After several script meetings with Lin's team, the project was well underway, and it was almost time for them to return home.
Yeh had assumed that their communication would revert to the safe distance of calls, emails, and online meetings. Emotions would be kept behind screens, and everything would remain strictly professional. Instead, she received a message from Lin:
"I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. Are you free for coffee tomorrow?" The tone was casual, effortless.
Yeh agreed almost instantly. She dug out the address of a café she had always wanted to visit but never gotten around to, and sent it over, mentally framing this as a "team farewell"—she was just the one choosing the venue.
Yeh arrived early the next day.
It was a small place with wooden furniture and dim, warm lighting. The air smelled of coffee beans and old newspaper. She ordered a mild pour-over and sat by the window, trying to compose herself as if she were just waiting for any ordinary business partner.
Then the door opened. She looked up and saw Lin walk in.
She was alone, not with her team, no with Jing.
Yeh paused for a second before saying. "Why are you alone? Where is everyone?"
Lin took off her sunglasses, smiling easily. "They went shopping." She glanced at Yeh, adding with a hint of playfulness, "Why? Is it a problem that it's just me?"
"Not at all," Yeh smiled back, keeping her voice light. "Just curious."
Lin sat down. In this setting, there was no conference table, no laptops. The distance between them suddenly shrank to a point where it was hard to maintain a purely professional facade.
Lin spoke first, starting from safe ground. "Why did you decide to option that novel?"
Yeh answered smoothly, by rote. "I evaluated it from both market and content perspectives, based on twenty specific criteria."
It was her usual way of speaking—clear, rational, emotionless.
But Lin didn't follow that thread. She shifted angles. "When you were reading it... do you ever project yourself into it?"
Yeh looked at her, not answering directly. "You guess."
Lin smiled, as if she already knew. "I think you did. Because I did."
As she said it, she looked straight at Yeh. Their eyes met briefly—no avoidance, no prolonging—but it was enough to make Yeh's heartbeat stutter. She had to admit it; Lin was incredibly good at expressing emotions with her eyes.
Lin didn't look away immediately, as if confirming something, then continued. "Actually, the other day in the meeting, I said I would fight for my soulmate... but afterwards, I thought about it. It's not that absolute."
"How so?" Yeh asked instinctively.
"My definition of 'fighting,'" Lin said, slowing her pace slightly, "is based on knowing that the feeling is mutual. If I don't know how the other person feels... I wouldn't act easily."
She stirred her coffee, choosing her words carefully. "If they didn't like me back, I'd feel like I was deluding myself. It would hurt for a long time. After all... I don't fall for people easily."
It was said softly, but carried an undercurrent of emotion Yeh couldn't quite place. Was she talking about the past, or right now? A question rose to Yeh's lips—What about you and Jing?—but she swallowed it.
Lin didn't stop. "What about you? If you like someone, would you make the first move?"
Without thinking, Yeh replied, "No."
Her voice was steady. "Because I don't know if they like me back. If they don't say anything, I assume they don't feel the same. One-sided affection means nothing to me."
She said it like a principle, a mantra she repeated to herself.
Lin hummed in understanding, then said casually, "So if we liked each other... would we just never say anything?"
She said it like a joke, light and easy. But Yeh heard it loud and clear.
She didn't respond, just took a sip of coffee, but something inside her tugged painfully sweet. For a fleeting moment, she wished it wasn't just a joke.
Time flew by in conversation. They didn't discuss anything "important," yet two hours slipped away. They talked about scripts and films, choices and life, always dancing right on the edge, never crossing the line.
As they stood up to leave, the owner of the cafe approached them warmly.
"We have a special room where you can listen to music here. Would you like to try it?"
They looked at each other and nodded almost simultaneously.
Inside, the room was lined with records and movie posters. The lighting was softer, the brown leather sofa was deep and comfortable. High-end speakers stood silently in the corner, waiting.
They sat down, even closer than before.
"Pick whatever you like," the owner said before leaving them alone.
Silence settled for a moment.
Lin gestured, "You go first."
Yeh thought for a second. "I want to play one of my favorites. The Sound of Silence."
The music began instantly. As the melody filled the space, the outside world vanished, leaving only sound and breath.
Yeh said nothing. She just listened, acutely aware of the person sitting beside her—the one she had tried so hard to resist, and still couldn't control her feelings. The feeling wasn't overwhelming, but it was real, as if time itself had slowed down.
Suddenly, it felt almost surreal, enough to bring tears to her eyes. Not out of sadness, but because the moment was so perfectly right. She knew then that whatever the future held, this instant was complete in itself.
What she didn't know was that Lin was watching her. After a while, Lin leaned in slightly, her voice was low and warm, almost brushing against Yeh's ear.
"I'm going to remember this moment."
Yeh's breath caught. "Me too."
Then it was Lin's turn. She chose Yellow.
Yeh's heart skipped. It was from Boyhood, a film she had loved deeply. She hadn't heard it for years, and never in a setting so romantic. The movie had taken twelve years to film, watching a boy grow from six to eighteen, seeing parents age alongside him—bittersweet and beautiful.
They exchanged a smile. Lin knew Yeh must have watched this film.
Yeh leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you for listening to music with me."
It was simple, but more honest than any formal declaration could ever be.
Before they left, Lin remarked casually, "I hope one day I can have this kind of experience at home, just listening and immersing myself."
When they stepped outside, dusk had fallen.
Yeh walked her to the curb to wait for her car. As the vehicle approached, Lin suddenly stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
It was brief, unexpected, but genuine.
"We'll see each other often, I'm sure," Lin said.
It sounded natural, but it wasn't just politeness.
Yeh simply nodded, unable to find words.
The door of the car closed, and the car drove away. Yeh stood there watching the taillights disappear into the traffic, finally realizing that this meeting hadn't brought clarity—it had confirmed everything.
Her feelings for Lin were still there, but these feelings would make reality more complicated now.
Previously, she thought that being friends with someone she loved, staying in each other's lives, was the cool, smart choice.
But now she understood. The real choice wasn't just to "stay."
It was to admit I like you, yet still choose not to let it change who I am.
She would no longer deny her emotions, but she wouldn't take step forward either.
Caught between proximity and restraint, she finally understood:
Some kinds of love are not meant to be possessed.