In the days after their return from Bangkok, Yeh felt a quiet but undeniable change within herself. It was not some fleeting mood or burst of emotion, but rather the release of a tension she had carried for so long—an end to that instinctive habit of stepping back, of treating every moment of closeness as a risk to be calculated and weighed.
Back in her routine, she began inviting Lin out for meals, sending messages just to ask what she was doing, no longer agonising over her choice of words or waiting for the "perfect moment" to reach out. Their work progressed smoothly, and that growing sense of certainty gave her new confidence when it came to her feelings—not the need to possess or win something, but the strength to accept whatever the outcome might be.
Soon enough, Jing's birthday arrived. Lin organised the entire day herself: sending out invitations to common friends, arranging food, managing the schedule, naturally stepping into the role of the steady, reliable centre of Jing's world. She simply moved through everything, she was someone who was used to taking care of things, and she carried a quiet, unspoken intimacy in every action—as if she were building a life elaborately they shared for Jing.
On the evening of Jing's birthday, guests arrived: colleagues from the studio, Fiona, and a woman Yeh had never met before—one of Jing's closest friends. The group was small, but the atmosphere was warmed quickly. Yeh knew she was not part of Jing's innermost circle, yet she also understood her place now was no longer merely "Lin's friend." She was a partner in terms of work, and part of this team, and the invitation itself was an unspoken acceptance of that.
Dinner was delivered from a nearby restaurant, course after course filling the table. Someone poured drinks, others discussed work or told lighthearted jokes, voices were rising and falling in easy, lively conversation. Yeh joined in, responding and laughing along, but a part of her attention always drifted unconsciously toward Lin.
The cake had been baked by Lin herself. When she carried it out from the kitchen, someone had already turned off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of candles. The cake was simple—smooth white frosting ringed with fresh strawberries—but made with clear care. Cheers broke out, urging Jing to put on her party hat and make a wish.
Jing stood there, light fell gently on her face, but she did not close her eyes at once. Instead, she looked straight at Lin.
That look was direct and unguarded, and for a heartbeat, the noise around them seemed to recede, leaving only silence between them. She had no attempt to hide or look away, as if every feeling she held naturally rested upon this person.
"Tell us your wish!" someone called out playfully.
Jing smiled, her gaze still fixed on Lin, and said softly but with absolute certainty:
"You already know."
No explanation was needed, while everyone present understood exactly what she meant.
Yeh understood too. Sitting there, she realised with definite clarity that she was witnessing a bond that did not belong to her. It was not a passing emotion or a connection that could easily be replaced, but something built slowly over time: a history of companionship, of shared habits, of reliance formed in countless ordinary days.
Yeh had expected to feel uncomfortable, perhaps even a pang of resistance, but her emotions were surprisingly calm. It was not that she felt nothing, actually what she felt had shifted away from the old question—Should I step back to something far clearer.
She knew what Jing had been doing all along: simply waiting for an answer.
And wasn't Yeh herself doing the same? The only difference was her way had been more subtle, wrapped in tests and retreats and rationality, while Jing's affection was more open and rooted in reality. Jing did not need to prove anything; she was simply always there, alongside Lin.
Looking at Jing, Yeh no longer regarded her as an opponent to overcome, but simply as another person who loved Lin with equal sincerity. What's more, Jing had been part of Lin's life long before Yeh had entered it.
Instead of making her withdraw, this realisation brought a strange sense of relief to Yeh. She no longer needed to deny Jing's place, or constantly compare herself, measuring who was the better match. She simply accepted the truth:
There was someone else who loved Lin just as deeply as she did.
She thought of that familiar saying—companionship is the longest confession of love—a phrase she had once found somewhat trite, which now seemed to fit Jing perfectly.
Long before Yeh had come into the Lin's life, Jing had been by Lin's side, and got through all the days Yeh had missed—the busy periods, the pressure, the shifts in mood, the quiet lows no one else saw. For a moment, Yeh felt something almost contradictory: gratitude that Jing had been there, which meant Lin had never had to face difficulties all alone.
Yeh began to ask herself a question honestly: what did Lin truly need? Was someone like her—someone who constantly needed to confirm and question, matching Lin only in mind and spirit? Or perhaps she needed something simpler: a relationship where someone stood unconditionally beside her, relied on her, offered steady emotional ground.
She had no certain answer, yet for the first time, she did not rush to judge or decide.
Gradually, the celebration peaked—calls to blow out the candles, glasses were raised high, noise and warmth filling every corner. Sitting in the midst of it, Yeh remembered the old thought: carnival is sometimes more like loneliness of a person.
But tonight, Yeh refused to follow that familiar path. She did not pull herself away, nor did she retreat behind coldness as a shield. She was tired of stepping back at the first sign of risk, tired of playing out every possible scenario in her head just to choose the safest option.
This time, she would not make decisions for Lin. She would no longer limit herself by asking what if it fails?
If in the end, Lin chose Jing—she knew she could truly accept that outcome. Not out of resignation, but from understanding. Because once she stopped insisting on "getting" from this relationship, what remained was clear and simple.
She loved Lin. And loving someone sometimes does not mean you have to have her, but hope that she would be happy.