The next morning, Yeh went to the beach alone.
The romance had stayed behind—with only her.
She sat on the sand, facing the sea, replaying the details from the night before: the light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lin's voice, the question that had been asked twice.
Wave after wave crashed against the rocks, steady and indifferent. Watching them, Yeh suddenly realized how unreal everything from yesterday had felt.
The encounter had been romantic—almost too much so. Like one of Lin's videos Yeh loved most, "Two girls, a romance with an expiration date." In that video, the ending sent them in opposite directions. Just last night, Yeh had casually said to Lin,
"I hope you'll make another one with a happy ending next time."
That expectation—quiet but unmistakable—had made her mistake the feeling for something deeper.
But now, with the morning air clearing her thoughts, she convinced herself quickly:
There was no possibility between her and Lin.
Not because anything had gone wrong—but because reality was painfully clear.
Lin was just as beautiful in person as she was on screen. Gentle, composed, her voice carrying the softness of a drama's female lead. She had filmed countless dual-female-lead stories, had fans, discussions. She was always surrounded by people—by a team.
And Jing—Lin's on-screen CP—was also a contracted actress under the same company.
At dinner the night before, the harmony between those two had been unmistakable. When one smiled, the other leaned in naturally. Their familiarity was visible even to an outsider.
That morning, Yeh scrolled past a video of the two of them together.
For just one second, Yeh felt jealous.
And that single flash of bitterness was what finally brought her back to herself.
— Liking someone like Lin would only exhaust her.
— Even if they were together, it wouldn't be stable.
— Lin would have countless future CPs; Yeh would always remain outside the frame.
— And most importantly: Lin's world was loud and fluid, while Yeh needed stillness.
The sea wind stung her eyes.
She realized that the "heartbeat" from last night had already faded.
In the past, it took her five years to let go of someone impossible.
This time—
It took only one day.
Maybe she had finally learned the difference between attraction and possibility.
Yesterday's romance had been real—but not real enough to make two parallel lines intersect.
She picked up her phone.
There were no new messages from Lin.
Yeh took a deep breath and told herself again: This is the answer.
Past experience had taught her how to protect herself. As long as the other person didn't move forward, she knew how to withdraw immediately.
The intense feeling from last night receded like the tide, leaving only a thin trace behind—a reminder that meeting someone can be romantic, but romance doesn't always need to continue.
The wind grew stronger, messy and relentless, scattering yesterday's ambiguity, attraction, and expectation until nothing remained but silence.