Yeh chose a café she had never been to.
She didn't overthink it. She just didn't want the meeting tied to anything that already existed—no shared memories, no familiar corners. Something clean. Something that belonged only to she and Lin.
The cafe sat beside a university. Afternoon light filtered through tall plane trees, softened by the time it reached the glass. Inside—aged wood tables, dark leather sofas, a wall covered by old vinyl sleeves. The kind of place that held onto time instead of letting it pass.
Yeh arrived first, took the seat by the window.
She didn't check her phone. Just watched the light shift outside.
The door opened. A soft chime. Yeh looked up.
Lin stood there, her gaze finding Yeh without effort.
Their eyes met.
A second. Not reunion. Not distance either.
Something familiar—held back on purpose, like both of them were keeping a hand on it.
Yeh spoke first, her tone even, almost too smooth.
"Sorry I couldn't have dinner with you the other day. Something came up that night."
"It's fine." Lin smiled. "I get it."
No follow-up. No pressure.
Lin sat down, stirred her coffee, as if easing the moment back into something manageable.
"By the way," she said, glancing up, "I watched that Korean film you recommended."
Something in Yeh shifted—subtle, but there.
"It's very real, right?" Her voice loosened without her noticing. "Quiet, but it builds."
Lin nodded. "Easy to fall into."
Yeh paused, then asked, softer—
"You've never… been through something like that, have you?"
In that film, the one who reached first was the first to leave. The one who stayed held on with dignity—and still lost herself.
When Yeh watched it, she had seen herself too clearly.
Whatever the gender is, forcing something never worked.
Lin didn't answer immediately.
She took a sip, like she was choosing her words.
"I have," she said. "
I've wanted someone I couldn't have.
Yeh looked at her, then said, almost without thinking—
"As charming as you, there must be many people have Crush on you. It's difficult to imagine someone not choosing you."
Lin met her eyes and answered, just as easily—
"You."
The air paused.
Yeh's fingers stilled against her cup, then she looked away, smiling a little too deliberately.
"I do like you. I like all my friends."
She said friends with care. Clean. Defined.
A line, redrawn.
Lin didn't challenge it. She only change the topic.
"Were you always like this?" she asked. "This… controlled?"
Yeh didn't dodge this time.
"Maybe it's how I grew up," she said evenly. "My parents separated when I was two years old. I lived with my grandmother until primary school. Learned to take care of myself young and learned not to make trouble for adults."
A small smile.
"I was excellent in studying when I was at school."
Yeh paused, then added—
"My mom gave me a lot of love later. My dad, my grandparents too. I wouldn't say I lacked anything."
A beat.
"I just… got used to handling things on my own. Not really used to letting people see when my soft part."
Lin listened without interrupting.
And suddenly, it all made sense—the restraint, the distance, the way Yeh stepped back before asking anything.
Yeh is not cold, it was kind of self-protection, refined to something almost invisible.
It was the first time they had gone this topic of childhood far back.
Lin shared hers in return—parents who were teachers, expectations high but steady support underneath. She spoke easily, like it was all already processed, filed away.
Then she smiled, almost casually.
"The only thing I didn't follow was their idea of who I should be with."
A beat.
"Because I like women." Lin added.
Yeh stilled for a fraction of a second—then got it immediately.
"And your partner now… do your parents know?" she asked, the question slipping out more easily than Yeh realized.
Lin looked at her.
Her voice was light. Weightless.
"I'm not seeing anyone."
Yeh's heartbeat faltered.
Nothing showed on her face.
But at that moment, Yeh knew—
every assumption she had made, every step she had taken back, every line she had drawn—
might have been built on something that was never there.
The conversation moved on.
Work. Films. Travel.
It flowed easily, like something with no stakes.
Lin mentioned parts of her past, but never past a certain point about past relationship.
Still—
something had shifted.
Quietly.
This coffee, without any sharp turn, was loosening edges Yeh had thought were fixed.
And only now did she realize—
she had always assumed Lin was already with someone.
Not because she knew.
Because it made her retreat easier.
She never asked. Never confirmed.
Not because of truth but it is just safe not to develop a real relationship.