Halfway through the dinner, Lin slowly became aware that something was off with Yeh. It wasn't an obvious shift in mood, nor was it rudeness or awkward silence. The conversation flowed smoothly, topics came and went, and laughter came naturally when it should. Yet... Yeh was far too quiet.
Yeh was never the most outgoing person, but she was never detached either. Usually, she was the one who listened, assessed, and then inserted the perfect comment at the crucial moment—few words, but always hitting the mark. Tonight, however, she was barely present at all.
Lin first noticed it when Eric told a joke. Everyone else laughed, and she laughed too, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yeh only curve her lips slightly before lowering her head to pick at her food. The movement was natural, yet distinctly restrained. It wasn't dismissive, it looked more like she was deliberately stepping back into the shadows.
After a while, she observed discreetly several times. Yeh ate very little, spoke even less, and her gaze rarely landed on Lin anymore. It was as if she had dialed down her presence to the bare minimum, just enough not to be noticed.
The change was so subtle that anyone not paying attention would have mistaken it for simple fatigue. But Lin never missed details. She knew instinctively that this "quietness" wasn't a state of being—it was a choice.
She couldn't help but compare it to before. It felt somewhat similar to how Yeh watched her interact with Jing, yet different. Back then, it had been observation and confirmation; now, it felt more like a deliberate withdrawal.
The realization made her pause. Her mind raced through possibilities: Was she tired? Was she in a bad mood? Or was there something else going on? She didn't allow herself to dig deeper.
She remembered Yeh's words clearly.
"In real life, I don't like women."
That sentence was a boundary line, a warning placed in advance, keeping all improper possibilities at bay. Even so, she couldn't help but tuck this anomaly away in her mind.
From that moment on, Lin instinctively reined herself in. During the second half of the meal, she deliberately reduced her interaction with Eric, softening her tone and slowing her pace. She made sure the adjustment wasn't obvious, simply letting topics die out rather than pushing them further.
Once, right after a conversation ended, she found herself glancing toward Yeh instinctively. But the look went unanswered.
Yeh was looking down, drinking water, seemingly completely oblivious, showing no intention of joining in.
In that split second, a faint pang of disappointment shot through Lin's heart, but she suppressed it instantly.
She didn't look again.
When they left, Lin walked in the middle of the group, maintaining an equal distance from everyone. She knew Yeh was trailing slightly behind, but she didn't turn around.
She knew perfectly well that if she looked back, she would have to admit one thing: she cared.
Back in her room, Lin lay on the bed. The lights were off, but her mind was unnervingly clear. She replayed the entire dinner in her head.
Yeh's silence. Yeh's distance. That faint air of melancholy even when saying goodbye.
The pieces fit together without forming a clear answer, yet they pointed toward a complexity she was reluctant to acknowledge.
She reached no conclusion, but she admitted one truth to herself: Yeh's reaction to her was far more complicated than she had originally assumed.
She didn't send a message. It wasn't that she didn't want to ask, but she didn't want to overstep, nor did she want to cross that line which had already been clearly drawn.
If she was just tired, then asking would be an intrusion. If it was something else, then Yeh surely had her reasons.
What Lin didn't know was that while she was hesitating over whether to move closer, Yeh had already made the decision for both of them -- to step back before anything slipped out of control.