Later that evening, Lin invited Yeh, Fiona, and Ice, Jing of her team to dinner nearby.
By then, the city had softened.
Streetlights came on one by one, stretching shadows across the pavement, and the night moved at a pace Yeh wasn't used to—unhurried, almost indulgent.
As they walked, Lin slowed slightly, matching Yeh's steps without making it obvious.
"How old are you?" she asked, casually, as if the answer meant nothing.
Yeh paused for half a beat.
"I won't tell you."
Later, almost accidentally, she would learn they were born in the same year.
They had dinner at a small bistro near Lin's studio, where the lighting was dim and amber-hued, and the music hummed low enough to fill any awkward silences. The table was small, forcing a proximity Yeh wasn't used to—close enough that she could see the light reflecting in Lin's eyes and the subtle glow of her skin. Whenever their gazes met, it was only for a fleeting second before Yeh would look away instinctively, as if dodging something that wasn't meant to happen.
Halfway through the meal, Lin asked again, her tone sharper and more direct than it had been that afternoon. "So, do you like women?"
Caught off guard, Yeh deflected with a laugh. "I'm quite shy. I rarely talk about relationships. Ask Fiona if you don't believe me."
Lin nodded and let it drop, but the unanswered question hung suspended between them, thickening the air with unspoken tension.
Yeh rarely discussed her dreams with strangers, yet that night she found herself opening up. She spoke of how her work in investment was merely a means to an end—funding the creative work she truly believed in. She wanted to create something meaningful, something that could change things. The word had barely left her mouth when Lin echoed it simultaneously; it was the exact same driving force behind her own work. They paused, locking eyes for a moment, and in that shared understanding, the silence between them grew heavy and charged.
Later, as they reminisced about childhood television shows, Yeh couldn't even recall what she had said. She only remembered Lin suddenly smiling and saying, "You're really cute."
The compliment flustered her more than any question ever could. A blush rose to her cheeks and she looked down. She was used to being described as rational, professional, reliable—words like "cute" felt foreign, almost alien to her identity.
When Fiona casually mentioned that Yeh didn't drink and kept a strict schedule, Yeh caught a flicker of surprise in Lin's eyes. She knew Lin was someone who thrived in the night, who loved the noise and the crowd. Yeh had already mentally prepared herself to follow them to a bar, to go through the motions of socializing just to steal a few more hours in her company.
But things took a different turn.
At some point, Fiona leaned in and whispered, "We've been talking for eight hours already."
It was only then that Yeh felt the weight of time pressing down on them.
They parted on a street corner, where a soft breeze stirred the early evening air. The moment felt suspended—neither pushed forward nor truly concluded. Lin initiated adding her on Line.
Yeh's first message was deliberate and restrained: "It was wonderful meeting you."
Lin replied instantly: "I'm so glad I met you too," seamlessly continuing their conversation from the day into the night. Their messages were light, breezy, yet carefully respectful. Then came the revelation—their birthdays were only four days apart. They shared the same sign.
As the New Year approached, Lin asked about her plans. Yeh replied that she was heading to Bangkok with Fiona.
"Maybe we'll end up there too," Lin wrote.
The conversation paused there, left hanging in the balance—neither continued nor ended. But that night, Yeh lost the composure she had guarded for so long. She found herself checking her phone repeatedly, waiting for the typing indicator to appear, replaying every word Lin had spoken. It had been five years since she had felt anything like this; she had almost forgotten what it meant to have her heart skip a beat.
She wasn't sure if this was a good thing, but she knew one thing for certain: something had shifted off its carefully planned course. And this time, for the first time in years, she didn't try to push it back.