On her last day in Bangkok, Yeh felt a quiet reluctance settling in—soft, almost unnoticeable. She caught herself wishing, irrationally, for something like Groundhog Day: a chance to start the trip over from the beginning. If she could, she would speak to Lin more. Watch her more closely.
That was why Yeh avoided getting involved in relationships and emotions. When the heart stayed clear, everything felt lighter. Cities could be enjoyed as they were—streets, wind, the warmth of unfamiliar air—without distraction.
At the airport, Yeh lifted her hand in a practiced wave, her voice steady.
"Come visit us again sometime."
Lin smiled. "I will."
Yeh knew that I will carried a different weight. It wasn't polite, nor casual. It was the kind of promise that lay dormant, waiting to surface one day without warning.
She stayed where she was, watching Lin's figure recede, gradually absorbed by the cold white light of the terminal. Around her, the crowd surged forward, announcements pressed time onward—but Yeh remained still, like a frame held in suspension.
Only when Lin disappeared beyond the boarding gate did Yeh finally exhale.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Lin:
— I really enjoyed this trip.
Yeh stared at the words for a long moment before replying, simply:
— Me too.