Lin had shared stories from her past. She spoke of the summers in the southern city where she grew up, of school playgrounds bleached pale by the sun, and after class, everyone would huddle in the shade to share a single bottle of ice water. She told of trivial memories that somehow last long in memory, and of the moment in Taiwan when she first felt truly close to what she wanted to create—followed by the long journey of moving forward, yet constantly doubting herself.
She even mentioned the early days of starting her business. Shooting until dawn, the lights in the editing room never dimming. When exhausted she would simply lie on the floor to sleep, then woke up to revise scripts again, only realizing the night had passed when sunlight filled the room.
She recounted all this lightly, without drama or self-pity, simply stating facts.
At first, Yeh listened with interest, nodding and responding occasionally.
But gradually, she fell silent. It wasn't that she had nothing to say; it was because as the images unfolded in her mind, a clear yet heavy realization settled upon her. She had not been there for any of those years. She wasn't the one who stayed up late editing alongside her. She wasn't there during the moments of her confusion. She hadn't walked beside her from nothing to where she stood now.
Yeh lowered her gaze slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass unconsciously.
A pang of envy rose within her, sharp and undeniable. She didn't need to name the person she was jealous of; the answer was already there. She couldn't help but imagine: that person, walking into the studio every day and seeing the real Lin—tired, excited, stuck, or inspired—was just ordinary life.
The scenes Yeh was only just now piecing together were, to someone else, maybe simply daily routine.
"Have you and Jing known each other for a long time?" Yeh asked.
The question came out naturally, as if flowing seamlessly from the conversation.
Lin nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with an easy gesture. "She's always been there. We don't stick together every single day, but basically... we've gone through every important stage together."
Her voice was soft, but the words "gone through every important stage" landed like a thin needle against Yeh's chest. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it left a dull, acidic ache.
Yeh caught herself thinking:
Am I too late? Can I ever replace someone who was there from the very beginning?
The thought flickered and passed, because Lin's tone held no pride, no attempt to emphasize their bond. She simply continued talking—about confusion, about choices, about why, out of all possibilities, she had chosen this path.
Her sincerity made it impossible to interpret her words as exclusionary.
Slowly, Yeh began to share too. She spoke of her years in finance, the hopes and grit of her first job, and how behind every seemingly logical decision lay moments of impulse and risk.
She talked about failure, and about starting over. Her voice remained steady, controlled, but clear.
And Lin listened. Truly listened. Her gaze was fixed, undivided, catching every detail as if it mattered deeply.
That feeling of being seen so completely made it easy to believe—
That she was special.
Time stretched on unnoticed, until the door opened.
Fiona and Jing walked in, looking relaxed and refreshed from their massage.
Fiona raised an eyebrow at the sight of them sitting together on the sofa, chatting. "Wow, you guys have been talking this whole time?"
Her tone was teasing, but not surprised.
Jing smiled, sounding completely natural. "I knew you two would hit it off."
It was as if they had expected this all along.
No one thought it was strange. No one felt the need to explain.
And yet, in that casual acceptance, Yeh realized something painful.
Perhaps she was the only one who had weighted this moment with such significance.
Her fluttering heart, her hidden questions, her careful testing—to everyone else, it was just a normal conversation between friends.
The realization made her pull back inwardly, retreating to a safer, more guarded distance.
Lin stood up and stretched, her movements fluid and easy. "I should head back."
She said it casually, but just before turning away, she looked at Yeh.
Her eyes were warm, soft, and held just a hint of reluctance to end the moment.