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.
Still, the transition required discipline. And distance. Especially from emotion.
For the past three 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 was for work.
A potential collaboration in a coastal city known for its quieter pace and growing creative scene.
The introduction came from Yeh's partner, Fiona, who believed the meeting could lead to something meaningful—professionally.
The company they were visiting specialized in short-form content led by women, often centered on dual female protagonists and emotional intimacy.
Its founder was Lin.
Before meeting Lin in person, Yeh had already known her for years.
She had come across one of Lin's short films by accident—late one night, scrolling without intention. The story stayed with her. Then another did. And another.
Yeh followed the account quietly, never interacting, never commenting.
She told herself she was interested in the storytelling, the structure, the emotional pacing.
But Lin—the creator, and often one of the women onscreen—had already taken up a quiet, unspoken place in Yeh's mind.
So before the meeting, Yeh gave herself one clear reminder:
This is work. Don't expect anything.
They met downstairs at a café.
Lin greeted them with a simple "Hi," casual and unguarded.
She wore a light-colored hoodie and jeans, her posture relaxed, almost disarming. There was something boyish about her ease, as if she hadn't learned—or refused to learn—how to shield herself.
Her long black hair fell naturally around her face.
Her eyes were bright, like a sky just after rain.
Seeing her in person felt unreal to Yeh. Someone who had existed only through a screen was suddenly standing in front of her.
Yeh kept her composure. She returned the greeting, then added lightly, half-joking,
"Nice to meet you, President Lin."
Lin smiled. "Don't call me that. Just call me Lin."
The office was on the fifth floor.
When Yeh stepped inside, she immediately understood the space. It wasn't designed to impress—it was designed to breathe.
Large windows let in warm, generous light. On clear days, Lin explained, you could see the sunset from here.
Yeh glanced toward the glass. Sunset had always been one of her favorite things.
"Then we should watch it later," she said, almost without thinking.
Half of the room was clearly functional: desks, screens, editing equipment, clean lines.
The other half felt like a living space—wooden floors, a floor-to-ceiling window, a soft gray sofa you could sink into, a light coffee-colored rug scattered with cushions.
Lin invited everyone to sit casually on the rug.
She sat down cross-legged, then looked directly at Yeh and asked, without preamble:
"Do you like women?"
The room went quiet.
Yeh froze.
She hadn't prepared for a question like that. Not here. Not now. All she managed was a small, startled sound—"Ah…"
Lin didn't push. She didn't explain herself.
She simply shifted the conversation back to work, as if nothing unusual had been said.
They talked about collaboration. About content strategy. About storytelling.
Yeh mentioned the short film of Lin's she loved most—the one about two women meeting in a foreign place, wandering through unfamiliar streets, sharing a romance limited by time.
Lin's response was immediate.
"Then you must love the Before trilogy directed by Richard Linklater "
Yeh looked up, surprised. "I do."
Lin smiled. "I thought so."
Lin listened with her full attention. When others spoke, her eyes stayed bright and focused, as if nothing else existed in the room.
Yeh, usually reserved, found herself speaking more than she meant to.
She didn't notice when natural light faded and the room quietly shifted to artificial glow.
They missed the sunset they had planned to watch together.