The following day, Yeh went to the beach alone.
The faint, lingering tension and anticipation from the night before had faded under the harsh light of day, like a romance played out to an empty audience, with the romance had stayed behind—with only her. She settled onto the sand, kicking off her shoes and letting her feet sink into the fine grains. The waves rolled in and retreated in a steady, unemotional rhythm.
She stared at the horizon for a long time, her thoughts drifting back involuntarily—the golden light flooding the office, the soft lilt in Lin's voice, and those two intrusive, unforgettable questions. Asked once in the daylight, once in the dimness of the evening, they felt both deliberate and accidental, prying open a crack in the carefully constructed world she had built around herself.
The sound of water crashing against the rocks brought her back. Suddenly, everything that had happened yesterday felt surreal, like one of the short films which was written and acted by Lin, she loved so much—two women meeting within a limited timeframe, drawing close rapidly, only to part ways at a destined moment, leaving behind just enough warmth to remember. In that story, the ending sent them in opposite directions. Yeh had casually said to Lin,
"I hope you'll make another one with a happy ending next time."
At that moment, she had truly meant it.
But sitting here now, with the salt air clearing her head, she forced herself to be rational. That desperate urge to check her phone, waiting for a reply that never came—perhaps it had all just been an illusion amplified by the atmosphere. It required almost no effort to convince herself of one simple truth: She and Lin could never work.
It wasn't about what had happened; it was about reality itself.
Lin was exactly as she appeared on screen, perhaps even more captivating in person. Beautiful, effortless, possessing a natural warmth and grace that made her seem like the lead character in a drama. Her world was one of creation, fame, and constant movement—surrounded by crews, cameras, and an ever-expanding audience.
And then there was Jing, her on-screen partner and signed artist. Watching them together the night before had been a revelation. They fit so perfectly; when one laughed, the other leaned in, their movements bearing the unmistakable ease and intimacy of people who had spent years side by side. It needed no explanation; it was written in the way they existed around each other.
Just early this morning, Yeh had scrolled their videos. Her finger had hovered over the screen, watching the flawless chemistry, the emotions perfectly calibrated for the camera. A sharp, sudden pang of jealousy rose in her chest, so quick she barely had time to name it.
And in that instant, she was fully awake. Yeh talked to herself:
Into someone like her will only lead to exhaustion.
Even if it started, it would never be stable.
There will always be a new partner, a new story, while I remain on the outside looking in.
Most importantly, her world is loud, open, and constantly changing. What I need is control, certainty, and peace.
These thoughts arranged themselves like a familiar business model—logical, categorized, and concluded before her emotions could even begin to process.
The wind grew stronger, stinging her eyes. She could feel that feverish, uncontrollable "heartbeat" from last night receding, just like the tide, leaving only faint traces behind.
In the past, it had taken her five years or more—to pull herself away from impossible feelings. This time, she had reset herself in a single day.
Perhaps she had finally learned to distinguish the difference: between what feels like attraction, and what is actually possible.
The magic and romance of yesterday was real. The glances, the testing of boundaries, the things left unsaid—they had all happened. But real did not mean sustainable. Two orbits might pass incredibly close, but that did not guarantee they would ever truly collide. Just like parallels would never intersect.
She picked up her phone and checked Line. The screen was blank, silent and unwavering.
Yeh took a deep breath and released it slowly, giving herself the final confirmation she needed. Experience had taught her well: if the other person don't take initiative, the only dignified move of her was to withdraw immediately, not to invest further.
She put the phone away and turned her gaze back to the sea.
The heat and chaos of the previous night had washed away completely, leaving only a faint residual warmth to mark that momentary loss of control.
The wind scattered everything—the budding romance, the heartbeat, the hope—leaving nothing but clarity in its place.