The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Lin almost fled toward the lift, her steps we're far quicker than usual. She did not look back, nor did she let herself wonder if the person inside might come after her.
Only when she reached the ground floor did she finally stop. The breath she had been holding in her chest escaped at last, and with it came the tears. She lifted a hand to wipe them away, yet they kept falling—all the feelings she had held back so tightly in that room finding their release now.
She had believed Yeh had stopped pulling away. Ever since that night in Taipei, she had felt, almost hopefully, that something between them had been laid bare; even without a reply, she had thought Yeh would understand all that remained unspoken. She had told herself she could take her time, wait a little longer, until the right moment came to say everything clearly.
Yet tonight, what Yeh had given her was not a step closer, but a decision already made.
It was not a test, not a reach toward her, but a departure. It was only now that Lin truly understood how important Yeh had become to her. There had been a moment, just a few minutes ago, when the words "Don't go—stay for me" had risen almost to her lips, but only to be forced back down.
She knew too well what that request would meant.
It would not been a confession of feelings, but an attempt to alter the course of someone else's life. It would have taken a relationship that was still unconfirmed and forced it into a position where a choice had to be made.
She could not do that and she would not.
And so she had to stood there, letting Yeh state her choice with such clean, final certainty.
Leaning against the railing outside, Lin slowly forced herself to calm down, though her thoughts didn't grow clearer, instead, she began to retrace every step, every word, searching for where it had all gone wrong, uncontrollably,
Had her silence in Taipei made Yeh believe that her affection had been one‑sided all along? Or was it because she had never fully explained her history with Jing, leading Yeh to rule herself out as a possibility? It dawned on Lin then: all those things she had thought did not need to say might have been exactly the reasons Yeh had made up her mind.
She drew a deep breath, pushing the chaotic thoughts aside just long enough to restore some order to her mind, and began to walk slowly away.
When she arrived home, lights were still on. Jing sat in the living room, as if waiting for her. Lin moved quietly as she changed her shoes, yet Jing noticed her at once. She glanced over, saying nothing for a second—just long enough to register the redness in Lin's eyes.
"Is this because of Yeh?" she asked.
There was no hesitation in Jing's tone, it seemed that she already knew the answer.
Lin nodded, offering no explanation. She had no energy left to retell what had happened, nor to put her feelings into words. In that moment, she was almost relieved that there was Jing—someone who did not need to be told everything to understand.
Jing asked no further questions. She walked over, and gently ran her fingers through Lin's hair, a gesture familiar and restrained, exactly as it had been so many times before: simply there, a quiet presence, never intruding.
That steady companionship helped Lin relax a little, yet it also made her more aware of how tightly she had clamped down on every emotion while standing in front of Yeh.
She went into her room and lay down, staring up at the silent ceiling.
As the intensity of her feelings faded, rationality began to return. She knew exactly who Yeh was—cautious, clear‑headed, never one to act on impulse or build her future upon something uncertain.
Going to Bangkok, then, was not a rash decision, but one made after careful thought.
That realisation brought a measure of peace, yet also a deeper sorrow: if this was the result of weighing every factor, then perhaps the place she held in Yeh's considerations had never been as important as her heart had wanted to believe.
She closed her eyes, slowing her breath until it was steady and even.
At least, she told herself, she had not asked her to stay. She had not forced Yeh into a position where she had to choose her above everything else.
That, perhaps, was the last measure of grace she could still hold onto.