Lin would be leaving in one day. Fiona had arranged a casual dinner to mark the occasion, and Yeh was determined to keep the afternoon entirely for them.
She took Lin to a restaurant in the old city for lunch, housed within a building that had once been a bank, then a hospital, now was restored to blend antique elegance with European design. From the street it appeared as nothing more than an unassuming doorway—yet stepping through felt like entering another century.
Inside, a sweeping staircase curved upward beside bookshelves built into the walls, with lighting soft and warm, shadows and lamplight playing across every surface. The ground floor held café and dining space; above, rooms opened into one another like a home that had grown naturally over time.
Lin looked around, delight evident in her eyes. "You find the most wonderful places."
Yeh smiled gently. "I want every moment with you to be memorable."
Over lunch, they spoke of art, architecture, and film—carefully skirting the more direct subjects waiting between them. As the meal progressed, Yeh said casually, "We are beginning work on a new project."
Lin looked up. "Anything you've decided on yet?"
"Still reviewing possibilities," Yeh replied evenly, pausing just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Lin understood the silence, and asked nothing. Instead they returned to lighter topics, in perfect, wordless agreement.
Afterward, Yeh took her to an old printing house—walls weathered, entrance half‑hidden, a place time seemed to be forgotten. Lin hesitated at the threshold; the silence within felt heavy, almost unsettling.
"It hosts art exhibitions sometimes," Yeh reassured her. "This one has just ended."
Inside, the space opened vast and bare—exposed beams, soot‑stained ceilings, rough floors left unrepaired. Once it was the largest printing house in Thailand, abandoned after fire in 2001, the building itself had become the exhibit. With no crowds, no voices, it felt suspended in time.
Lin's first question was not about the space. She turned to Yeh. "Who brought you here?"
"I found it myself," Yeh answered simply.
Lin nodded, satisfied, and said nothing more.
Alone together, they walked slowly through the emptiness. Upstairs, a caretaker directed them to a screening room. They entered near darkness, cushions scattered across the floor, light falling only from the screen. They sat side by side, shoulders close.
In the quiet, Lin spoke softly. "That story I was about to tell you… I never finished."
She watched the screen, not Yeh, as if the dim light made her talk easier.
"We were drawn to one another. But she was elder, wiser, more cautious. She believed I was young, and acting on impulse. She never truly let me in, never confirmed what we were." Lin paused, with her voice steady. "Then she was offered a position in USA. Her career path led onward, and mine led elsewhere. Slowly… we drifted apart."
Yeh listened in silence.
"I relied on her so completely then," Lin continued. "Yet when she told me she was leaving… I didn't ask her to stay. I said cruel things. Told her I did not care, that our relationship meant nothing."
A short, sad smile. "And so she left."
Light flickered across her face and faded.
"Once, I called her late at night, after drinking too much. I thought we spoke for ages. When I woke up… the call had lasted barely a minute." She paused. "That is the only time I have ever lost control like that."
Silence stretched.
"Do you regret it?" Yeh asked gently.
Lin answered without hesitation. "Regret asking her to stay? No." She shook her head slowly. "I regret never telling her how much she meant to me. Her choices were hers to make. But she deserved to know mine."
The air felt suddenly taut.
Yeh hesitated, then asked the question she had wondered about most. "Do you still… love her?"
Lin turned fully toward her now, closer in the dimness. "I carry regret. That is all." She held Yeh's gaze. "But my heart… belongs to someone else now."
She said no more, yet did not look away. Yeh did not look away either. Light flickered between them, drawing near then pulling back, until they breathed the same air, separated only by inches.
No words needed to say.
That evening at dinner, Fiona saw instantly how everything had shifted between them. She poured wine, glancing between them with a quiet, knowing smile—teasing far more potent than any joke could ever be.