The next day, when they saw each other again, everything looked perfectly normal.
Lin smiled the same way she always did. Yeh had slipped back into her calm, rational ease—the kind that put people at a distance without ever making it obvious.
If not for what moved beneath the surface, anyone would have thought the night before was nothing more than a simple act of care.
Lin carried a faint, unnameable upset in her mood.
Yeh—
the moment she saw her, her heartbeat still quickened.
They spent the day scouting locations with the director.
The car left the city behind. Buildings gave way to open land, green stretching endlessly beyond the windows.
Yeh and Lin sat in the same row.
Yeh kept her gaze outside, as if watching the scenery. In truth, her attention drifted sideways again and again. She wanted to say something. She just didn't know where to begin.
It had been a long time since she'd felt like this—someone who was usually so good with words, suddenly unable to find any.
Lin spoke first.
"Yesterday… was it you or Fiona who took my makeup off?"
She asked it casually, but she already knew.
Yeh paused, then gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.
"It was me. I thought you'd be uncomfortable sleeping with it on. I can be a bit obsessive about things like that. Sorry."
Lin blinked, then let out a soft laugh.
"When I come home exhausted, I always think—if only someone would take my makeup off for me. Didn't expect that to actually happen."
Yeh looked ahead at the road.
"Then I'm glad I could make that come true."
She held back the question that rose instinctively—Has Jing ever done that for you?
The car kept moving.
They drifted into easy conversation—work, filming, small, inconsequential things. The kind of tone that belonged to people who had known each other for years.
Yeh told herself quietly: this is enough.
Being friends with someone like Lin was already a kind of luck.
But she knew herself too well. Experience had taught her the same lesson, over and over—
don't be friends with someone you like.
And yet, this was all she could manage now: not moving closer, not investing anything that carried emotional weight. Just staying where it was safe.
By evening, Fiona suggested dinner. She had already made a reservation—by the Chao Phraya River, directly across from Wat Arun.
The restaurant opened toward the water. At dusk, light fell behind the temple spires, spilling across the river like burnished gold. The surface shifted gently, the color moving with it, as if the river itself were breathing.
Fiona started talking the moment they sat down, recounting something from earlier with exaggerated energy.
Yeh relaxed.She was always grateful for Fiona's presence—open, unfiltered, never afraid of emotion. With her around, silence never lingered long enough to become uncomfortable.
Yeh leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting once more toward the window.
She had always thought sunsets were among the most romantic things in the world.
And now she was here—sitting across the same table as the person she liked, watching the same fading light.
It was enough.
"Too romantic," Yeh murmured.
Fiona followed her gaze and laughed.
"Every time you come to Bangkok, you discover something new."
"Yeah," Yeh said softly. "It's never the same twice."
"So what's the best part this time?" Fiona asked.
Yeh answered without thinking—
"Watching the sunset over the river with you."
The unspoken part stayed beneath the surface: watching it with the person I like.
As she spoke, she lifted her eyes—straight to Lin.
Lin didn't look away.
For a moment, the last of the sunlight rested along her profile, soft as her expression.
"You're honestly the most romantic person I know," Fiona said.
Yeh smiled faintly.
"I'm more practical now," she said. "I used to have a lot of unrealistic ideas about romance."
She didn't elaborate.
But she knew what she meant—how much of that "romance" had been one-sided effort, unanswered expectation. All the moments she had once believed that sincerity alone would be enough to be cherished.
"Like what?" Lin asked suddenly.
Her voice was light, but it made Yeh pause.
After a few seconds, Yeh answered.
"I used to be obsessed with sunsets. When I traveled in Europe, I'd time everything just to catch one—running up to high places, dragging my friends along. They said I was always chasing the sunset."
She paused, then added quietly,
"I'm not like that anymore. If I see it, I see it. If I don't, it's fine."
"The biggest thing I've learned," she said, "is how to let go."
Lin didn't respond.
She just looked at Yeh, more intently than before—as if seeing her differently.
Fiona shifted the conversation, talking about her girlfriend, recounting stories with her usual ease. She had always been that way with love—direct, unguarded. If she liked someone, she went after it. If it worked, it worked. If it didn't, she let it go.
Yeh listened quietly.
Fiona knew better than to press her about relationships. They had known each other too long. Yeh's past wasn't a secret—it had simply already been filed away, finished.
As for what she felt now, toward Lin—
she wasn't ready to let anyone see it.
Not even Fiona.
Maybe she wanted to keep it for herself. Or maybe she knew that once spoken, it would become something defined, something real enough to be stored.
And deep down, she already understood—
this wasn't something that would last in the real world.
Not because it wasn't beautiful.
But because it wouldn't become anything.
So she refused to give it weight.
Lin joined in the conversation now and then, offering her thoughts on relationships with an ease that suggested she wasn't afraid of talking about this topic.
But the entire evening, Lin never once mentioned Jing, who was supposed to be her girlfriend.
By the time the sun had fully set, the river had deepened into gold, lights flickering on along the banks.
Another memory with Lin had formed.
Soft. Quiet.
And unmistakably romantic.