After returning from Bangkok with Fiona, Yeh's workload seemed to accelerate. Tasks that had piled up during her absence pressed in one after another, leaving her barely a spare moment to think, let alone find the "right time" to speak of what she had been avoiding all along—the possible decision to move to Bangkok, and the possibility of leaving Lin.
It was not that she had never considered telling Lin privately and make everything clear, while every time the thought arose, she would quietly suppress it, as if leaving unnecessary time for an answer she already knew was coming. She could not tell whether it was a rational choice or simply a reluctance to face the fact.
Before long, Fiona gathered everyone together, ostensibly to celebrate the project's progress and update the team on what lay ahead.
It was the same familiar group, members from both sides present, and the atmosphere remained as easy and lively as always. They spoke of the rough cut, the buzz on social media, and the chemistry between the actresses, confirming again the schedule for future promotion. Everything was moving smoothly forward.
Fiona, who never spoke in circles, used the occasion to share news naturally. Holding her glass, she steered the conversation toward their partnership in Bangkok.
"We've worked out most of the details with Olina," she said casually, as if mentioning the most ordinary update. "The shareholder structure is basically set and it only waits for Yeh to give the final nod."
Around the table, people were still laughing and talking, the flow of conversation was unbroken, as if this were just another routine milestone. Then Jing spoke up, her tone was curious. "So… are you moving there?"
"At least at the beginning," Fiona answered with a nod, straightforward as ever. "For a year or so, anyway. When a company is new, someone has to be there to oversee things."
The moment the words left her mouth, Yeh realised it was too late. She had no chance to stop Fiona with a glance, nor to frame the news more gently; it had been laid out before everyone, spoken lightly, yet leaving no room to manoeuvre.
Her eyes instinctively sought Lin.
Lin had been leaning forward, picking food from her plate, her movements was steady as if fully absorbed in the conversation. But for the briefest instant, her chopsticks paused—so slightly that no one else would have noticed—before she continued as if nothing had happened. She did not look up or interrupt, yet the relaxed expression she had worn only moments ago slowly faded, as if something heavy and invisible had settled upon her, cooling the air around her.
Watching that small shift, Yeh felt the chord she had been deliberately ignoring within herself suddenly hum with tension. She wanted to say something—anything—to add "it's not decided yet" or steer the topic elsewhere, yet every thought caught in her throat, none was reaching her voice. She could only look away, pretending to listen to others speak.
The conversation continued lively, as if no one had truly been affected by what was said. Laughter rose and fell, glasses clinked brightly, and the room remained light and open. Yet Yeh could no longer follow the words; every now and then, her gaze drifted uncontrollably back to Lin, who remained polite and engaged, nodding, responding, smiling occasionally—composed, yet never truly at ease as she had been earlier.
The gathering ended late, the group dispersing quickly with goodbyes and calls for rides, the night wrapping all feelings in soft, indistinct shadow.
Yeh stood by the roadside, watching everyone leave, until only Lin and Jing remained. They stood side by side and stepped naturally into the same car. As the doors closed, Yeh took an involuntary step forward, then stopped.
There were so many things she could have said—explanations, clarifications, even a simple "I meant to tell you"—yet in that moment, she could not be sure which words would be right, or whether speaking now would still count as telling her at all.
The car pulled away into the dark, its tail lights flashing once at the intersection like something that had ended before it even had a chance to begin.