Lunch was a place PYang had chosen—clean, small, a little cramped.
Lin had just sat down when she saw PYang hand Yeh a glass of iced water first, his tone easy, familiar.
"You can't handle spicy food. I ordered something mild for you."
Yeh smiled. "Thanks, PYang."
Lin's fingers tapped the edge of the table once.
She noticed it within seconds—and stopped, as if reminding herself to stay still.
It wasn't that Lin didn't care.She was simply good at hiding it.
She knew her own pattern well:
the more she felt, the less she showed.
Attachment, for her, never came out as clinginess.
But PYang's ease with Yeh unsettled her.
It felt practiced—like the kind of understanding built over years.
A thought crossed her mind, unfamiliar and sharp.
Do I not have a place here?
Halfway through the meal, PYang said something that made Yeh laugh out loud.
Her eyes curved softly; she looked more relaxed than usual.
Something small stirred in Lin's chest.
Are they really that close?
She laughs so freely with him.
With me, she's more careful.
Lin glanced at Yeh.
And then, without warning, another thought surfaced:
Does she only like men?
Did I misread everything?
Does she prefer someone who's more direct, more familiar?
The idea startled her.
She had been certain—about the conversations on New Year's Eve, the pauses, the unspoken tension. She had trusted her sense of things.
But Yeh, sitting beside PYang like this, made Lin hesitate for the first time.
She hated hesitation.
Lin had always been the kind of person who assumed that when she chose someone, that someone would eventually turn toward her too.
Now, for the first time, she wondered if that wasn't true.
For the first time, she felt uncertain.
Still, Lin did what she always did best.
She let nothing show.
From the outside, she looked calm, almost indifferent.
Her expression was neutral, her posture relaxed.
She wouldn't admit it—but something had shifted.
Not jealousy, exactly. More like a quiet discomfort.
Or you're testing me, she thought.