Yeh suddenly realised that lately, every ounce of her energy had been drained by a single obsession: endlessly dissecting every glance, every small gesture, every possible shade of meaning hidden in a tone of voice. She replayed moments over and over, magnifying details until they blurred, as if trying to solve a puzzle that had no answer key. Yet a relationship that was healthy and true should never demand such exhaustion—especially one that hadn't even properly begun.
Only when she finally quieted her mind did she see clearly that the only choice left to her was not to step closer, but to step back. The moment that thought settled, she felt a strange, fleeting lightness, as if a heavy weight had lifted.
She found she could not bring herself to blame Lin. Instead, doubt crept in: perhaps she had simply projected too much meaning onto those shared moments. The closeness she'd believed was unique to them, the quiet understanding she'd cherished—maybe to Lin, these were nothing more than natural warmth, the same kindness she offered to everyone.
Subconsciously, Yeh began making excuses for Lin, and in doing so, she was forced to acknowledge the undeniable place held by someone else: Jing. That name had grown increasingly solid and impossible to ignore, and Yeh understood now that all the details she had tried so hard to overlook had always been sharp and clear.
The way Jing looked at Lin was open and unguarded; when she moved closer, she never hesitated. Her affection was direct, tangible, rooted in reality—purposeful and weighty. It stood in stark contrast to her own way of loving: Yeh needed constant reassurance just to inch forward, and could only keep her composure by constantly retreating.
A peculiar emotion stirred within her—not mere comparison, but a belated understanding. If Jing loved Lin this deeply, yet remained at her side without ever demanding a clear answer, then the restraint and quiet toll it must have taken were surely no less than what Yeh herself was enduring. She felt a sudden, unexpected ache of sympathy for Jing.
And Lin… she was far from oblivious.
To be loved so openly and consistently and remain unaware was impossible. The fact that Lin had never pulled away, never set boundaries, meant at the very least that she allowed it. Perhaps even more—that she was slowly leaning closer to Jing in return.
The thought made Yeh's heart lurch unsteadily. She couldn't help wondering if something had already shifted between them long ago, something Lin herself hadn't yet fully recognised. When two people share every day, it is all too easy to underestimate how feelings grow—not in one dramatic moment, but quietly, piling up one ordinary, unremarkable moment at a time.
From this vantage point, Yeh felt she could see the entire trajectory of things, not as a participant, but as a spectator far too clear‑sighted for her own good. If, in the end, Lin chose Jing… that outcome would feel reasonable, almost inevitable.
Jing's love was bright, visible, and ready to be received; she stood openly in the light, needing no concealment or explanation. Yeh's love, by contrast, was an undercurrent—calm on the surface, yet destined never to rise into the air.
She recalled so many small, sharp images: Jing could lean in easily, stand beside Lin in front of everyone, accept playful teasing or silent assumptions. Their bond invited speculation, misunderstanding, even hope. Yeh, however, rehearsed every approach in her head, calculated the cost of every heartbeat, and prepared an escape route before allowing herself even a hint of closeness. She had never truly stepped onto the stage; she had cut every attempt short before it could even begin.
A faint, sad smile touched her lips—a quiet admission to herself, long overdue. And then, a conclusion formed in her mind, one she could not argue against:
Jing was simply the one who was more suitable for Lin.