Lin returned to her room, and the moment the door clicked shut, the noise from outside was severed. The silence that followed was sudden and absolute.
She tossed her phone onto the desk and sank into a chair, making no move to start working.
The screen of her computer glowed, the editing software paused on a single frame, but her mind was elsewhere.
She knew it perfectly well—her thoughts were still lingering in Yeh's room. They lingered on the profile of Yeh sitting at her computer, on the subtle gesture of her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, and on that steady, measured voice that always seemed to hit exactly the right note.
Lin exhaled slowly, trying to organize the images swirling in her head.
And then the realization settled in: Yeh understands me.
This feeling wasn't infatuation, nor was it simple attraction or a fleeting impulse. It was something far rarer, and far more dangerous—the profound comfort of being truly seen.
To most people, Lin appeared straightforward and easy to read. She was outgoing, warm, energetic, the kind of person who naturally lights up a room. She always seemed to have something to say, always moving forward, never pausing to doubt herself.
But that was only the surface she presented to the world. The things that truly mattered to her—the pursuit of freedom, the passion for creation, the reasons behind her stubborn persistence—were things few people truly listened to, let alone understood.
She was used to talking, but rarely to being heard.
With Yeh, though, it was different. When they spoke of "freedom," Yeh didn't offer empty platitudes; she grasped the weight of the concept. When they discussed metaphors in art house films, she didn't just nod along—she expanded on the ideas, adding layers of her own understanding. Even when Lin spoke of the vague obsessions from her early days, obsessions she couldn't fully explain herself, Yeh didn't judge. She simply filled in the gaps with quiet empathy.
It was effortless, yet it struck straight to the heart.
For the first time, Lin felt it with absolute certainty: here is someone who operates on the exact same frequency as me.
She sat there, thinking it through carefully. Under normal circumstances, their lives should never have crossed paths. Yeh's world was one of precision, logic, and strategy—spanning industries and borders, where every step was calculated and planned. Her world, however, was driven by emotion, intuition, and instability—one of creation and expression, where often even she didn't know where the next step would lead.
They were like two entirely different elements. They should have orbited separately, never interfering.
And yet—
Lin spoke, and Yeh caught it instantly. Yeh spoke, and Lin understood immediately.
That kind of connection required no explanation.
If not for Fiona's introduction, two people like them would probably never have become variables in each other's lives.
The thought made it all feel slightly surreal.
Lin closed her eyes, replaying their conversation, and the similarities began to surface one by one:
They both held a certain obsession with freedom.
They both cherished works that possessed soul, even if they are not noticed by mainstream market.
They were both reluctant to show vulnerability to others.
They both possessed a quiet pride, wrapped in layers of protection.
And ultimately—
They were both the type of people who appeared steady on the outside, yet were deeply sensitive and passionate internally.
Lin rarely met people like this, and almost never felt such an instinctive resonance with someone she had known for such a short time.
It wasn't about trying to get close. It was simply happening.
Suddenly, a wave of restlessness hit her. She rubbed her temples, trying to suppress the feeling.
Because there was a harsh reality she couldn't ignore—
Time was running out. After tomorrow, they would return to their separate lives. Yeh would go back to her city, her career, her orderly, stable world. And she would return to shooting, writing editing, meetings, and projects—back to the constant flow of her own reality.
This encounter was never meant to be permanent. It was happening inside a limited time frame, a window that was already closing, leaving less than twenty-four hours.
She found herself wondering—
When will we see each other again?
Will it be for work? Or at some unpredictable moment in the future?
Or perhaps—
There might never be another chance to be this close again.
The thought unsettled her deeply. She hated feeling out of control.
Yet she couldn't deny it any longer—
She was already afraid that this reunion, which was supposed to be light and casual, might just end here.