Lin has returned to her original city. Before leaving, she said she would pack up all her belongings there and ship them over gradually, moving officially once everything arrived. She spoke casually, as if discussing nothing more complicated than a standard moving process.
But the moment she left, Yeh became acutely aware of how quiet her apartment had suddenly become.
Over the past few days, they had spent almost every waking moment together—viewing apartments, sharing meals, driving back and forth across the city, their days filled from morning till night. Back then, the pace had felt fast and busy, and she hadn't stopped to consider what such constant proximity meant. But now, with the rush over, the feelings she had set aside slowly began to surface. The rooms felt emptier, the silence was heavier, and time itself seemed to stretch out, moving more slowly than before.
It wasn't a sharp or sudden emptiness; it settled gently, permeating everything, leaving her with a vague sense of loss that was hard to define.
Yeh found herself missing her deeply.
Lin kept in touch, sending messages regularly—neither too frequent nor sparse, as if holding the thread between them securely so it would never go slack.
One evening, Lin sent a voice message, updating Yeh on her packing progress. There was faint noise in the background, the occasional sound of cardboard boxes scraping against each other. Her voice was slower than usual, carrying a subtle undercurrent of emotion.
"I've lived here for so many years... it really feels hard to leave it all behind."
Yeh listened to the message without replying immediately. She understood exactly what Lin meant—the familiar streets, the steady rhythm of daily life, and all the memories woven into a place were now being carefully packed away, piece by piece, and left behind in the past.
She had gone through the same process herself when she first moved to this city, though back then, there had been no one to share those mixed feelings with.
Yeh typed back: "At least you still have Jing, and the rest of your team with you."
Lin replied almost instantly.
"Yeah."
Just one word, simple and unadorned.
But Yeh could clearly picture Lin's expression as she typed it—smiling faintly, but not quite managing a full, genuine smile.
A week later, a new message appeared: "Could you do me a huge favour?"
Yeh was sitting at her desk working, and replied without hesitation: "Of course."
"I need someone to collect deliveries at the new apartment for me. I'll be sending boxes over bit by bit, and the first one is arriving today," Lin wrote, adding quickly, "I've accumulated way too much stuff over the years."
Then another line followed: "Jing and I are packing non-stop right now."
Yeh stared at the words for a second before replying: I'll get it done."
Lin sent over the entry code to the apartment; she had also left her access card of the building with Yeh earlier, saying it might be handy. What had once seemed like a casual arrangement now felt like a quiet, unquestionable expression of trust.
When the first delivery arrived, the courier called her. Yeh drove over ahead of time.
She had visited the apartment before, but walking in alone felt different. The hallway was silent, and the sound of the elevator opening and closing echoed clearly through the space. She entered the code, and the door clicked open to reveal a space that still felt half-empty, waiting to be filled with life.
Shortly afterwards, the courier brought the box up. Yeh signed for the delivery and dragged it into the living room. She had even brought along the box cutter and cleaning supplies left over from her own move years ago. At that moment, it struck her—what she was doing now felt dangerously close to crossing the invisible line into sharing someone else's life.
She took a photo of the box and sent to Lin: "First delivery has arrived safely."
Lin replied quickly: "There's a vase inside—could you check if it broke in transit?"
Yeh knelt down and carefully sliced through the packing tape. The box was lined with foam padding, which she removed slowly, piece by piece.
The vase was wrapped securely. She lifted it out gently, examining it closely. It was completely intact, not a single chip or crack.
She was about to take a photo to send back when she noticed a folder tucked beneath the vase, with several photographs slipping from between its pages. She reached out instinctively to push them back, but as she did, she caught sight of the images.
They were photos of Lin and Jing—more than just one or two.
Some were clearly taken on filming sets, others were captured moments from daily life. In one taken by the sea, they stood shoulder by shoulder, the wind tangling their hair. In another one, taken inside a hotel room, Jing hugged Lin from behind, both of them smiling naturally at the camera, without any trace of performance or acting.
A few of the scenes looked strangely familiar, resembling backdrops from the short videos Yeh had watched before.
For a moment, she couldn't tell where work ended and life began. But one thing was undeniable: their bond was deep, close, and constant.
Yeh put the photos back into the folder slowly, her movements became heavier than before. She didn't look further or rummage through other things.
But the emotion had settled inside her—not a sharp pain, but a heavy, sinking sensation.
Jealousy, longing, and a sharp twist of possessiveness, clearer and more intense than she had ever felt before. Perhaps because she was no longer viewing her feelings as a distant possibility, but beginning to acknowledge the reality of her place.
When she finally left the apartment and got into her car, she didn't start the engine immediately. Outside, the street was just as ordinary as always—people passing by, the city moving on as usual, completely unchanged.
She typed simply: "The vase is perfectly fine."
Lin sent back a relieved emoji in response.
Yeh stared at the little icon for a long moment. On impulse, she opened the office account of Lin's studio.
Ever since she admitted her feelings for Lin, she had deliberately avoided checking videos which Lin's studio posts. Before, she had watched her videos purely for the joy of it, analysing shots, pacing, and emotion from a professional perspective. But now, she knew that every time she looked, she couldn't help comparing herself—who actress looked better, who had more chemistry with Lin, all the places they had visited together.
Hating how vulnerable it made her feel, she had chosen to stay away, thinking she could simply outrun these feelings. Only now did she realise that it was nothing more than avoidance. Today, she decided to face them head-on, bracing herself for the inevitable heartache—because surely, it couldn't hurt more than it already did.
Lin's studio official page has posted several new videos, almost all featuring Jing alongside her.
She clicked on one with a particularly high view count. On screen, they were playing a couple. The camera was close, capturing every subtle breath and micro-expression. They sat on the edge of a bed talking, the room carefully decorated with polaroid photographs covering the wall.
When Yeh recognised those photographs, her heart tightened sharply.
They were exactly the same photos she had just found inside the box.
As a professional, she recognised the art direction as excellent—authentic, detailed, creating such a convincing illusion of reality that viewers would easily believe the space truly belonged to them.
Once, she would have admired that attention to detail. Now, however, those images felt like tiny, sharp thorns pricking gently but persistently at her heart.
She closed the video, and the car fell into absolute silence.
The small sense of satisfaction she'd felt from being needed had vanished completely.
Her emotions seemed to drop from a height—not crashing violently, but sinking steadily, pulling her downwards.
Yeh knew perfectly well that none of this was anyone else's fault; she had walked this path entirely by herself.
From the moment she fell for Lin, these feelings had been inevitable.
They hadn't even begun anything real, yet she was already exhausted by the intensity of it all.
Leaning her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes for a moment. She felt deeply weary, and a quiet thought crept in:
If she took even one more step closer, she wasn't sure she would still be able to keep herself under control. Maybe, she wondered, it was time to step back to where she had started.