Back in her own city, Yeh returned to a full and orderly life. Yet whenever she paused—even briefly—Lin would surface in her mind: her smile, the slight tilt of her head when she told a story, the quiet light in her eyes when she spoke about what she believed in.
It didn't alarm her.
This wasn't the sharp, restless kind of attraction. It was more like a lamp being switched on inside an adult's heart—steady, unobtrusive, but enduring.
Yeh understood this better than ever:
Feeling something did not require moving closer.
Feeling something did not demand action.
Action, after all, would disturb the delicate balance they had only just formed—fragile, and precious.
She knew her boundaries well, especially in work and collaboration. She didn't want potential misunderstandings to interfere with future possibilities, nor did she want to appear too eager in something that had yet to take shape.
She examined herself with clarity.
It wasn't fear of rejection.
Nor fear of failure.
She simply believed—deeply—that this connection would only mean something if Lin takes initiative it first.
Otherwise, it would be like a flower sustained by one-sided care: vivid for a moment, but never meant to last.
This wasn't about surrendering initiative.
It was self-preservation—an emotional system refined by experience, choosing restraint over impulse.
At times, Yeh allowed herself to imagine another outcome: that they might never work together again, their paths drifting apart entirely.
And that, too, would be acceptable. Adult affection isn't about insistence; it's about acceptance.
Of letting each other fade into the wider world.
Sometimes, that really is the gentlest ending.
And she reminded herself—
If there was truly a story between her and Lin, it would find its way back on its own.
She didn't need to chase it.
She didn't need to wait.
All she needed was to keep that quiet light on, undisturbed, within herself.