After dinner, they all sat and chatted for a while in the living room.
Lin set the speaker on the TV console, its clear glass casing catching the warm lamplight and glinting softly like a small, exquisite work of art. She fumbled with it for a moment, connected it to her phone, and played a song at random. The music flowed out gently, rich and immersive, wrapping around the whole room and filling every corner with soft, cosy warmth.
In that moment, Lin suddenly recalled a casual conversation they'd had long ago in that café — she'd only remarked in passing, "Wouldn't it be lovely to listen to music like this at home too?"
She had never expected Yeh to remember it — and remember it so precisely, when she herself had nearly forgotten those words entirely. Standing there, her fingertips brushing lightly against the smooth glass surface, a quiet, tender warmth unfurled deep inside her. Yeh always seemed to hold onto the smallest, most insignificant details that Lin herself had barely paid mind to; it brought her a strange sense of ease, and made her heart feel soft and vulnerable all at once.
Over by the sofa, Fiona and Jing were deep in lively conversation. Yeh sat quietly at one end, holding a glass in her hands, listening attentively and chiming in occasionally — yet Lin could tell at once that her heart wasn't truly in it. Her gaze instinctively drifted toward Yeh the moment she stepped back into the room, catching that faint, telling difference: Yeh smiled politely enough, but the ease and warmth that came so naturally when they were alone together were nowhere to be seen.
When she walked them to the front door, Lin's eyes fell again upon the bouquet Yeh had brought. The orange roses blazed vividly under the light, yet her gaze was inexorably drawn to the lilies — and in that instant, the brief, charged look they'd exchanged earlier flashed through her mind. She knew perfectly well what Yeh had been doing: recreating that exact moment from Imagine Me & You, the one Lin herself had mentioned lightly while watching the film: "If someone brought lilies like that the first time they visited my home… wouldn't it be wonderfully romantic?" She had never imagined Yeh would remember — or go to such lengths to make it real.
A faint, tender smile touched Lin's lips, her heart swelling with quiet affection and softness.
Later that night, fresh from her shower, Lin sat on her bed scrolling through her phone, her thumb hovering over Yeh's chat window. She typed, deleted, hesitated, and typed again, over and over, before finally hitting send: "It made me so happy to see you today."
A heartbeat later, she added another message: "Though… you seemed a little down, didn't you?"
After another pause, she typed once more: "If anything's ever bothering you, you can always tell me. Don't keep it all bottled up inside."
Lin set her phone down beside her, a faint flutter of nervousness in her chest. She knew Yeh was never the kind to speak easily of her true feelings — least of all when she was hurting.
Not long after, the screen lit up — Yeh had replied.
Lin tapped to open it. There were only two short lines:
"Maybe I was just a little tired today."
Then came the second: "But it really did make me happy to see the life you and Jing have built here."
Lin stared at those words for a long time, her heart filled with a tangle of tenderness and quiet ache. That single phrase — the life you and Jing have built — spoke volumes: it revealed that Yeh cared far more than she let on, that she noticed every detail, and yes, that beneath her calm exterior lay a quiet, sharp twist of jealousy.
She turned off the lights, yet an image lingered vividly in her mind: earlier, before dinner, Yeh had stood in the kitchen doorway, her gaze drifting unconsciously toward Lin and Jing as they worked side‑by‑side. In that fleeting moment, Lin understood with piercing clarity — Yeh did feel that quiet ache, she did care far more than she dared show.