Being with Lin day in and day out slowly made Yeh realize that a real relationship isn't built on imagination alone. It isn't sustained just by endless chatting, shared values, or projecting emotions onto someone far away. It is found in the details of care, the shared experiences, and the countless quiet moments where you simply know you are on each other's minds.
Yeh could clearly feel that she mattered to Lin. Once, at a restaurant where the air conditioner was blasting, Yeh casually mentioned feeling a little cold. Before the words had even faded, Lin had already taken off her own jacket and draped it over her shoulders, the movement so natural it seemed rehearsed.
"I'm wearing long pants," Lin said softly. "You'll catch a cold otherwise." No unnecessary explanations, no room for refusal.
On the night of the yacht trip, a wave splashed over the deck and dampened Yeh slightly. Before she could even react, Lin was already beside her, pulling out tissues to gently wipe the water from her cheek and wrist. Her fingers lingered for just a heartbeat, then withdrew as if nothing had happened.
Lin was always the first to notice. Between takes, when work paused for a moment, Lin would glance down at her and ask, "Hungry?" She always kept candies in her bag, and whenever Yeh's blood sugar dropped and her speech slowed, Lin would pass them over without words, as if she had been waiting for exactly that moment. She knew instinctively how to take care of people.
Five years ago, Yeh had loved someone the same way, but when that relationship ended with heartbreak, she had unconsciously linked "giving" with losing control and getting hurt. In her mind, withholding affection became the only way to stay safe.
Yet Lin's thoughtfulness was never loud or demanding. It was quiet and constant, and she never encroached, yet was always there.
Yeh found herself becoming less afraid of giving.
One evening, Lin was quieter than usual, her voice sounding weak. Yeh noticed and asked, but Lin only brushed it off, saying she was tired and going to bed early.
In the middle of the night, Yeh woke up almost instinctively. She reached out and touched Lin's forehead—it was burning up.
She called Lin's name softly, checked with a digital thermometer, and confirmed she had a fever.
Yeh went to the kitchen to boil water, found medicine in her own first-aid kit, and sat by the bedside until Lin swallowed the pills.
Lin looked at her blearily, murmuring, "Sorry to trouble you."
Yeh said nothing, simply tucking the blanket securely around her.
The next morning, Yeh went downstairs to buy plain congee. When she returned, Lin was already awake, propped up against the headboard. She looked at Yeh, her eyes wide with a moment of quiet surprise.
"Thank you for doing all this," Lin said.
"It really wasn't a big deal," Yeh replied softly. She was increasingly aware of how rare Lin was—surrounded by admiration and expectations from so many people, yet still able to appreciate even the smallest kindness shown to her.
That day, Yeh barely left the room. She took Lin's temperature, brought her water, reminded her to take medicine, and sensed the fever getting well even before Lin did.
By evening, Lin was finally feeling better. She reached out and gently caught the hem of Yeh's shirt, holding it lightly, a gesture of confirmation more than anything else.
"Thank you."
Yeh looked at her, and suddenly understood something profound:
Taking care of someone you care about isn't losing yourself. It is a quiet, solid kind of happiness.