Lin had drinked a fair amount, yet her mind remained sharp and clear. She was never the type who needed alcohol to loosen up. Bars, music, games—they were simply a setting to her. She could laugh, participate, and energize the crowd, yet just hours later, return to her room and edit videos in silence until dawn. Switching modes required no preparation, no transition period for her. So tonight's state of "mellow intoxication" was more of a choice than a loss of control.
She had harbored a small expectation for Yeh. Not for anything specific to happen, but simply wondering: would Yeh let her guard down just a little, influenced by the atmosphere and the alcohol? Because Yeh was incredibly restrained. It was a state of constant self-adjustment, as if there was an invisible line drawn in her mind, blocking anything that might cross it before it even happened. People like that are hard to reach.
Right from the start of the tissue game, Lin had sensed Yeh's discomfort. She wasn't rejecting, not sick of either. It was simply a very clear sense of boundary. When the distance shrank beyond a certain point, her body reacted instinctively.
Lin totally understood Yeh perfectly. So when it came to her turn, and then passed on to Yeh, she had almost expected her to pull back. She did nothing to change it, she simply let the game flow.
Until that later round—when the number landed on '1'. In that moment, she did glance at Yeh first. It wasn't on purpose, just an instinctive check, as if asking herself: how will Yeh react? But the thought vanished in a blink. She didn't choose Yeh. She knew exactly where her line was drawn, and she had no intention of testing it this way and even wanted to protect it. Instead, she turned to Jing. It was safe, natural, open to no misinterpretation, and would embarrass no one.
Yet as the cheers erupted around them, her eyes instinctively found Yeh again. Yeh was smiling, polite and composed, even looking more relaxed than before—but something was missing from that ease.
It wasn't an obvious change, but Lin caught it: This wasn't what she looked like when she was truly relaxed.
When it was Yeh's turn, Lin had already mentally prepared the answer for her. She thought she would choose Fiona—the most logical, the most acceptable option.
Instead, Yeh didn't look at anyone. She simply picked up her glass and drank. The movement was fast, leaving no room for reaction.
Lin watched her, saying nothing. In that instant, she understood: Yeh's boundaries weren't something that could be pushed or guided; they were absolute, set by her own hand. And once touched, she would rather end things in the most direct way possible. It wasn't escape. It was a choice.
For the rest of the night, the atmosphere remained lively. Yeh continued to participate—laughing, nodding, raising her glass, keeping perfect pace. The distance between her and Lin settled naturally into a "proper place": not cold, but not close either. It was as if she were silently saying: Let's go back to where we're supposed to be.
Lin felt it. She didn't try to break it. She only looked over occasionally, then looked away quickly.
It was early morning when they left. The wind was cool. The crowd began to disperse, calling cars and saying goodbyes, the noise gradually fading.
Lin stood by the door, her gaze was falling on Yeh, who was already walking toward the curb. Her silhouette was straight and clean, no hesitation, no turning back—as if she had left every emotion from the night inside those walls.
Lin took a step forward instinctively. She wanted to call out to her, if only to say goodbye, or find some excuse to prolong the moment a few seconds longer. But the words died in her throat. She didn't know what to say. It wasn't that there was nothing to say, but rather that nothing felt appropriate for the distance between them.
That hesitation was brief, but clear. And because of it, she realized for the first time, truly and deeply: she might care more than she had thought.