Lin was far more sensitive than people may think of her. She had mastered the art of keeping her emotions perfectly contained. To the world, she appeared relaxed and easygoing, as if nothing truly weighed on her mind—but that was simply her way of navigating relationships. The real Lin was instinctively attuned to every detail; she just rarely voiced her observations or rushed to label things. She preferred to confirm the truth in silence rather than forcing clarity with words.
From the moment Yeh first appeared, Lin had been watching. She was quiet, rational, and steady. Yeh spoke with measured grace, carrying an air of restraint that seemed almost too mature. Yet she wasn't cold or closed off; she knew how to take care of people, how to keep a conversation flowing, all while maintaining an invisible line that no one could easily cross. That distance wasn't rejection—it was a choice.
Lin quickly memorized three distinct details.
Yeh's eyes were clear and direct, never darting away, yet always guarded, as if she waited to confirm safety before allowing her gaze to linger a second longer.
She spoke with logic and precision, keeping her tone controlled, but the moment she mentioned works she loved, her voice would light up—that flash of unguarded excitement making her come alive in a way nothing else did.
And then there was that time they sat on the floor discussing creation; Yeh's body had slowly softened, her shoulders dropping, her speech becoming natural and unforced. In that moment, she had felt more real than ever before.
Putting those pieces together, Lin arrived at a clear conclusion:
This person is different.
Lin was used to get approached by people, used to being liked and pursued. But someone like Yeh—who neither retreated nor advanced, standing firmly at the boundary line—sparked a curiosity she hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't love yet, not quite, but a magnetic pull that made her want to look closer, to understand what was really going on behind those eyes.
Still, Lin didn't let her mind wander too far. Or perhaps, she didn't dare.
She and Jing had been partners for years, creating content, running projects, moving in perfect sync. The public saw them as a couple, and they never bothered to correct the narrative—leaving things ambiguous was, after all, a strategic choice. In that dynamic, lines were intentionally blurred, existing somewhere between reality and performance.
So, she learned to keep everything in that "just right" place.
She had actually known weeks ago that Yeh would be coming to Bangkok for New Year's.
She hadn't shown any reaction when she heard the news, but a quiet expectation had begun to grow inside her, faint but persistent.
That day at the museum, when she realized Yeh wasn't there, her first thought wasn't she must have other plans. It was a sharp, personal pang of concern.
When she sent the message "Why didn't you call us?", her tone was light, playful even.
But the questions echoing in her mind were much more direct:
Why are you avoiding me? Is it because of how close Jing and I are? Or is it... because you feel something for me too?
She never asked. And Yeh's reply had been gentle, polite, and perfectly composed—as if she had sorted through every possible emotion beforehand and only presented the safest version of herself.
That very restraint only confirmed Lin's suspicion:
Yeh was the type who would never wear her heart on her sleeve, even if she cared deeply.
On New Year's Eve at the bar, she had had a few drinks. But when she rested her head on Yeh's shoulder, it wasn't just the alcohol talking. Mostly, it was because she had noticed Yeh pulling away.
It wasn't just silence; it was a deliberate retreat—positioning herself on the edge, controlling her involvement, dimming the flow of emotion, walking along an invisible safety line, never crossing over, never getting too close.
Looking at Yeh, a simple thought formed in her mind:
You are standing too far away.
In that moment, she wasn't calculating or plotting. She simply wanted to know, instinctively, what would happen if she took a step forward.
So she leaned in.
The moment her head touched Yeh's shoulder, she felt the other woman stiffen instantly. The resistance was instinctive, palpable... yet Yeh didn't push her away.
That reaction was no familiar and entirely new to her. She was used to bold approaching and open affection from other people, but this—caring deeply but fearing to speak, wanting to come closer yet fighting to hold back—exerted a strange, powerful pull on her.
Asking "Do you like women?" for the third time had been an impulse she couldn't fully control.
But unlike the previous times, this one carried a quiet certainty.
It wasn't mere curiosity or teasing. It was a gentle confirmation:
I can already feel that part of you. You won't say it, so let me reach out and touch that wall for you.
She wasn't trying to force an answer; she just wanted to see if the foundation would crack.
The hug at midnight wasn't random either.
Hugging Jing was habit, a natural reaction built over years.
Hugging Fiona was warmth, and politeness.
But when it came to Yeh, she had deliberately saved her for last.
She knew Yeh would never make the first move. She wouldn't reach out for a hug.
So Lin told herself clearly:
If I don't go to her, she will never take a step toward me.
Her action was softer than it had been with anyone else.
She didn't squeeze tightly. She simply closed the distance, and held on just a few seconds longer than necessary. She was waiting for one tiny sign of reciprocation:
Will she hug me back?
Time seemed to stretch.
Lin could feel Yeh's hands hesitate, the split second where they wanted to respond but pulled back instead—the indecision was almost tangible.
In the end, Yeh only patted her back lightly, a gesture so restrained it felt almost formal.
In that moment, two conflicting emotions rose in Lin.
A pang of disappointment. And a strange, unexpected sense of relief.
Disappointment, because she knew Yeh hadn't crossed that line yet.
But relief, because it proved something undeniable:
Yeh did like her. It was just a love that refused to spiral out of control, a love that would never cross boundaries easily.
Yeh would retreat. She would endure. She would hide every feeling away where no one could see.
And it was exactly that kind of restrained affection that made Lin's heart soften the most.