On the day they left Bangkok, Yeh didn't send any unnecessary messages. No wrap-up summary, no casual goodbyes that lingered with unspoken meaning. She simply posted the necessary updates in the work group chat, then quietly retreated back into her own rhythm.
Once they returned home, their contact was immediately compressed to the bare minimum. All communication happened within the group, strictly regarding the project, schedules, and coordination—never straying an inch off course.
For the first couple of days, Lin didn't think much of it. She told herself this was how it should be.
Yeh was never one for frequent chatting, and their connection was fundamentally built on work. The closeness they had felt in Bangkok had been amplified by time and circumstance; naturally, returning to their separate lives meant returning to a normal pace.
Lin accepted this explanation. It wasn't until a week later that she slowly realized something was wrong. It wasn't that Yeh didn't initiate contact—that had never been the norm. The problem was that even the messages Lin sent privately no longer led anywhere personal.
Yeh's replies were still prompt and polite, but the warmth that had once existed was gone. Every sentence landed perfectly at the point of ending the conversation—no extra words, no room to breathe. It was as if she had reclassified their relationship, stepping back from that ambiguous familiarity where lines could be blurred, returning firmly to the safe, clear definition of "business partner."
The change was silent, but impossible to ignore.
That night, past midnight, Lin opened her chat window with Yeh. The screen glowed, but she didn't start typing immediately. She searched her mind for the right opening line—something safe, not intrusive—only to find that nothing felt quite "right."
The realization made her uneasy. She began to weigh a frightening possibility: If I don't make the first move, will this just stop here?
The thought surprised her. When had she started thinking about an "end" to something that hadn't even been defined yet?
Her mind drifted back. Yeh's silence in front of Eric. That steady, unemotional answer: "In real life... no." The instant understanding they shared at their first meeting. The way Yeh had paused, hesitated, every time Lin asked the question. And in the café, the firm tone when she said she would never make the first move.
All those details she had caught but not fully analyzed suddenly rose to the surface, rearranging themselves into a new pattern.
She suddenly understood. It wasn't that Yeh didn't like her. It was that she wouldn't allow herself to.
Lin knew Yeh's logic too well. She is rational, fiercely protective of her boundaries. If she judged a relationship as uncertain, the safest move wasn't to test the waters—it was to retreat.
Perhaps, Lin thought, Yeh had already made an assumption. Perhaps she believed what existed between Lin and Jing was something more.
With that thought, everything fell into place. Yeh's attitude wasn't a natural cooling off. It was a deliberate severing of ties.
Lin leaned back against the headboard, her breathing slowing. She realized with startling clarity: she did not want Yeh to do this.
The next day, Lin sent the message anyway.
"How have you been lately?"
It was a simple question, yet it crossed the line she had set for herself. It wasn't work, it wasn't necessary. It was a question carrying personal weight.
After hitting send, she put the phone down. It wasn't that she wasn't eager for a reply; it was that she suddenly feared the emptiness if the response was cold or brief.
The uncertainty made her anxious.
Yeh wrote back quickly. When the screen lit up, Lin's eyes flew to it instinctively.
"Good. Very busy and fulfilling."
Just that one line.
No question back. No extension. No opening for her to continue the conversation.
Clean, complete, and polite. A definitive period at the end of the sentence.
Lin stared at the words for several seconds. Instead of erupting into emotion, she first fell completely still. Then, a sharp, clear ache began to rise in her chest.
In that moment, she didn't need to analyze anything anymore. If she didn't care, she wouldn't have hesitated for so long. She wouldn't have spent nights crafting the perfect line. And she certainly wouldn't feel this tightness in her heart just from reading a cold reply.
She admitted it to herself, quietly and honestly:
I don't think I have ever cared this much about losing someone.