By the time Yeh returned to the hotel, Bangkok had finally gone quiet.
She stood at the sink, looking at her reflection—
a face composed to the point of severity.
She looked calm.
Her hair fell neatly over her shoulders, her expression unreadable, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Only she knew what was stirring beneath her ribs.
Jealousy.
Yes—she finally admitted it to herself.
That subtle, needling sensation, striking again and again, pulled her back five years ago, a memory she had sealed away so carefully she almost forgot it existed.
Tonight, it resurfaced like an old wound—torn open without warning.
Back then, it had been the same kind of self-inflicted longing.
Those years of secretly loving a close friend, she had thought many times about walking away.
But all it took was a gentle sentence, a look held half a second too long, and she would soften again.
And because they were "just friends," she endured things she never should have had to.
That was when Yeh finally understood:
the only thing she could do in that relationship was leave. And she did.
For the next five years, she didn't fall for anyone.
She kept her heart tightly contained.
Life became clean, efficient, unentangled.
Her career flourished because of it.
And now—
five years later—she was doing this again.
Because of Lin.
The realization disappointed. Not in Lin. But herself.
She didn't like this feeling—
the guessing, the passivity, the emotional imbalance brought on by someone else's presence.
She knew she couldn't repeat the same mistake.
Yeh sat on the edge of the bed and took a slow breath,
as if convening a quiet, rational meeting in her own mind.
This New Year's trip has one priority: letting go.
Not avoidance—choosing to let go.
Not repression—choosing not to invest.
Not denying attraction—refusing to let it turn into fixation.
She told herself:
"I can like her. But I will not act on it."
She was more mature than she had been five years ago.
With Lin, she simply didn't have enough information. Not enough response.
And then there was Jing—
their relationship ambiguous, unresolved.
All signs pointed to the same conclusion: this feeling was likely a misreading, or a projection.
Better to cut the power while she still could.
Yeh lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
She closed her eyes deliberately, restraining herself, convincing herself:
"Tomorrow, when I see her,
I will be calmer than I was tonight."