It was past midnight when the doorbell rang. Yeh had just stepped out of the bathroom, steam was still clinging to her skin, her hair was half‑dry as she toweled it absently while walking towards the door.
The moment Yeh open the door, she froze.
Lin stood there.
Lin didn't send message beforehand, she simply appeared in the dim, cold light of the hallway, her features was sharp and clear, though her expression was colder still. She looked at Yeh without speaking, as if she had been standing there for some time, or had walked all this way with every word she meant to say already rehearsed in her mind.
Yeh stared her for a second before asking instinctively, "Why are you here so late?"
"May I come in?" Lin's tone was flat, without inflection.
Yeh stepped aside to make room, and Lin brushed past her, bringing with her a faint draft of the night air. When the door closed, the room fell quiet, filled only by the sound of their breathing.
Lin did not sit down. She stood in the centre of the living room, as if she did not intend to stay long, or deliberately refused to let herself relax. Her gaze rested directly on Yeh, unwavering.
She wasted no time.
"You're going to Bangkok?"
One question, stripping away all preamble.
Then, immediately, another question: "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her voice was soft but steady, carrying the restraint of someone who had already fought through her emotions to keep them in check.
Yeh did not answer at once. She had imagined how to say this, had rehearsed different versions in her head a hundred times, yet always held back, waiting for a "right moment" that never came—or perhaps knowing, deep down, that she was only delaying.
"It's not fully decided yet," she said, keeping her tone as even as she could.
Lin gave a faint, cool smile, almost entirely devoid of warmth. "Not decided… or did you just think that there is no need even to mention it to me?"
Only then did Yeh truly understand that for Lin, this was no longer merely a career choice.
"That isn't it," she said quietly.
"Then what is it?" Lin did not back away. She rarely pressed like this; she was always the one who gave space. But tonight, she seemed determined not to let the subject be brushed aside.
Yeh looked at her, her thoughts were tangled and unclear.
She could have explained—market windows, the project's momentum, building an international team, the timing of funding, her own long‑held dreams—all things she had thought through perfectly. But she knew, too, that none of those were what Lin was asking.
Lin was asking why she had not been the first one to know.
"I just…" Yeh began, then paused, realising for the first time that some things could not be untangled with logic alone.
Lin watched her, waiting in silence, no pressure, only patience for an answer without decoration.
After a few seconds, Yeh said softly, "I didn't know how to say it."
It was incomplete, yet more honest than any explanation could ever be.
Lin's eyes shifted slightly, as if she had not expected that reply—or rather, had not expected Yeh to admit she was unprepared, right here and now.
"So you said nothing at all?" she asked, her voice still quiet, but sharper.
This time, Yeh did not look away. She met Lin's gaze and said calmly, "I'm telling you now."
The air between them seemed to hold still. It was not an explanation, but a belated, direct response.
Lin stared at her for two long seconds, as if weighing the meaning behind those words.
"And are you telling me now," she asked softly, "because you've decided… or just to give me notice?"
The question was keener than before, laying bare the feelings she had been hiding.
Yeh's breath caught for a moment. She took time to answer, truly thinking it over, as if seeking one last certainty.
Then she said, "I'm going."
Not maybe, not still considering—a choice made and settled.
Lin's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. She nodded, asking no further questions about dates or details, seeking no elaboration, simply taking the words as they were.
"Very well," she said.
It was calm and impossible to read from Lin's expression—acceptance, or perhaps something withdrawn deep inside.
Neither of them spoke again. Silence spread through the room like water, submerging everything left unsaid.
Looking at her, Yeh understood clearly: she had not retreated this time; she had not changed her decision because of Lin.
And Lin, for the first time, could no longer pretend she doesn't care at all.
Something between them did not break out into the open, but began to slip beyond control.
Yeh saw the faint glisten of tears in Lin's eyes, subtle under the light but undeniably there. Yet Lin did not cry, and did not let the feeling rise, but held it back as naturally as she always did.
Yeh could have said something to comfort or apology, even explanation—but she knew instantly that anything more would be unnecessary, even intrusive.
Lin had nothing more to say. She had asked what she needed to ask, and confirmed what she needed to know. Only as she turned to leave did she add quietly, "Let me know before you go."
It was light, not more than a simple statement.
Lin pulled the door open, letting the night air rush in again, and stepped out without looking back.
The click of the closing door was soft, yet startlingly clear in the quiet room.
Yeh remained standing where she was, motionless.
For a moment her heart ached, though rationality quickly suppressed the feeling, leaving only a complex, heavy helplessness. She knew perfectly well that going to Bangkok was the rational choice—for the project, for the company, for both their careers and lives.
But rationally never bore the weight of all the things left unsaid.