Considerate as always, Fiona had seen the unspoken longing in Yeh—the wish to visit Ayutthaya, and her reluctance to say so aloud. After dinner, Fiona steered the conversation there naturally.
"Shall we go to Ayutthaya?" she asked casually. "It looks like there's still enough time before you leave."
Hearing her words, Jing and Lin's eyes met instinctively. It was only a fleeting glance, but enough to make things clear: there was no hesitation, only the familiar habit of checking each other's thoughts. Actually, if Lin chosen to go, Jing would almost certainly follow and that kind of understanding needed no words.
Lin nodded quickly, her tone was bright with genuine interest. "That sounds wonderful. I've always been fascinated by the history of the Ayutthaya Kingdom, and I have watched a few documentaries about it, but never got the chance to see it myself. This would be perfect."
Lin spoke with ease, even a touch of anticipation.
Sitting opposite to her, Yeh said nothing, only sipped her water, while the weight in her chest lifted quietly.
Afterwards, she took charge of the arrangements immediately, executing like any other task: booking a driver, finding a guide, confirming the route, and planning the following day in meticulous detail.
At nine the next morning, the driver and guide were waiting outside their hotel in a spacious van, cool air rushing out as the doors slid open. Lin gestured naturally, leading Jing toward the back row, leaving the more comfortable middle seats for Yeh and Fiona.
As the van pulled away and the cityscape began to slide past, the atmosphere became relaxed. Up front, the guide spoke in a slow, easy pace; Yeh and Fiona sat behind him, while the back had settled into its own rhythm, where Lin and Jing talked continuously—not with quiet intimacy, but simply the easy, familiar chatter of daily life.
Most often, Jing would begin, posing a question that Lin would answer with patience and steady, gentle guidance, speaking as if every inquiry deserved to be treated with care. Sitting ahead of them, Yeh could hear almost every word. She listened while watching the passing view, several times Yeh nearly joined, and suddenly understood why Jing had fallen for Lin: there was something deeply seductive about being listened to and answered with such unhurried attention.
At one point, Lin paused, unable to answer immediately a question about Thai history. Before Yeh knew what she was doing, she had turned around and explained the whole subject—background, context, and logic—clearly and calmly, delivering knowledge as if it were entirely detached from feeling.
Only after Yeh finished talking did she realise what she had done: she had revealed that she had been listening to every word they said. For a moment, she felt like a schoolgirl who desperate to impress the person she adoref.
Lin looked at her, with eyes glinting with amusement, but said nothing to embarrass her, she only nodded and said: "You explained it better than the guide did."
Yeh turned back quickly to the window, saying nothing, yet feeling her ears grow warm.
Lunch was served at a restaurant set beside vast, lush rice paddies—an open‑air space with a high wooden roof, where the wind carried the damp, green scent of growing things. The fields stretched into the distance, their colour was so fresh and bright, and it seemed to melt all tension away. The food was local and simple, served without fuss but full of flavour.
Glancing out at the view, Yeh felt satisfied; at the very least, this part of the trip had been a great experience.
Halfway through the meal, Jing excused herself to the restroom, and Fiona stepped away to take a call, leaving Yeh and Lin alone at the table. The change happened so suddenly and it caught her off guard.
Lin leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Were you upset yesterday?"
The question was direct, no detours or softening.
If it were previously, Yeh would have denied it or brushed it aside. But now, she suddenly felt as if her usual defences had been worn thin, she answered without thinking.
"I was," she said quietly. "I thought we'd do things together. I didn't expect travel separately."
She didn't say I was upset or I minded, but her meaning was clear.
Lin looked at her and smiled, as if relieved. She offered no excuses for the previous day's plan, only replied easily, "But we're all together today, aren't we? Besides… I remember you said before that you wanted to visit Ayutthaya next time you came to Thailand."
Yeh froze. She had never expected those casual words to be remembered, let alone brought up now. Whatever small resentment had remained dissolved instantly. Her expression shifted—eyes widening slightly before softening—while Lin watched, she was smiling too, and let the subject drop.
It felt as though something tender had been touched, then gently set back in place.
After lunch, they visited Ayutthaya's main sightseeing, where Khmer‑style prangs rose one after another—ruined but magnificent, sunlight gilding their reddish‑brown brickwork, heavy with the weight of centuries. Walking among the remains, it was easy to feel unmoored from time, as if stepping back hundreds of years into the past.
Climbing the steep steps of one temple, Yeh and Jing moved quickly, soon leading the way. When Yeh glanced back, she saw Lin was still some way behind. Instinctively, without thinking, she turned and reached out a hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jing was doing exactly the same thing.
For the briefest moment, the air seemed to still.
Yeh tried to pull back, but before she could, Lin lifted her left hand and grasped hers directly. The movement was firm, without hesitation. She pulled herself up the step, and did not let go at once.
The feel of that touch was vivid and clear.
Yeh's fingers tightened slightly, and she glanced sideways at Jing, who only smiled faintly, her expression was unreadable, saying nothing at all. It was as if nothing had happened—yet everything had.
On the return journey at dusk, the driver dropped them straight at Asiatique. Twilight had just fallen; lights were coming on one by one, crowds were thickening, the air was filled with the scent of food and the sound of music.
Shortly after arriving, Lin was drawn to a stall. "Guava juice!" she said, she was bright with the simple excitement of seeing something familiar, hurrying over to buy a cup.
At some point, Fiona had vanished, distracted by another stall, leaving only Yeh and Jing standing together—the first time they had been alone, without anyone else to soften the space between them.
The silence felt heavy and delicate.
Then Jing spoke first, her voice was soft and steady. "You like Lin too, don't you?"
The question came without warning, no lead‑up, no hesitation.
Yeh said nothing. She could never admit it even to Lin herself, let alone to Jing. Silence, though, was an answer of its own.
Jing did not press her, but continued in the same even tone. "I won't give her up to anyone." She paused, then added, "But whatever makes her happy… I'll always wish the best for it."
It was said softly, without emotion or challenge, yet clearer than any defense could have been.
Yeh was genuinely stunned. She had never imagined Jing, who was so gentle, quiet, seemingly yielding would state her position like this. It was not a declaration of war, but a quiet, unshakeable certainty that needed no explanation.
She stood there with her mind went blank. She had never thought love as something to compete for; least of all with another woman. If a relationship had to be fought for, compared, or won or lost, her instinct was always to retreat, to step back and let go.
After a long pause, she said only, "You misunderstood."
Her voice was low, unconvincing—even to herself.
At that moment, she felt almost foolish. She had handled far greater things, made hard decisions and taken responsibility for their outcomes, yet when it came to feelings, she seemed to lose all footing.
When they met up again, they went to eat volcano ribs and rode the Ferris wheel. Lights, laughter, food—everything looked normal, as if nothing had shifted. Yet Yeh and Jing each stood in their own space, carrying something unspoken between them: surface was calm, while beneath where currents were now beginning to run deep.