The final meeting for the post-production of the GL project was scheduled at Lin's new office.
This was Yeh's first visit to her workspace. She had spent the previous day deliberating over a gift, wanting something neither too grand nor too casual. In the end, she chose a Fortune Tree—a straightforward wish for prosperity that felt perfectly in an office setting.
Lin's new office shared the same DNA as the one where they first met: minimalist, yet reflecting the distinct, refined taste of a creative mind. Predominantly white, with clean-lined furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that lacked any heavy draping, the room was flooded with sunlight, making the space feel both bright and inviting. One half was a dedicated workspace with neatly arranged computers and files; the other was a deliberate void of white space, furnished with a sofa, a rug, and a low coffee table. It was a place designed for both collaboration and respite, where one could imagine boundaries being lowered—yet never quite losing control.
A few team photos sat on a desk near the entrance. Yeh lingered over them briefly. There were five of them, all were familiar faces. In almost every shot, Lin stood at the center, her steady presence marking her as the natural core of the group. And there was Jing, standing beside her in several photos, maintaining a distance that was neither too close nor too far, yet remarkably constant.
"Wishing you a quick fortune," Yeh said as she set the plant down, her tone was light.
Lin glanced at the tree and smiled. "That's exactly what we need most."
The meeting proceeded seamlessly. Coordinating with the Thai team, finalizing the editing direction, and setting post-production milestones all went according to plan—perhaps even smoother than expected. As they wrapped up, Lin's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. "I need to take this outside," she said, her tone so natural it required no further explanation.
The moment the door clicked shut, the office fell into a sudden, heavy silence.
Yeh stood up and began to pace the room with feigned nonchalance. She walked to the window, watching the street below for a moment before turning back. She wasn't looking for anything in particular, yet her mind subconsciously cataloged every detail: the arrangement of the sofa, the books on the shelves, the notebooks on the desk, even the specific style of the mugs.
Eventually, she found herself standing behind Jing.
Jing was leaning back in her chair, stretching her arms as her shoulders dropped—a gesture of relaxation that only comes from long hours spent in a familiar sanctuary. She reached for her phone with a practiced, thoughtless ease and pressed a few digits to unlock the screen.
It lasted less than a second.
But Yeh saw it. Normally, she wouldn't have committed such a fleeting detail to memory, but those numbers were too precise to ignore. It wasn't just a vague impression; it was a cold confirmation. It was Lin's birthday.
It wasn't a guess or an inference anymore; it was the definitive answer to every suspicion she had harbored.
Yeh stood frozen. Her mind didn't react immediately; instead, it felt as though it had been hollowed out for a heartbeat, leaving nothing behind. But in the next second, the scattered fragments of the past began to snap into place—the photos she'd seen, the words she'd overheard, the nuances in tone she had ignored, and the "rational" excuses she had made for them. In that single moment, the puzzle was complete.
Jing was in love with Lin. It was a clear, persistent, and unshielded affection.
And even more chillingly—there was no way Lin didn't know. Lin was too perceptive, too skilled at capturing the subtlest shifts in emotion. Audiences's expectations, Jing's public expression, the physical proximity of their daily lives, and that wordless chemistry… the possibility of Lin being "unaware" simply didn't exist.
Yeh felt a sudden, bitter sense of the absurd. All her restraint, her internal wavering, and her cautious probes now felt like a one-side show performed to an empty house.
By the time the door pushed open again, Yeh had already returned to her seat. Her movements were steady, her expression unruffled. She even managed to look up at Lin as if nothing had changed.
But in that instant, she realized she could no longer look at Lin through the same gaze. The closeness, the care, the casual teases, even that misleading tenderness—what did any of it actually mean?
"I just remembered I have something urgent to deal with," Yeh interrupted, her voice calm but decisive, leaving no room for argument.
Lin blinked, caught off guard. "Now?"
"Yes," Yeh said, already standing up. "Let's leave it for today."
She offered no further explanation, giving herself no space to hesitate. As she left the office, the door clicked shut behind her—a soft sound that felt like a definitive line being drawn.
Yeh walked quickly, driven by an instinct to flee, to hide from something she couldn't quite name. It was only when the elevator doors slid shut that her brain began to function again—not with clarity, but with a chaotic, inescapable dissonance.
She thought of herself over these past months: the cycle of guessing, restraining, confirming, and denying. She had once believed the problem was simply that things remained "unsaid." Now she realized that the silence didn't matter.
They were both adults—proud, high-functioning adults. Some questions, once asked, demand an answer that must be lived with. And what she had been avoiding wasn't the confession itself, but the reality of that answer.
Her emotions finally began to leak through the cracks—not just jealousy, but a burgeoning, belated spark of anger. If Lin knew how Jing felt and still allowed that dynamic to persist without boundaries, it was unfair to Jing. And to herself, it was even worse.
Yeh stopped in her tracks and took a deep, shuddering breath. She realized that the logic she had relied on to navigate this relationship was failing her.
And Lin—she could no longer see her clearly at all.