Yeh said her goodbyes to the group and left, appearing to have ended her visit, yet she had not gone far—only settled into a café a short walk away. She sent no message to Lin, nor went back upstairs, simply ordered a coffee and drank it slowly, letting time stretch out on purpose.
As dusk fell, she returned to the building.
The lobby was quieter now, the lights dimmed, and she chose a seat with a clear view of the lift. Her phone lay beside her, untouched; she glanced at the time now and then, and look away again. She did not think of herself as waiting—she simply had not left.
It was past eight in the evening when that familiar figure finally stepped out.
Lin walked alone, her shoulders sloped in the quiet release that comes only after a long day's work. She saw Yeh the moment she stepped out of the lift.
She stopped at once.
"Why didn't you leave?" she asked, walking nearer, with surprise unhidden in her tone.
"Waiting for you," Yeh said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Why didn't you come up?"
"Didn't want to disturb you." Yeh met her gaze calmly.
Lin looked her for a moment, then asked nothing more.
"Shall we get something to eat?" Yeh suggested.
Lin nodded, as if she had already accepted this without question.
"What do you feel like having?"
"I can't think," Lin breathed out softly. "My brain's worn out. You choose."
Yeh took her to a fine‑dining place she knew well, where Asian and Western flavours met, the lighting was soft and the space was quiet, and was suitable for long conversations. They were shown to a corner table, setting apart from the busier parts of the room.
Once seated, the pace of everything slowed.
Dishes arrived one by one, beautifully presented and delicately flavoured, and wine was poured gently into their glasses. Yeh excused herself to take a call, quietly asking the manager to bring out a cake later, mentioning it was friend's birthday.
When she returned, she set a small box on the table and pushed it toward Lin. "For you."
Lin looked up, clearly surprised, and took it to open: the exact perfume she had used for years.
"How did you know this is the one I like?"
"I could smell it on you," Yeh said softly. "Sometimes when I pass a similar scent on the streets of Bangkok, I think of you."
Lin fell silent for a moment, gazing at the bottle, her fingertips brushing the edge of the box.
"How is Bangkok?" she asked at last.
"Good. Full. Even better than I imagined."
"You make anywhere feel like home," Lin said, and she meant it.
The air stilled for a heartbeat.
"Did you really come back for work?" Lin asked again.
Yeh looked at her and began circling the truth. "I came back for your birthday." She paused. "I've never forgotten the date. I wanted to send you a message last year too, but we hardly knew each other then—I was afraid I'd seem over‑familiar, so I didn't. I still wished you a happy birthday in my heart, though."
Lin gave a small, helpless shake of her head, soft and rueful. "You're so silly." She looked straight at Yeh. "Do you know? I was waiting for your message all day. I thought you didn't care at all."
Neither of them spoke right away after those words settled between them.
Yeh smiled gently, offering no explaination.
Lin watched her for a while, with her tone lowering. "Let's stop guessing from now on, alright? Just say what's on your mind."
"Alright," Yeh answered at once. She hesitated only a second, then added quietly, "And you… did you miss me this past month?"
Lin froze, clearly caught off guard by the directness, her lips pressed lightly together—but she did not look away. "What do you think?"
Yeh smiled, and asked no further.
Just then the cake was brought out, with candles glowing softly in the dim light. "Happy birthday," Yeh said. "May every wish you make come true."
Lin looked at her, not closing her eyes at once. "Yours is coming soon too." She paused, then said, "I'll remember yours, this time."
The candlelight flickered in Lin's eyes as she bowed her head to make her wish, keeping it to herself. When she blew out the flame, the room dimmed for an instant before brightening again, as if something had been briefly hidden and then set back in the world.
They didn't return to what they had just spoken of; both knew that to go further would make the evening too heavy to bear. Instead they talked of the weather in Bangkok, of upcoming projects, of small, unimportant things—yet between every sentence lay a quiet pause that needed no filling. Sometimes they simply looked at each other, letting the silence stretch unbroken.
They rose to leave only as the restaurant prepared to close.
Night had deepened, the streets fallen quiet, streetlights stretching long shadows across the pavement. Yeh did not call a car at once; they walked side by side for a short way, neither saying where they were bound, neither stopping first. Only when they reached a crossing and the red light appeared did they halt in unison.
Traffic flowed past, light sweeping over their faces and slipping away again.
Lin turned to her. "What time is your flight tomorrow?"
"Early morning."
Lin nodded.
Another short silence fell.
"Shall I see you off?" she asked suddenly.
Yeh shook her head softly. "No need. You know why."
Lin did not press her, only murmured "Alright."
The light turned green.
They crossed together, then called separate rides at the curb. Yeh's would arrive soon.
She stood still, looking at Lin. "I should go."
Lin looked back, as if about to speak, then held her words. The space between them was neither too far nor too close—just within reach, yet neither moved first. The moment lengthened out.
At last Lin stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace. There was no hesitation this time. Yeh's body tensed for a fraction of a second before relaxing completely, holding her back. They pressed close, breaths mingling, warmth feeling sharper and more real in the cool of the night.
After several seconds, or longer, Lin drew back slightly, though she did not step away entirely. She looked at Yeh and said very quietly, "Text me when you arrive."
"I will," Yeh promised. "You too, when you get home."
Their eyes met one last time. Yeh turned first, walking away at an even pace, never looking back—until a few steps on, she stopped, unable to resist glancing back.
Lin was still standing exactly where she was.
Their gazes found each other again in the dark, everything was clearer than before. Yeh gave a faint smile, stayed no longer, and got into the car.
The next morning, Yeh's flight left very early. The city was still half‑asleep, the roads almost empty. As she walked through the airport with her luggage, her phone lit up with a message from Lin: Have you reached the airport yet?
Yeh read it, waited a few seconds before replying: Just got here.
A quick Good came back, followed after a short pause: Safe flight.
Yeh stared at those lines for a moment, her fingers hovering over the screen, before typing back simply: Thank you.
She said nothing more. When the boarding call was announced, she put her phone away and walked forward. No one was there to see her off, yet she knew with absolute certainty: this departure was nothing like the last.