Yeh chose a café she had never been to before, almost instinctively wanting to place this meeting in a space untouched by memory, somewhere that wouldn't belong to anything but this moment between them.
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.
When the door opened, the small bell above it chimed softly.
She looked up. Lin stood there, her gaze finding Yeh without effort.
Their eyes met a second. Both of them held back familiarity on purpose.
Yeh spoke first, her tone even, almost too smooth to leave a trace. "About the other night—I'm sorry I couldn't stay for dinner. I had something important."
"It's okay." Lin smiled lightly. "I understand."
There was no follow-up, no probing, just the same quiet steadiness she always carried.
Lin sat down, stirring her coffee absently, as if easing the moment back into something manageable. Then she glanced up at Yeh. "By the way, I watched that Korean film you recommended."
At the mention of it, something in Yeh shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Her expression softened, her voice following. "Wasn't it… real? The way it builds emotions , slowly, almost without noticing."
"It was." Lin nodded. "Easy to fall into."
Yeh paused, her voice lowering just slightly. "You probably haven't… experienced 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 gaze without hesitation, the answer coming before it had time to be reconsidered.
"You, for one."
The air frozend.
Yeh's fingers paused against the side of her cup before she looked away, the smile that followed a touch too deliberate. "I do like you," she said lightly. "I like all my friends."
She placed quiet emphasis on the word friends, as if drawing a line and naming it at the same time.
Lin didn't challenge it. She only tilted her head slightly and changed the topic. "Have you always been like this? So… rational."
Yeh didn't avoid the question.
"Probably thid has something to do with how I grew up," she said, her tone steady. "My parents separated when I was two. I lived with my grandmother until elementary school, so I learned early to take care of myself and not to cause trouble for adults. I didn't really ask for attention, didn't rely on anyone much. I was pretty quiet as a kid."
She let out a soft breath, something close to a laugh. "I did well in school. I think, in a way, I wanted to prove I was worth loving."
After a brief pause, she added, "Later I moved in with my mom, and I became more outgoing. My dad and my grandmother both cared about me a lot, so it's not that I lacked love… I just got used to handling things on my own. I'm not very good at letting people see 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 began to speak as well, her voice unhurried. Her parents were both teachers—demanding, but supportive, never forcing her into choices she didn't want to make. She had grown up in a home that was steady, warm, where she had been, by most measures, a child her parents could be proud of.
Then she smiled, almost casually.
"The only thing I didn't follow themwas their idea of who I should be with."
"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 so light and weightless.
"I'm not seeing anyone."
Something in Yeh's heartbeat faltered, just for a moment. On the surface, nothing changed—her expression held, her posture unchanged—but internally, she felt something shift with unsettling clarity. All the assumptions she had made, all the distance she had carefully maintained, even the restraint she had justified to herself—none of it had ever been confirmed.
The conversation continued. They spoke about work, about films, about places they had been and places they wanted to go. The rhythm stayed easy, almost deliberately so. Lin mentioned pieces of her past, but never in a way that crossed into anything too exposed, keeping everything within a safe, controlled range.
And yet, Yeh could feel it—the subtle shift beneath it all.
There was nothing abrupt about this coffee, no moment that could be pointed to as a turning point. And still, something was loosening, almost imperceptibly, in the boundaries she had once believed were fixed.
It occurred to her then that she had always assumed Lin was already with someone—not because it was true, but because it gave her a reason to step back without question. She hadn't asked, hadn't confirmed, hadn't allowed herself to look too closely, turning every ambiguity into certainty simply to avoid what lay beyond it.
Because sometimes, the safest distance is the one you never have to test.