On the third day after they parted, Lin texted Yeh.
It wasn't small talk. Not a casual what are you up to.
It was a meticulously organized list.
GL films, series, animation, manga, novels—each entry tagged with tone, relationship dynamic, character arc, adaptation potential. Some even included Lin's own brief notes.
Yeh stared at the screen for a long time.
The happiness she felt wasn't the bright spark of being remembered. It was quieter than that. A steady confirmation: she had been taken seriously.
Yeh repliet:
"You really went all in on this. Did you put it together yourself? It's thorough."
The answer came almost immediately.
"We always build references like this before a shoot."
They started talking through the list. Lin mentioned an obscure film and recommended it.
Yeh paused before typing back.
"I've seen it."
This time Lin went quiet for a few seconds.
"Seriously? I didn't think you would. No one around me has seen it."
It was a small thing, but Yeh couldn't help feeling that, in Lin's world, she was distinct.
Some understandings don't need to be explained.
After that day, Lin grew a little more proactive. She'd ask about casting instincts, character layers,shooting schedule—always under the banner of work. The conversations would drift, almost inevitably, toward something more personal.
One evening she sent a photo: sunset outside her studio window.
"Today's light looks like a movie," Lin wrote.
Yeh didn't answer right away. She realized this wasn't only about work anymore.
Later, almost at the same time, they both mentioned an old film—Imagine Me & You.
Lin asked,
"What's your favorite scene?"
Yeh stopped typing more than once before finally sending:
"When Rachel asks Luce what lily means. It's so charged. Luce won't answer, because if she does, everything will spill out. So she tells Rachel to ask about another flower."
A moment later Yeh added:
"But Rachel insists on lily."
A few seconds passed.
"Then Luce says—" Lin wrote.
"Lily means…"
Yeh's pulse began to climb.
The next message appeared:
"Lily means I dare you to love me."
Yeh's eyes burned unexpectedly.
It wasn't the line itself that moved her.
It was the restraint behind it—the way something that shouldn't be said gets said anyway, almost gently.
She understood, suddenly, how closely that dynamic resembled what was unfolding between them. In the film, fate had been louder—Rachel falling for Luce at her own wedding. In real life, things were quieter. No vows to interrupt. Just timing.
Lately, the gl project had made Yeh more emotional than usual.
When she worked in investment, she dealt with people who prized rationality. Numbers. Returns. Probabilities. Everything could be modeled.
If feelings could be managed the same way, Yeh would have chosen calm every time. Strong emotion meant loss of control.
But perhaps that was exactly why she was drawn to stories—why she kept searching for the emotions that couldn't be spoken aloud yet is already existing.
A kind of compensation.
For moments that never happened. For moments that never could.
Yeh looked at her chat window with Lin and let the conversation rest there.
She didn't push it further.
But she knew something had already begun—not a confession, not a promise. Just the quiet act of making space in one's life for another person's feelings.