As planned, Lin would be joining the project as the screenwriter and Creative Director, and the manuscript was promptly delivered to her team.
On the surface, Yeh remained completely composed. She pushed the process forward, coordinated milestones, and handled everything with the same calm efficiency as any other project. Yet deep down, she harbored a quiet premonition—Lin would love this story. It wouldn't just be a matter of thinking it was good, she would be truly struck by it, right to the core.
The first creative discussion took place in a meeting room bathed in cool, neutral light.
Lin spoke first. Instead of starting with emotions, she went straight to the structure and character dynamics. Her tone was steady but carried an intensity that demanded attention. She analyzed the delicate balance between the two leads—equals in strength, masters of restraint, yet bound by an attraction they could not ignore. They were not dependent on one another; rather, they acted as variables in each other's equations, slowly infiltrating each other's lives which were originally precise and rational, disrupting systems that had once felt complete.
"They aren't saving each other," Lin said, with a unhurried but firm tone. "It's more like... they become a problem that the other cannot avoid facing."
The room fell silent for a moment.
She continued to dissect the narrative, pointing out how it avoided the common tropes plaguing the market. There was no one-sided sacrifice, no manufactured misunderstandings, no emotional climax built on martyrdom. The characters progressed not because they were pulled by external forces, but through the accumulation of internal choices.
"What's most rare," she added, tapping her finger lightly on the table, "is that they don't lose themselves in love. If anything, through this relationship, they discover a different version of themselves."
She described it as a classic A-B story structure—external events driving the relationship, while internal themes drive growth, the two lines weaving together seamlessly. What existed between the characters wasn't just a momentary impulse, but a deeper resonance: a shared way of understanding the world, a similar attitude toward choices, and a mutual definition of where control ends and freedom begins.
As she spoke, she didn't look at Yeh. Yet Yeh knew with absolute clarity that every word she heard mirrored the core logic Yeh herself had written in the original proposal.
This familiarity wasn't coincidence. It was a kind of understanding she had missed terribly.
Yeh had to admit it—they were still perfectly in sync.
The discussion lasted the entire afternoon. Structure was debated, motivations were unpacked, and the delicate balance of tension, emotional progression, and dramatic impact were refined until they felt authentic. The harsh white overhead lights mellowed into a warmer glow as time slipped by unnoticed.
Towards the end, Yeh offered her own perspective. This time, she didn't speak purely as the producer, but as an audience.
"In reality," she said, her voice still even, "facing a relationship this intense... I think I would feel pressured."
She paused, carefully choosing her words to stay within bounds. "To overcome so many obstacles just to be together... I would probably choose to let go. In real life, there are so many things to weigh and consider. Love isn't always the highest priority."
Her words hung in the air, and no one else responded.
But Lin slowly shook her head.
"I don't agree." Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room clearly. "People can't be rational all the time."
She didn't rush to explain, just looked straight ahead, as if speaking to everyone present, yet addressing only one person.
"The probability of encountering a soulmate is so low. If you really encounter someone like that..." She hesitated for just a second. "Why not catch hold of?"
Her tone was calm, yet carried an unwavering conviction.
"Sometimes, you have to stand completely on the side of your heart. Otherwise, you'll never know what you're giving up."
Almost instinctively, Yeh asked, "So you would fight for it?" The moment the words left her mouth, she realized they had crossed the line from project discussion into something far more personal.
Lin didn't look away. "If I encounter my soulmate? Absolutely." The answer was immediate, clean, and unreserved.
In that instant, all talk of scripts and stories seemed to dissolve, leaving only a question about reality hanging suspended in the air.
Yeh didn't push further. She knew herself well enough—she wasn't comfortable exposing her private stance in a professional setting. Discussing love as a concept, she could be precise, detached, even eloquent. But when the question became "What would you do?", the answer revealed not just logic, but her personal choices and the walls she was still building around herself.
She steered the conversation back to work, acting as if nothing had happened. Only she felt the brief shift in her own balance.