt at a keychain lanyard. I hate arts and crafts. There's no computer lab at Camp Hannefort, no place where I can show off the skills I'm actually good at.

At least I have swimming and horseback riding. Underwater, no one can talk to me, and horses don't talk at all.

"Orm, Brandon is totally looking at you," Abby whispers conspiratorially.

Orm laughs and rolls her eyes. "Brandon looks at every girl."

Katrina pouts. "He doesn't look at me."

"Well, there must be something wrong with his eyesight because you're super pretty, Trina," Orm replies sweetly.

I suppress an eye roll. Katrina is pretty, but the way Orm says it—like it's an undeniable fact of the universe—grates on me.

"I think Jake is way cuter than Brandon," Abby whispers again. "And I heard he has a tattoo!"

It's like they don't even notice I'm here. Or maybe they do, and they've decided I'm not worth acknowledging. Either way, it's fine. I'm used to this. I glance over at the far end of the table where the girls from my cabin are huddled together. My therapy session this morning ran late, and by the time I made it here, all the seats near them were taken.

Instead, I'm stuck here, in Princess Orm's court.

"Jake is nice," Orm admits. "You should go talk to him."

"You think?" Abby's eyes are wide with nervous excitement.

"Totally," Orm says with one of her bright, encouraging smiles.

Abby bites her lip, smooths down her neon blue camp shirt, and pushes away from the table. Orm and Katrina dissolve into giggles as they watch her saunter toward the boys' table.

"Lana told me that Ben said Jake likes redheads," Katrina whispers. "One smile from Abby and he'll be a goner. They're totally gonna fall in love."

Orm laughs, but this time it's not quite the same as her usual airy giggle. It's quieter, more restrained.

I try to focus on my tangled mess of embroidery floss, but my fingers fumble over the knots. I have no patience for this. I'd rather be by the lake, where it's quiet, where no one's trying to force me into group bonding exercises.

"Do you want help with that?"

The question cuts through my thoughts. It takes me a second to realize that it's directed at me.

I glance up, startled, and meet Orm's dark brown eyes. They're large and framed by thick lashes, giving her an expression of endless curiosity and warmth.

"No," I say quickly. "I'm fine."

"It doesn't look fine." Her voice isn't sharp or mocking. If anything, it's gentle. Helpful, even.

But I bristle anyway. "I like it this way."

"You like massive, tangled knots?"

I glare at her, hoping it's enough to make her back off. But she doesn't. She just tilts her head slightly, her caramel-brown hair slipping over her shoulder.

"You should pick brighter colors," she says softly. "It'll help you see the individual threads better."

"I like these colors," I mutter.

She purses her lips. "They're kind of... boring."

I glance down at the shades of gray and navy blue thread in my hands. I thought they were sensible. Subtle. It's not like I want to walk around with a pink-and-yellow lanyard dangling from my backpack.

"Well, then it's a good thing this is going to be my lanyard and not yours," I snap.

Orm snorts—a surprisingly unladylike sound coming from her. "It's not going to be anything at all if you don't let me help you."

Her tone isn't mean—just practical. Somehow, that annoys me more.

I drop the mess of threads onto the table. "Whatever. I don't want a stupid keychain anyway."

"You shouldn't give up on something just because you're not immediately good at it."

I push back my chair and stand up abruptly. Across the table, Katrina freezes, holding two plastic cups of lemonade, her eyes darting between Orm and me.

Both girls look up at me.

"I don't care," I say flatly.

Orm's brow furrows slightly, her mouth parting as if she wants to say something else. But I turn on my heel and walk away before she can.

Behind me, I hear Katrina whisper something to Orm, followed by the faint sound of their laughter.

They can laugh all they want. It doesn't matter.

Unlike Orm, I don't care about being liked.

I don't care about being anyone's friend.

I just want to be left alone.