Lin talked about her childhood summers in a southern city—the sticky heat, small moments from school that somehow stayed vivid.
She talked about her years at university of Taiwan, about the times she felt she was finally touching her dreams.
She talked about the early days of starting a company, filming until after midnight, falling asleep on the floor of the editing room with exhaustion still buzzing in her body.
At first, Yeh listened out of curiosity.
Then she grew quieter.
It suddenly dawned on her-
None of those moments included her.
She wasn't the one staying up late editing with Lin.
She wasn't the one who had walked beside her through confusion into certainty.
Yeh lowered her head slightly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of her cup.
For a fleeting second, Yeh felt a twinge of envy—directed at Jing.
She imagined Jing stepping into Lin's workspace every day, seeing her as she truly was:
when she was worn out,
when she was exhilarated,
when she was lost.
"You and Jing… you've known each other a long time, haven't you?"
Yeh asked.
Lin smiled and nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"She's always been there," she said easily. "We're not inseparable or anything—but we've basically gone through everything together."
That phrase—gone through everything together—landed softly but precisely, like a fingertip pressing against Yeh's chest.
It didn't hurt.
It just left a dull, sour ache.
She realized what she was thinking.
That she had come into Lin's life too late.
That maybe she would never measure up to the people who had been there from the very beginning.
But as Lin continued speaking, there was no hint of pride in her voice—only an unguarded honesty.
She talked about her doubts, her turning points, why she kept choosing to make content even when it was hard.
Yeh shared her own story too—why she stayed in finance, why she still chose to cross into another industry.
Her first job.
How she understood failure, and starting over.
When Lin looked at her, she was fully present.
That kind of attention made it dangerously easy to believe something that might not be true:
I matter to her. I'm different.
The door opened.
Fiona and Jing walked in, one after the other.
Fiona raised an eyebrow when she saw the two of them sitting on the bed, deep in conversation.
"You've been talking for a while," she remarked.
Jing smiled, completely at ease.
"I figured you two would hit it off."
As if they had expected this.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it was precisely that ease—
—that made Yeh realize something else:
only the person who cares too much gives moments like this such weight.
Lin stood up and stretched.
"I should head back."
She glanced at Yeh.
The look was light, warm—
with just the faintest trace of reluctance, the kind that appears right before something ends.