A week later, Yeh returned home exactly as planned, and she and Fiona set aside seven days to pack for their long‑term move to Bangkok. True to her word, she messaged Lin to say she was back, and told her the date she would leave.
With Fiona beside her, every task felt concrete and manageable: lists, sorting, repeated checks, and her days were so fully occupied that her emotions rarely threatened to loose control. Had she never met Lin, she might have looked forward to this new life with light, unburdened excitement; instead, every moment of stillness brought the quiet awareness of all she was leaving behind.
Lin had been shooting almost non‑stop those first few days. Their schedules were too crowded to suggest a meeting, as if by common agreement of helding their feelings in check until the day before Yeh's departure.
That evening, Yeh was making her final packing up. Two large suitcases stood open in the living room, their contents were sorted and ready to be closed. When the doorbell rang, she walked to open it without hesitation, as if she had known exactly who would be there.
Lin stood on the threshold, with her makeup removed, her frame was a little thinner after days of back‑to‑back work, faint weariness shadowing her eyes and making her an unguarded softness Yeh rarely saw.
Yeh drew her inside, closed the door behind them, and guided her to the sofa.
"Are you all packed?" Lin asked, her voice was quiet, as if confirming something that could no longer be changed.
"Almost," Yeh glanced toward the cases. "Just need to zip them shut."
Silence fell for a heartbeat, as if a thousand unspoken words had stepped aside to make room for them.
Lin lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again. "May I see you off tomorrow?"
Yeh shook her head almost instinctively. "I've never been good at goodbyes." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I'm afraid I won't want to go." She looked directly at Lin, her voice was softening. "That I might be impulsive enough to stay—like scenes out of a drama."
Lin held her gaze for a second. "Because you don't want to leave me?"
Yeh did not look away. She met Lin's eyes and nodded, simply and plainly.
For a moment, the air seemed to tighten around them.
Lin shifted closer, and without further preamble reached for her and pulled her into an embrace, gentle yet firm, pressing their bodies together. "I don't want to let you go either."
Yeh held her back.
No words passed between them as they stayed that way, time stretching until it felt indistinct, perhaps only seconds, yet long enough to hold everything they had never said. Yeh had always believed that hugs were more primal than kisses, a language older than speech; from childhood, it was in such arms that we learned to settle, to belong, to be caught and held. Now, feeling that familiar warmth against her own, she realised she was far less composed than she had pretended.
The hug was natural ease at first and soon grew into something more. Their breaths mingled, their rhythms falling into one another, and neither pulled away, the moment lengthening until it lost its clear edges. Yeh could feel Lin's heart beating a little faster than usual, and she knew hers was racing just as hard. For a fleeting instant, she was no longer certain that if they stayed this way a moment longer, this embrace would not turn into something else entirely.
Still neither of them moved, nor broke first. When they finally drew apart, the room had fallen unnaturally quiet.
Lin reached into her bag, pulled out a small box, and handed it to her. "Your birthday's coming in a month. I got this for you ahead of time."
Yeh opened it to find a Tiffany pendant: a single star linked to a tiny lock, gleaming clean and bright under the light. She stared down at it for a moment before noticing the tears in her own eyes; she brushed them away with a faint, light smile, trying to keep the tone easy. "Are you planning to lock my heart away?"
Lin glanced at the pendant, her expression was calm. "Believe whatever you like."
The tension that had gathered between them softened at those quiet words, the air was lighter again.
Yeh smiled and said no more. She reached out to smooth a stray strand of hair from Lin's face, her touch was light,.and her fingers lingered a fraction longer than normal before she drew back. "It's getting late. I should drive you home—you will have an early start tomorrow."
Lin nodded. She had more she wanted to say, yet knew that once she began, the fragile balance they had found would unravel once more.
On her way out, Yeh seemed to remember something, she changed the door code, and talked to Lin. "I've set it to your birthday. Come by whenever you like—open the windows for fresh air, or if you just need somewhere quiet to sit, or a different place to write. It'll be empty, after all." She finished with a bright, deliberate smile, as if to make the gesture feel casual.
Lin looked at her, paused for a second, and said softly, "What's the point of coming if you're not here?"
Yeh did not reply. She had known she would say that. But she also knew Lin would come.
They walked down together and got into the car. The streets were quiet in the night. Yeh drove more slowly than usual, as if unconsciously drawing out the time. She glanced over at Lin, and their eyes met; both hesitated, until Lin looked away first. "Keep your eyes on the road."
Yeh gave a quiet laugh and focused ahead again.
The distance was short, and even at that pace, they arrived far too soon.
When the car stopped, neither moved to get out at once.
"Take good care of yourself," Yeh said.
"You too," Lin answered.
They stepped outside and shared one last hug—briefer this time, yet held with greater force. As they separated, Yeh did not look back; she knew that if she paused even a second longer, all the feeling she had kept down would break free. She walked quickly to the driver's door, her hand closed around the handle.
Just as she was about to sit in, Lin's voice came from behind her—louder and swifter than usual, as if spoken before she had fully decided to say it.
"I will come to Bangkok to find you."
Yeh stopped, she didn't turned back, and nodded. Tears spilled over before she could hold them back.
The car door closed, and the world was divided in two.
Yeh knew the future was uncertain. Lin might build a new life, perhaps be together with Jing, or fall for someone else—things she could never control. Yet of one thing she was absolutely sure: she would never forget Lin.
She would remember the strength their connection had given her, the quiet, unspoken closeness that had felt truer than any declaration, and how Lin had been the first to make her feel, with perfect clarity, what it meant to like someone, and to be liked in return—just before she set off to go further than she had ever gone before.