On the final day in Bangkok, the air felt subtly charged with an unspoken emotion.
The sun shone just as brightly, the streets buzzed with the same energy, and the scents of coffee shops and street food mingled in the air. Everything looked exactly as it had when they arrived, yet Yeh could feel it distinctly—something had shifted.
A sense of reluctance was creeping in. It wasn't the city itself Yeh would miss, but the details of these past few days—the encounters and pauses that were never meant to happen, yet did.
For a fleeting moment, a ridiculous thought crossed Yeh's mind: If only we could do it all over again, like in the movie Groundhog Day. If she could go back to the very first day, she would make different choices. She would speak more, not clamping up so quickly. She would allow her gaze to linger longer, not looking away out of restraint. Even in conversations that could have deepened, she wouldn't let logic bring them to such abrupt ends.
These thoughts were faint, but alarmed Yeh. This was exactly the state of mind she had always tried so hard to avoid. Once you start caring, you start wondering "what if". She was accustomed to, and relied on, a life of focus and detachment. In that state, she could fully immerse herself in a city—the wind, the streets, the food, the foreign scents—without having to care about anyone else, or adjust her rhythm for anyone.That was why Yeh avoided getting involved in relationships and emotions. When the heart stayed clear, everything felt lighter.
She had always believed that was the way she was meant to live. But now, standing here, she knew it with absolute clarity. Someone had broken that balance.
The lights in the airport were cold and even, illuminating every expression clearly and washing away much of the emotion.
Saying goodbye felt like a routine. They stopped at the entrance, exchanging simple farewells.
Yeh maintained her usual composure, waving her hand lightly. "Hope you guys can come visit us again soon!" Her tone was was polite, proper, and carrying no hidden weight.
Lin smiled softly. "Sure."
Her answer was just as natural.
Yet Yeh knew that "Sure" was more than just a casual response. It was like a marker gently set down, seemingly insignificant, but destined to be remembered at some uncertain point in the future.
Yeh watched Lin's figure grow smaller until she vanished completely through the gate.
Only then did she let out a long breath, finally allowing herself to acknowledge that this brief intersection of lives was over.
Her phone vibrated softly in her palm. She looked down. It was a message from Lin.
"We have had such a great trip with you."
Her words we're simple, without embellishment.
Yeh stared at the screen for a long time. She knew she wanted to replied with so much more—she wanted to mention the moments that stuck with her, admit she would miss her, and used this chance to keep the conversation going.
But in the end, she typed only two words:
"Me too."
Send.
As the screen of her mobilephone went dark, she knew, everything unsaid was left behind in Bangkok.