On the way to dinner with friend, the lights outside the car slid past one by one, stretching into something like a drawn-out timeline.
Yeh leaned into the seat, not checking her phone, not trying to think, yet the details surfaced anyway, piecing themselves together bit by bit.
She replayed everything.
Lin had never once mentioned a partner, never defined anything clearly in any setting; all those assumptions Yeh had taken for granted had never actually been confirmed. And yet, because of that one line—I don't like women in real life—she had drawn the boundary for both of them in advance.
It wasn't a response. It was a precondition.
And suddenly, she understood—what stood between them had never been whether someone else existed. It was that both of them were too good at stepping back, too used to replacing reality with assumption.
The realization didn't bring relief. There was only a quiet, precise ache—as if reminding her that opportunities hadn't slipped away on their own; she had closed them early herself.
If Lin really wasn't in any defined relationship, then all of Yeh's restraint—every step back, every moment of distance, every act of control—had no meaning at all. They were decisions she had made unilaterally, on behalf of Lin.
The thought almost made Yeh laugh. She had always believed she was rational, measured, good at controlling of boundaries, but in terms of relationship, she had only found a subtler way to end things before they ever began.
The car stopped at a red light. Yeh stared forward for a moment, then pressed the emotions down. She knew herself too well—if she let emotion lead now, if she started to confirm, to test, to move closer, she would fall back into that familiar pattern: once she invested, she would sacrifice more without noticing, expect more in return, carry more than her share.
She had experienced before. She knew how it ended. She didn't want to go through it again.
So she forced herself to sort through the reality: whether Lin's feelings for her was as intense as hers, or were only a closeness for the time being; whether crossing that line would disrupt the stability they had already built; and more than anything, whether she would slip again into that role she would never want to be—the one who gives more, bears more, and doesn't always receive the same in return.
None of these questions had answers. Even now—even knowing Lin was single, even with the assumption that had held her back now gone—she didn't want to take initiative.
The car pulled forward, lights continuing to flow past. Yeh drew her gaze back, settling into the seat, as if placing everything back within something she could control.
And quietly, she told herself—
I can fell into you. I'm just not sure weather I'm willing to take on everything that comes with a real relationship.