Living together in Bangkok for days, as well as that night on the yacht, it had pushed the distance between Yeh and Lin forward imperceptibly. No words had been spoken, yet subtle changes had already taken place—restraint was giving way to habit, and closeness had become the natural routine.
Yeh realized she had grown accustomed to having Lin by her side. She had always been independent, doing everything on her own and never feel like something was missing. She had friends, of course, but everyone was busy with their own lives; few ever truly became part of her daily routine. Now, however, the room was never empty. She woke up every day to see her, came home to see her, and even just turning around was enough to confirm she was still there. This presence wasn't dramatic, but it had seeped into every corner of her life, making solitude feel strangely foreign.
Until the realization hit her—days like this was almost over. Soon they would return to their separate cities, back to their own distinct rhythms.
The thought came like a sudden wave of discomfort, unprovoked but undeniably real. Yeh hadn't felt this way in years. The last time was when she was a child, leaving her grandmother's house to go home, or saying goodbye to her cousins at the end of summer vacation. That sadness, knowing you would meet again but still feeling the ache of separation, would lodge itself in her throat, heavy and inescapable.
Back then, she would cry. She never imagined that years later, it would be Lin who made her feel this way again.
The last time they parted, she felt almost nothing. Back then, everything was still rational, the distance was safe, the emotions was contained. But this time was different. Living together day and night had amplified every feeling—the joy was tangible, but came along with unease and the sorrow of impending loss.
Yeh was certain of one thing: she would never let Lin see how much it hurt.
On the night before they left for home, they went with Fiona to a seafood restaurant in the bustling Huai Khwang district. The lights were warm, the air was filled with the noise of crowds and the rich aroma of tom yum and grilled food. Fiona ordered with ease and familiarity, her demeanor so relaxed that Yeh almost envied it—she seemed capable of never letting emotions weigh her down.
The table was small, bringing them close together. Yeh and Lin sat side by side, their shoulders naturally aligned, arms brushing occasionally before pulling away just as naturally.
They talked about work, future plans, and trivial matters. Yeh appeared even more at ease than usual, laughing and joining in the conversation, giving no indication that she felt reluctant to separate with Lin.
Besides, Yeh knew that she was quietly memorizing every moment spending together with Lin. Lin focused intently while peeling shrimp, her fingers were moving deftly. The brief touch of her fingertips as she passed the food over. The glances thrown her way during conversation, fleeting but always finding Yeh. Every detail was stored silently by Yeh, kept safe in her memory.
Suddenly, Lin asked, "When you get back... do you think it'll feel strange?"
It was said casually, almost offhand.
Yet Yeh's heart tightened. She didn't pause long, just smiled and replied, "I'll be fine. I'm used to being alone anyway."
The words came out too smoothly, like an answer she had prepared long ago.
Lin nodded, not pushing further. She simply lowered her head to continue peeling, then placed the freshly shelled shrimp directly into Yeh's bowl.
The movement was so natural and it was impossible to tell if it was just habit, or a silent way of saying goodbye.
Halfway through the meal, Fiona got up to take a call, her voice fading into the background. Left alone at the table, the noise of the restaurant seemed to recede, making the silence between them feel heavy and significant.
For a moment, Yeh was acutely aware of her own breathing. She took a sip of water, as if making a buffer time, or hiding something.
Lin looked at her, not speaking immediately. She waited, as if checking if it was okay to break the quiet.
"These past few days..." she said softly, "I've been really happy."
Her voice was low, but utterly sincere.
Yeh looked up, meeting her gaze directly, not looking away.
"Me too."
It was simple and unadorned. But what she left unspoken hung in the air: Time here went by too fast. I wish we could just stay like this forever.