In the days that followed, Lin worked and met and proceeded as always. Outwardly unchanged, perhaps even more efficient than before. She packed her schedule tight, leaving no room for hesitation, no space for thought.
One evening, she returned home earlier than usual. She turned on all the lights, then dimmed them to a gentle glow. In that quiet moment, she felt an unmistakable emptiness: No one is waiting for me.
She sat alone, thinking of Bangkok—of casual questions, of someone rising when she walked through the door, of simply existing together in the same space. She had taken it for granted then; now it felt precious and far away.
She realised then: those days had not been an escape. They had shown her another way to live.
Slowly, she began to ease her pace. She turned down a project she could easily have handled, delegated decisions to her team, let things move forward without her constant oversight. For the first time, she allowed work to continue without her holding every thread.
Ice found her in the hallway. "Taking a break?"
Lin shook her head. "Not a break." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Changing my rhythm."
She rarely spoke of change—usually only of pushing forward. Yet she did not retract the words.
That night, she reopened Yeh's document. She read all the way through, slowly, as if reliving the past. When she reached the final lines, she paused and stared at them for a very long time.
She understood then: the past had weighed on her not because of who left, but because she had never made a choice. She had called it regret, yet it was habit—silence, hesitation, withdrawal at the very moment she should have spoken.
Her fingers brushed the screen. This time, she did not set the phone aside.
The next day, she gathered her core team. No slides, no formal report. She stood calmly and said:
"I will be away for a while."
A pause. "Not a short trip."
She met their eyes. "I will be gone for approximately six months."
Silence fell across the room.
"Projects will proceed as planned. I will oversee creative direction remotely. Decisions on execution are yours to make."
It was unlike her—yet she spoke with absolute certainty, leaving no room for argument.
That evening, she packed. Slowly, separating what to take from what to leave. She sat upon the floor beside her suitcase, phone turning in her hand. She knew exactly what she needed to say.
She thought of Bangkok, of the evening by the river, and Yeh's voice in the dark: If it were me, I would never let the one I love go.
She had no answer then. She had one now.
She opened their chat. No greeting, no preamble. Simply:
I am coming to Bangkok.
She sent it, added nothing, and continued packing. Not impulse. Not a test.
This time, she had chosen not to stay behind.