From that day onward, everything shifted into something subtle and hard to define.
The warmth that used to travel through Lin's messages seemed to cool across the screen, while Yeh's replies lost their former softness, becoming brief, restrained, and strictly functional—polite enough to avoid coldness, yet leaving absolutely no room for conversation to grow. Lin tried asking her out twice, but only to be turned down with perfectly reasonable excuses; yet whenever work was involved, Yeh reverted to being the efficient, sharp, almost impeccable partner she had always been, responding promptly and judging accurately, even more decisive than before—so precise that no one could fault her, yet so distant that no one could draw near.
Slowly, Lin realised something: she could no longer predict how Yeh would react. Once, she had been able to read the small shifts in mood, the pauses in her tone; now, it felt as though Yeh had withdrawn every part of herself that could be interpreted, leaving behind nothing but a polished, impersonal surface.
She could not understand where things had gone wrong.
One afternoon, wanting only to clarify a point about the editing, Lin dropped by Yeh's office without giving advance notice.
"Is Yeh around?" she asked one staff casually.
Her colleague looked up. "Yeh just went downstairs—meeting someone at the café."
Lin nodded, her gaze resting on the empty chair: the computer was asleep but not closed, half a glass of water still sat on the desk, as if its owner had stepped away only moments ago.
Curiously, Lin turned and headed down.
The café occupied the ground floor, with floor‑to‑ceiling glass walls flooding the space with soft, transparent afternoon light. Lin slowed her pace as she approached, instinctively cautious not to disturb anything.
And then she saw her. Yeh sat near the window, angled slightly away from the entrance, sunlight spilling over her shoulders and the ends of her hair, making her look relaxed and soft. Leaning back in her chair, one hand resting loosely on the table's edge, the other curled around a cup, she was smiling down at something.
It was not the polite, measured smile she offered in meetings, nor the guarded curve of her lips Lin was used to seeing. It was unguarded, light, even faintly playful—an expression that suggested she had completely forgotten the composure she usually maintained.
Lin stood frozen for two heartbeats. She had rarely, if ever, seen Yeh like this.
Her gaze followed that smile to the person sitting opposite her.
It was a woman, with shoulder‑length hair and features that were not striking at first glance but grew more attractive the longer one looked. Her style was distinctive yet effortless, and she radiated an easy, bright energy—not dazzling, but instantly memorable.
Lin did not step closer. She could not hear what was being said, only watch the movement of lips and expressions. The woman said something, and Yeh looked up, catching the remark perfectly, both of them laughing in unison.
That effortless synchrony was impossible to miss.
A moment later, the woman pouted playfully and leaned slightly forward—a gesture half teasing, half something more—as if pretending to lean in for a kiss.
Lin's heart gave a sharp, sudden lurch. She watched that moment of closeness unfold.
Yeh did not pull away immediately. She only leaned back a fraction, creating the smallest possible buffer, yet never truly breaking the distance between them. Laughing, Yeh raised a hand in light defence—a gesture that clearly said Stop it, the tone of her voice almost audible in the movement.
They both laughed, and nothing happened that crossed any line.
Yet in that instant, the intimacy between them needed no action to prove itself.
Lin understood then what she had been ignoring all along: Yeh was not cold by nature—she had simply never been this way with her.
Lin remained where she was, an accidental spectator to a world she was not part of.
What unsettled her was not whether anything had happened just now, but whether this ease, this closeness, would happen again and again, until it became routine—until someone else was allowed to stand naturally, unquestioned, at Yeh's side.
Lin turned and walked away, leaving as quietly as she had come, though her steps were slower than before.
She suddenly remembered a throwaway comment Fiona had made long ago: "Yeh seems cool on the surface, but deep down, she's just as soft and vulnerable as anyone else."
Back then, she had paid it no mind. Now, she wondered if perhaps that side of Yeh simply… never belonged to her.
Inside the café, Yeh's smile slowly faded.
Alice was still talking, her tone light and easy. "You've vanished these past few months—too busy even for me. What project is so important?"
Yeh murmured a reply, her voice low, her eyes fixed on the ripples in her cup, her mind drifting far away from the present.
When Alice had leaned in just now, the face that had flashed through her mind was not the one sitting across the table—not this friend she could tease or test or pretend to cross boundaries with.
It was the face of the person she was too afraid even to ask: Do you have feelings for me?
A faint, self‑mocking smile touched her lips.
Alice fell silent for a second, watching her. She had known Yeh for years and was one of the few who had seen every side of her. Yeh found closeness difficult, yet in unguarded moments she revealed a tenderness that ran deep.
Once, when Yeh had admitted she wasn't sure whether she liked women, Alice had joked, "Why don't I kiss you and then you will find out?" Yeh had flushed scarlet all the way to her neck, waving her off in panic. Alice had always thought it impossible to imagine what Yeh would be like in love. She knew her well enough to be certain: lately, someone had occupied Yeh's thoughts completely.
But Alice said nothing, resting her chin in her hand and speaking lightly. "Well… whenever you decide you want to try, I'm still here."
Yeh looked up and smiled.
Their laughter returned, restoring the easy, uncomplicated mood between them. Everything appeared perfectly natural. Yet Yeh knew the truth clearly:
She could sit here, laugh, respond, and allow someone to come as close as Alice had just done. She knew Alice had feelings for her, but Alicewas carefree enough never to demand to be the only one, and their friendship could remain open and unburdened. But Yeh also knew, with absolute certainty, that she could never take that one step further.