Following the release of Unspoken Love, written by Lin, the response surpassed everyone's expectation. Not only did the series itself surge in popularity, but followers flocked to the official accounts of Lin's studio and her personal pages, numbers climbing visibly day by day. Her name began appearing across industry discussions, and her earlier works were rediscovered and shared widely. Before long, brands approached on their own, eager to cooperate with Lin's studio. All this came naturally, yet it left her scarcely a moment to breathe.
Lin plunged immediately into developing her next project—reality show with all‑female cast. From the initial concept and business proposals to casting, interviews, and venue confirmation, nearly every decision passed through her hands. Her team worked to the limits of their capacity, and so did she. Meanwhile, filming for brand integrations continued alongside it all, her days fractured into tight slots with barely a blank space left on her calendar.
As a result, the messages and calls to Yeh grew fewer. Yeh noticed the change, of course. She never pressed; she could see Lin's career ascending, and understood exactly what such a phase demanded. Yeh was genuinely happy for her, watching from afar as someone she cared for rose to stand taller than before.
What Yeh did not know was that Jing had already left for France. When Lin returned home each evening, the apartment was empty.
For nearly two months, she worked late almost every night, rarely arrived home before midnight. She said nothing of this to Yeh, partly because it seemed unnecessary, and partly because she didn't want to worry her. In the days when Jing had been there, the ordinary rhythms of daily life had filled the space around her; even unspoken things had been held, gently, in the air. Now it was different. Once the lights went out, the silence felt amplified.
She began keeping herself even busier, filling every hour, quickening the pace until her attention remained fixed entirely on her work. Through the days it worked—meetings, shoots, calls, one flowing into the next until there was no room left for thought. But when night fell and she returned to the dark, all the feelings she had pushed down rose slowly back to the surface.
It began to dawn on her that in this city which she had come to call home, no one moved quite in step with her anymore. No one knew what she was thinking before she spoke it; no one was able to see how tired she had grown.
To the outside world, she appeared stronger than ever—work, influence, partnerships, recognition—everything was growing upward. Yet she understood clearly that this was not the whole truth. She had creared content to heal others through stories. Now, more than anything, she longed to be understood and to be seen.
The thought had begun quietly, yet once it had taken root, she could no longer ignore it.
One evening, returning home late, she showered and leaned against the edge of her bed, with mobile phone held loosely in her hand. For a long moment she hesitated, then unlocked the screen and called Yeh.
When the call connected, she found she had no idea where to begin. Everything that had filled her day felt suddenly, strikingly unimportant.
Yeh did not rush her. She waited gently through the silence, then spoke in a soft, steady voice:
"You don't have to speak. Talking takes energy."
A pause, then more quietly still:
"It's late. Just listen to me, alright? And get rest well. Don't stay up too late."
Then, after a moment:
"Goodnight."
The call was brief, no news exchanged, no feelings laid bare. Yet Lin did not hang up. She stayed exactly where she was, listening, until the line fell quiet.
It was not comfort, nor advice. It felt simpler, and deeper: someone had stepped forward to catch all the things she could not bring herself to say.
When she ended the call, the screen went dark. Moments later it lit again, with a single message from Yeh:
I will be there whenever you need me.
Lin stared at the words, her fingers resting lightly on the screen. She did not reply. She could not think of what to say—or, for the first time, she did not want to offer a reply simply to bring the conversation to a close.
But in that quiet moment, something inside her unravelled gently. Something softer, something she had not felt in a very long time.
She realised, with startling clarity, that she was beginning to want to lean on someone.