Two weeks remained before the finale screening of Unspoken Love. Building on the premiere's success, preparations moved smoothly—processes, roles, and timing all refined, requiring little trial or error.
The only thing missing was Lin. Her reality show had entered its most critical phase, and other commitments left her with no way to travel. When Yeh received the message, she replied simply that she understood—and she truly did. Yet after two months apart, the uncertainty of when they would meet again left a hollow, quiet ache she could not quite name. She let the feeling settle gently inside her, and said nothing of it.
The finale screening arrived. Venue capacity had doubled the premiere; every seat was filled. Streaming platform and investor feedback was unambiguous: delight, and genuine surprise at what had been achieved. The audience was swept up in the emotion of the ending—the two leads embracing on a shore beneath a sinking sun, cinematography breathtaking, feeling utterly complete. A perfect, unforgettable close.
As applause broke out, Yeh sat quietly, one thought rising unbidden and clear:
Someday, I want to watch the sunset by the sea with the person I love.
Celebration surrounded her—lights, cameras, applause—but she felt the absence keenly. Without one person there, the whole occasion felt diminished and its glow dimmed.
With the finale, the project reached its graceful conclusion. A triumph to partners, distributors, and collaborators. For Yeh, it marked the moment her company had truly found its footing, ready now to step further.
In the post‑screening review, the streaming platform confirmed its eager interest in future projects and enquired about her next direction.
The very first thought that came to mind was Lin's story—the one she had carried unspoken all this time. Yet Yeh said nothing. That story was not merely a project; it was something Lin held close to her heart. Not knowing whether she was ready to share it with the world, Yeh replied naturally that she was still reviewing potential stories, giving nothing away.
She kept the thought safe, for now, to herself.
A week later, on an ordinary workday. Yeh sat in her office reviewing financial details with Jenny, deep in discussion, when movement at entrance caught her eye. She looked up—and froze.
Lin stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand. No warning, no message. Simply there.
Yeh stood up instinctively, faster than thought, scarcely excusing herself before rushing forward. Caution fell away entirely; her heart raced ahead of her mind.
She threw her arms around Lin and held on tightly.
Lin stepped back slightly, caught off balance, steadying herself with a hand on Yeh's arm. "Everyone is watching," she murmured, her voice was low.
Yeh pulled back just enough to breathe, though her hands remained resting on Lin. It was the first time anyone had seen her so unguarded, so openly moved.
She led Lin into the office, speaking quickly. "Jenny, this is one of our partners. And this is Lin—the writer behind Unspoken Love, and my dearest friend."
Lin's expression shifted subtly at the name, though she quickly recovered, nodding and smiling politely. Yeh missed the flicker of restraint, asking instead, "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have picked you up."
Lin stood composed in the company of others, replying evenly, "Decided last minute. I had business here in Bangkok."
Her tone was calm, yet not entirely at ease. Yeh heard it anyway. "Would you mind waiting just a little longer? I won't be long."
Lin nodded, saying nothing more.
Yeh showed her to Fiona's empty office, offered a seat, arranged for water to be brought in, and lingered just a moment longer before closing the door.
The meeting with Jenny concluded an hour later. Yeh saw her off and returned immediately to Lin.
Lin stood by the window, back turned, gazing out at the city, as if lost in thought or simply passing time.
"I am so sorry to keep you waiting," Yeh said softly.
Lin turned around. "It's nothing. I'm the one who turned up unannounced." Her voice remained steady, though something fragile lingered at the edge of her tone.
Lin had recognised Jenny instantly—the woman standing beside Yeh on her birthday, bright, energetic, so naturally part of her daily life. She did not understand why it mattered so deeply, yet the feeling had struck her with startling force.
Yeh smiled. "We were discussing financial figures."
"I know," Lin said simply.
A pause, then Yeh asked, "You still haven't told me—why are you here?"
Lin looked at her, holding her gaze as if weighing her words, then said quietly:
"What if I told you I came to see you?"
Yeh did not hesitate. "Then I would be happier than I can say."
Lin's expression softened. "My work reached a pause. So I came."
"Have you booked a hotel?"
"Not yet."
She spoke casually, yet Yeh understood perfectly—Lin didn't on purpose.
"Then stay at my place," Yeh said, with quiet certainty.
Lin smiled, and did not decline.
"Let's find something to eat first," Yeh suggested.
They dined nearby at a restaurant draped in greenery, a hidden sanctuary within the city, light was soft and air waa still. Lin ate with evident hunger, focused and unhurried. Yeh watched her from across the table, feeling strangely peaceful. Months apart, yet there was no awkwardness—only a sense of closeness, as if the days apart had been filled in some other way.
She did not rush to talk about projects or plans. She simply watched Lin eating, pouring water now and then, quietly confirming that this person was truly here, with her.
Midway through the meal, Lin looked up suddenly.
"That Jenny—are you very close?"
She kept her tone light, yet the question carried clear, quiet weight.
Yeh blinked, then smiled. "We work together closely, that is all."
"I see." Lin returned to her food, voice was deliberately casual. "You make new friends and forget to tell me."
The phrase "new friends" hung just a little too long in the air.
Yeh understood perfectly. Instead of defending for herself, she said earnestly, "I watched every episode of your reality show. It is beautiful work."
Lin looked up, and saw that Yeh meant it. Yeh had seen everything she had created, and understood what lay behind it. To be so truly seen and understood gave form and weight to feelings that neither had needed to speak aloud.
Still, Lin asked softly:
"Did you miss me?"
No evasion, no circling around.
Yeh held her gaze for one quiet second, then said:
"I did."
Lin smiled. She knew it was true. Distance had never truly been measured in time between them.
On the walk home, their steps slowed, as if deliberately stretching out the moment. Back at Yeh's apartment—small, clean, filled with the quiet evidence of daily life—Yeh brought Lin's suitcase straight into her own room, naturally, without explanation.
The bed was not large. They looked at one another, and smiled.
Lin's gaze fell upon a framed photograph beside the bed—the two of them in Taipei, placed where she would see it every day. She said nothing, yet stood looking at it for a very long time.
Later, Yeh prepared to return to work. "Take a rest while I'm gone," she said.
"Come back soon," Lin replied.
Stepping out, Yeh realised with sudden clarity that this place—her apartment, once simply where she lived—had begun to feel like home.
Lin took a shower and changed into soft clothes, lying down upon Yeh's bed, feeling an immediate, profound sense of belonging. She stared up at the ceiling, thoughts quiet, free of work for once. She found herself wishing the hours would pass quickly—so she could see Yeh soon.