Yeh was born in an inland city far from the coast.
After graduating from university, she moved to Hong Kong—and stayed for ten years.
Those years shaped her into someone precise and self-contained.She learned how to calculate return and risks, and keep emotions neatly under control.
In the investment world, she moved steadily upward, known for her calm judgment and professional restraint.
Until recently. At thirty, Yeh made a decision few people around her understood.
She left a stable career as an investor and stepped into an uncertain path—developing film and series content, trying to build stories instead of portfolios.
It wasn't an impulsive choice. It was something she had wanted for years.
For the past five years, Yeh hadn't felt genuinely drawn to anyone.
It wasn't that she hadn't met interesting people. She had simply learned how to stop herself—how to recognize attraction within the first minute and press it back down before it could take shape.
This trip to a coastal city was for work, which was a potential collaboration with Lin, the founder of a female-centric short-form content media company. Lin was introduced by Yeh's partner, Fion, who believed the meeting would lead to something meaningful.
Lin was no stranger to Yeh; long before their first meeting, Yeh had consumed her work. A short film discovered on a random night years ago had served as an unintended portal, and she had followed the account ever since. She found herself moved by those stories of women—the intimacy, the tentative testing, the near-misses, and the regrets that blossomed within a finite period of time. They represented a life Yeh never permitted herself to lead, yet secretly craved. Lin, as both creator and protagonist, had occupied a forbidden corner of Yeh's mind long before today. Her only mantra before the meeting was a repetitive shield: This is work. Do not get emotionally involved.
Lin met them at the downstairs café with a simple, airy "Hi." Dressed in a pale hoodie and jeans, she possessed a relaxed, boundary-less energy—a clean, boyish vulnerability that felt entirely unguarded. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her eyes held the brilliance of a sky just after a rainstorm. The flickering shadows and emotions that belonged on a screen suddenly had a pulse and a breath, standing so close made Yeh felt surreal.
Yeh maintained her habitual poise, though her gaze faltered for a fraction of a second when their eyes met. "Hello, Director Lin," she offered with a practiced, half-joking smile.
Lin smiled. "Don't call me that. Just call me Lin."
The office was on the fifth floor. As the door swung open, the afternoon sun flooded the space, soft and warm without being blinding. Yeh instinctively glanced toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. If the weather held, this spot would offer a perfect view of the sunset—one of her few personal indulgences.
"Then we can watch the sunset together later," Lin remarked casually, as if reading her mind.
The space was bisected: one half a sharp, functional workspace; the other, a warm, lived-in sanctuary of wood floors, a plush gray sofa, and a television on a simple stand. A light coffee-colored rug was scattered with cushions, looking like a place meant for storytelling or staying the night.
Instead of sitting on chairs, Lin gestured for them to sit on the rug, crossing her legs with the ease as if staying in her own living room.
No sooner had she settled than she looked directly at Yeh. "Fiona mentioned you've seen a lot of GL works. Do you... like women?"
The air seemed to hit a pause button.
Yeh froze. She had never prepared an answer for such a question, and before she could even decide if one was required, she let out a hollow, meaningless "Ah..." She wanted to retreat, yet in that same moment, she felt the terrifying weight of being truly seen. Lin didn't press her. As if nothing had happened, she smoothly pivoted the conversation back to business.
They drifted from logistics to content, from structure to sentiment. Yeh brought up her favorite of Lin's short films—a story of two women meeting in a foreign land, exploring a city together, and forming an intimacy destined to vanish when their time ran out. Before Yeh could finish, Lin finished the thought for her.
"Then you must love the Before trilogy," Lin said.
Yeh looked up, surprised. "I do. Very much."
Lin flashed a small, knowing smile. "I figured."
She sat with her legs crossed, hair grazing her shoulder, her eyes bright with a sense of waiting or confirmation as she listened. Yeh was rarely one for long conversations, yet in this room, she found herself speaking more than usual, losing track of the hours. By the time she blinked back to reality, the natural light had faded into a soft artificial glow. The sunset they had promised to watch together had quietly ended, unobserved, in the shadow of their conversation.