By the time they returned to the hotel, the night in Bangkok had settled deep.
The chaos of the day seemed to have been muted, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and faint music drifting through the thick, hot air. When Yeh pushed open her door and turned the lights flickered on, the world instantly became contained and quiet—a protective shell sealing away all the messy emotions she had carried back with her.
She walked to the sink and turned on the tap, watching the water flow. The face in the mirror looked calm, her hair fell loose over her shoulders, her expression was neutral, giving no hint of the turmoil beneath, as if nothing had happened at all.
But she knew that composure was merely a surface. Beneath it, something was churning, slow but relentless, rising up until it demanded to be acknowledged.
She stared at her reflection for a long time, searching for the right word to name it, until it finally clicked.
Jealousy.
The realization made her pause. It was a dull, persistent ache, like a repeated pricking that refused to fade. And in that moment, she understood with startling clarity: she was slipping back into a state she hadn't touched in years.
The memories from five years ago were locked away deep inside, rarely revisited, carefully buried. But tonight, they surfaced unbidden, like an old wound being torn open, bringing with them the exact same pain.
Back then, she had known better, yet she had fallen anyway. During those years of secretly loving her best friend, she had planned her exit a thousand times, rehearsing how to distance herself. But every time the other person showed even a flicker of kindness—a look, a soft tone—her resolve would crumble, and all logic would vanish.
And because they were "just friends," she was forced to endure details that cut deep:
Photos of her with her boyfriend, sent casually as if sharing nothing important.
Late-night calls after arguments, where she had to listen and comfort while her own heart broke.
She had to stay in that "safe" zone—never crossing the line, yet never allowed to leave.
It was then that Yeh realized the cruel truth: in that relationship, she didn't even have the right to be hurt.
The only option left was to walk away. And she did.
For the next five years, she built walls around her heart, refusing to let anyone in. Life became clean, predictable, and under control. She channeled her energy into her career, and everything moved forward steadily, exactly as she planned.
But now—
Five years later, here she was, standing in the exact same spot, all because of Lin.
The thought filled her with disappointment—not in Lin, but in herself.
She hated this feeling. She hated over analyzing every word, hated being pulled along passively, hated losing control. And she knew that if she let this continue, it would only drag her deeper into the darkness. This time, she would not repeat history.
Yeh sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tightening into fists before slowly relaxing. She took a deep breath, conducting a calm, rational meeting within her own mind, dissecting her feelings, categorizing them, and reaching a final verdict.
The mission for this New Year's trip: Let this feelings go.
Not by running away, but by consciously choosing to stop.
Not by suppressing the feeling, but by refusing to feed it while fully aware of it.
Not by denying the attraction, but by preventing it from becoming an obsession.
She told herself firmly:
She can like Lin, but she will not act on it. This is not cowardice; it is a choice made after careful judgment. Because she had no real answers, no clear reciprocation. And most importantly, there was Jing. That undefined, ambiguous relationship between them was a boundary line drawn clearly .
Putting all the pieces together, there was only one logical conclusion:
This attraction was likely a misunderstanding, or perhaps just a projection of what she wanted to see.
If so, she had to pull the emotional plug now, while she still could.
Yeh lay back against the pillows, her gaze drifting to the ceiling where the light cast a soft, even glow. She closed her eyes gently, as if putting an end to a debate.
Right before sleep took her, she left herself with one last clear instruction:
Tomorrow, when I see her again... I will be calmer than I was tonight.