The following morning, sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, bright and unyielding, chasing every shadow into the corners of the room.
When Yeh opened her eyes, the first sensation was not wakefulness, but the harsh reality of day forcing its way in. She lay still for a moment. The emotions she had so meticulously sorted through the night before were still there, but they had been diluted by the daylight, stripped of their sharp edge.
She got up, dressed simply, and set a clear destination in her mind: The National Museum of Bangkok.
She made a habit of visiting museums wherever she traveled. Not out of academic interest, nor to tick boxes on a cultural list, but because there, time seemed to slow down. The artifacts behind glass, the ancient murals, the silent statues—they existed with a patience that enveloped her, making her own brief presence feel small and safe. The feeling of connecting with the history of a place grounded her. Especially when her own emotions felt unsteady, a museum was like an anchor.
Yeh hated to admit it, but she knew the truth: coming here alone was an act of avoidance. She was avoiding the sight of Lin and Jing together, avoiding their intimacy, and avoiding the lingering warmth she still felt inside.
In the afternoon, her phone vibrated.
She was standing in a quiet gallery, light streaming down from high windows, the silence so deep that even footsteps sounded soft. She looked down at the screen.
It was a message from Lin.
"Didn't see you at lunch today?"
It was such a simple line, yet it felt special care reaching out to her.
Yeh's finger hovered before typing back: "I went to the museum."
The reply came instantly: "Why didn't you ask us to come?"
That word—"us"—was a quiet, unavoidable reminder.
Yeh stared at it for a second before responding, keeping her tone clean and rational. "I wasn't sure if you'd be interested. Maybe next time."
She let out a slow breath after hitting send.
No, she hadn't invited them. Not out of forgetfulness or inconvenience, but because she couldn't bear to watch. The way they moved together, the natural ease between them. She knew exactly where her sensitive spots were, and she knew exactly what would hurt.
Those were reasons she could never speak out.
——
New Year's Eve arrived.
After dinner, the four of them went to a bar arranged by Fiona. The music was loud, layers of rhythm building up, while flashing lights cut through the space. The crowd was dense, and the atmosphere was infectious.
It was the kind of environment Yeh always found overwhelming. She sat down on the far left of the sofa, where she had a wall behind her and a full view of the room—a safe perimeter.
Before long, the other three were drawn onto the dance floor.
Lin melted into the music instantly, her movements relaxed and natural, laughing without restraint. Beside her, Jing was just as comfortable, moving to the exact same beat. They drifted close and apart, shoulders brushing, pulled together by the crowd and then separated, always finding their way back.
Yeh sat watching, and a clear thought formed in her mind.
They belong to the same world.
Lin was warm, outgoing, thriving in this fluid energy. Jing was light and easygoing, able to adapt to any rhythm.
And then there was herself—steady, reserved, not one for dancing or drinking or physical closeness.
Maybe I am just boring to Lin, Yeh thought, a judgment she rarely allowed herself, but which felt painfully true in that moment.
About twenty minutes passed. The music thumped on, the energy undimmed. Lin seemed to tire, stepping away from the crowd and walking back to the sofa. Without any hesitation, she sank down heavily right next to Yeh.
The next second, she rested her head lightly on Yeh's shoulder.
It was completely unexpected.
Yeh froze, as if time had stopped. Her breath caught, her shoulders tensed instinctively, but then she forced herself to remain still. Lin's hair brushed against her neck, carrying a faint, delicate scent—subtle, but impossible to ignore.
Yeh slowed her breathing, trying not to disturb the moment.
Lin lifted her head quickly, but didn't move away. The noise around them was too loud, so she leaned in close, her lips almost touching Yeh's ear, her voice dropping low.
"So... do you like women?"
The third time. More direct than ever, and closer than ever.
Yeh turned her head, and their eyes met with no distance left between them. Lin's gaze was clear, brightened slightly by alcohol, but holding an intensity that felt anything but casual.
Yeh didn't answer immediately. Instead, she whispered back, "Is this... just pure curiosity? Or do you ask everyone this?"
Lin looked at her, a faint smile playing on her lips—almost there, but not quite.
"I only want to know about you."
The words hung in the air, closing the distance between them completely.
But the fragile tension was broken as the atmosphere shifted. Drinks were raised, voices rose, and the energy surged. Yeh usually didn't drink, but in that moment, she poured herself half a glass anyway.
Their glasses clinked.
When she looked up, Lin was already watching her. The gaze didn't falter, holding hers with undisguised focus.
Ten seconds before midnight, the music faded. The crowd began to chant in unison.
Ten... nine... eight...
The voices rose together, a collective ritual.
And then, in the first second of the New Year, the room exploded.
Lin reached out first to hug Jing—natural, familiar. Then she turned to Fiona, laughing and saying something indistinct.
Finally, she came to Yeh.
Time seemed to stretch.
Lin's arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. The warmth, the scent, the feeling of her body against hers—it was vivid and real, like something destined to happen, even if unplanned.
Yeh's hands twitched at her sides. For a split second, she truly wanted to hug her back. But she stopped herself. She knew where her line was drawn. To respond would mean stepping out of the observer's role and becoming part of it. So she didn't tighten her arms. She allowed herself to be held, and then, with the lightest, most controlled movement, she gave a single, gentle pat on Lin's back.
A response, and yet a boundary.
In her usual steady tone, Yeh said simply:
"Happy New Year."