What followed did not unfold as easy, shared journey Yeh had pictured in her mind.
Before they had set out, she had mapped out every detail—the travel time to Ayutthaya in a hired car, the cafés worth stopping at along the way, the temples they might reach before sunset. She had never spoken of these plans, yet she had run through them again and again, and she was certain that they would naturally fall into place if only the others agreed. She had even prepared herself to watch the closeness between Lin and Jing.
But after breakfast, Lin laid out the arrangements simply and openly, with nothing held back. "There are a few places Jing wanted to visit but didn't get to last time," she said. She paused, then added gently, "You two don't have to come along—I'm afraid you two will be bored. Why don't we do our own things separately during the day and meet up for dinner later?"
It was reasonable, considerate, and phrased with perfect tact—leaving no room for objection.
Yeh nodded without hesitation. "That sounds great," she replied, even managing a bright laugh, as if she truly thought it the best possible plan.
Only she knew how something heavy and quiet had settled in her chest at that moment.
During the day, she and Fiona followed their original itinerary, visiting a café Yeh had long bookmarked and wandering through a nearby museum on the way.
The café itself was lush and green, filled with plants and natural light, popular with people working on laptops or simply lingering over coffee. They sat by a window half‑hidden by foliage, where sunlight filtered through the leaves. They spent the whole afternoon talking about work, projects, and future directions, moving smoothly from one topic to the next.
Yet Yeh's mind drifted now and then. Glancing at the empty chair opposite, she found herself wondering if Lin would have liked this place. Pausing before an installation in the museum, she imagined her stopping to look a little longer. At one point she almost reached for her phone to snap a photo and send it to her—only to pull back her hand mid‑motion, and told herself: Lin is having a wonderful time with Jing right now.
Outwardly, she remained relaxed, talking more than usual, laughing easily, seeming fully absorbed in the day. But beneath the surface, feelings were slowly rising—an ache that was not sharp, but dull and persistent, growing heavier gradually hour by hour.
She recognised then clearly: her possessiveness of Lin ran deeper than she had ever guessed. It was not the kind of care she could easily set aside, but an instinctive unease that Lin's time or attention was shared with someone else. She hated to admit it, yet there it was, growing clearer every moment.
That evening, after Lin and Jing had finished their sightseeing, the four of them met for dinner at a bistro lit by soft lamps and small candles on every table.
On the surface, the atmosphere was normal, even lighthearted. Fiona and Jing chatted easily about the places they had visited and the shows they had been watching, laughing together; Lin joined in at just the right moments, keeping the conversation flowing so there was never an awkward silence.
Only Yeh had grown quiet noticeably. She fixed her attention on the small decorative figures arranged on the table, lining them up, moving them apart, then putting them back together again, looking up only occasionally to listen. She did not fall completely silent, but spoke only when spoken to—polite, measured, offering thoughtful observations just as she always would, leaving nothing to criticise. Yet she almost never looked directly at Lin, and rarely replied to anything she said, deliberately fixing her gaze elsewhere: on her glass, her plate, the little ornaments.
Yeh knew well enough how to say when she was unhappy. But she found she could not open her mouth to speak. To put these feelings into words would make them solid, and once solid, they would demand an answer. Uncertain of what answer she truly wanted, she had chosen the simplest way: keep it all inside, and let distance do the work instead. What Yeh acted was just not looking at Lin, not replying to her and not let herself step any closer. For now, it was the only way she felt in control.
Lin noticed the change of Yeh's altitude almost immediately. This was not the first time she had seen this pattern in Yeh: when upset, she never argued or demanded explanations, but withdrew swiftly, stepping back behind a wall of calm that was really just self‑protection.
Lin glanced at her often—not openly staring, but letting her eyes drift naturally toward her in the gaps between conversation. She could see it clearly: Yeh's silence did not come from indifference, but from caring too deeply, and refusing to let that care be seen.
Lin would not try to comfort her, or break the quiet tension between them. She simply carried on talking as usual, and when her gaze met Yeh's, she did not linger, as if everything were proceeding exactly as it should.
Yet she understood perfectly well—
A little jealousy like this might not be such a bad thing. Some feelings only surface and demand to be acknowledged when they are pricked again and again. If she soothed it now, explained it all away, or gave way, she would only let Yeh remain in that grey space, never admitting what she felt, never making a choice.
Lin wanted to see—
If she offered no reassurance, no easy way out, no deliberate closeness… would Yeh one day take that step forward on her own?
The lights swayed gently, sending ripples through the wine in their glasses.
They sat at the same table, not far apart, yet each standing firmly in their own space—neither crossing the line, nor ever truly near.