Upon returning to her city, Yeh immediately threw herself back into the rhythm of work. Meetings, documents, negotiations, decisions—she arranged everything with meticulous order, using the familiar weight of busyness to force her emotions back into their proper place. She was returning to her default state: focused, objective, and responsible only for results. For her, this had always been the most effective method. When time was filled to the brim, there was simply no space left for feelings to leak through.
Yet, in the quiet intervals, she meticulously finalized the collaboration proposal for Lin's team. Structure, logic, execution paths—she drafted it with her signature clarity and restraint, treating it as just another routine assignment. After all, she had given her word, and she never allowed personal matters to interfere with her promises.
Right before hitting send on the group chat, her finger hovered for a split second.
It was brief, but long enough for an irrational thought to surface:
Maybe it would be better if this collaboration never actually happened.
The idea almost made her smile at her own absurdity, yet it carried a heavy undercurrent of avoidance. If the project moved forward, they would have countless reasons to meet, to discuss, to make decisions together, even to argue. Those moments, meant to be purely professional, would inevitably become contaminated again by everything else. She wasn't sure if she could maintain the boundary this time.
Still, she pressed down.
Send.
The message entered the chat, irreversible and final.
Almost immediately, Ice, Lin's business partner, replied with professional praise for her efficiency and thoroughness. It was crisp, business-like, exactly what she expected. Yeh glanced at it and moved on.
She was waiting for a the response from that person.
But Lin's icon remained silent.
Minutes turned into hours, and the screen stayed still.
Logically, Yeh knew perfectly well how busy Lin was. There were a hundred valid explanations—shooting, meetings, traveling, or simply not having checked her phone yet. Yet, her mind moved faster, jumping to a conclusion that was cleaner, safer, and far more painful:
She doesn't care about this collaboration. And she doesn't care about me. Not enough to make it a priority.
The verdict came swiftly, executed with the same efficiency she applied to every other uncertain relationship in her life. Before the emotion could even begin to grow, she had already judged it, creating the perfect distance for detachment.
And so, her familiar defense mechanism kicked in silently.
She deliberately reduced the frequency of her thoughts, reclassifying every conversation as strictly "work-related," slowly eroding the significance of their encounter in her mind. She stopped opening the chat window obsessively, letting it sit there like any other completed task.
Yet, occasionally, in the brief moments of silence between tasks, Lin's two questions would drift back into her mind—unanswered, lingering.
And with them, the memory of the way Lin had looked at her was impossible to truly erase.