The rough cut of Unspoken Love—the GL series they had worked so hard on was now complete, and the most pressing task ahead was travelling to Taiwan to negotiate secondary distribution rights with local streaming platforms. The invitation had come unsolicited, and the timing could not have been better; behind‑the‑scenes clips and discussions surrounding the project were already trending strongly across social media.
When Yeh first received the email, she felt a moment of dizzying disbelief. She remembered she once made a quiet wish to herself on the first day of shooting on campus: ilshe wanted to revisit Taiwan with Lin if there's opportunity, to step into the places that held her history. Back then, she had barely dared to hope such a thing might happen, yet now, that wish had been wrapped in professional necessity and placed right in front of them.
She never spoke of it aloud, but she knew Lin also had been waiting for the opportunity to return. Taipei was where she had once lived, a place filled with memories of growing up at young age, of choices made, and of a past that she hadn't told yet. In recent years, shooting, commercial projects, writing scripts, supervising edits, and managing her team had consumed every ounce of her energy, leaving no room to pause or look back.
So when Yeh invited Lin to come along, Lin agreed without hesitation. Her excitement was not merely the opportunity of work, but the release of something long held inside—the surprise of a realization of a deeply buried wish.
Yeh arranged for them to fly to Taipei two days early, leaving the weekend free to explore Taipei together. On the day of departure, Yeh was visibly more animated than usual. Only when the plane had taken off did she finally quiet down, leaning her head to gaze out the window as layers of cloud unfolded beneath them, as if separating them entirely from the world they knew. It struck her that this journey was far more than business; it was a trip in the name of work, it was also a kind of time travel, a chance to step back into the past of Lin.
Her own heart raced quietly. The last time Yeh visited Taiwan was eight years ago, when she was still living in Hong Kong and travelled here with her closest friend from that time, Kathy. Back then, she had no clear life goals, just drifted through life without definite direction.
Yeh had visited Taiwan three times before, she had explored different cities, and was fascinated by the place's unique rhythm—unhurried, warm, and soft, which made it easy to let down one's guard.
As the plane touched down at Taoyuan Airport, that familiar atmosphere rushed over Yeh instantly. Little had changed, yet it felt as though centuries had passed since she was last here.
On the way from the airport to their hotel at the car booked, Yeh finally brought up the accommodation arrangements, keeping her tone as casual as possible and deliberately emphasising practicality.
"I booked one suite for us this time," she said, with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, she was speaking slowly. "We have to keep expenses down, and a single suite works out cheaper than two separate rooms. Besides, we've shared space before… so I thought it would be more convenient." She paused, adding as an afterthought, or perhaps a gentle test: "Only, it's configured with one large bed. If you'd rather have separate rooms… I can still change it."
She turned back to the window as she finished, avoiding Lin's reaction.
Silence hung in the car for a heartbeat.
Then Lin laughed softly, her voice was light as if responding to the most ordinary statement in the world. "It makes perfect sense. Cost efficiency should always come first."
Lin also turned to look out of the window at the passing scenery, appearing untroubled, though secretly amused—she had understood Yeh's little scheme perfectly well.
When they finished checking in and went upstairs to open the room door, they were both shocked. Rose petals had been scattered casually across the surface of the bed; the lighting was warm and soft, and the whole room seemed staged for romance. It was obvious at a glance exactly how misunderstanding had occurred.
Yeh was the first to laugh, unable to hide her amusement. "They seem to think we're here for a honeymoon."
After unpacking briefly, they went out without a fixed plan, wandering as if they were guided only by memory. The streets of Ximending were as lively as ever, neon signs were lit up one by one as evening fell, crowds were weaving, and time seemed to stand still in its familiar rhythm. They walked and talked, most of time Lin was speaking while Yeh was listening.
Lin led Yeh to places she had once frequented, and she shared fragmented memories: which shops had closed down, which streets had been far less crowded than years ago, which corners she had lingered for hours. There were no complete stories, but enough details to piece together a picture of a younger version of Lin herself.
Yeh never interrupted, nor offered too many comments. She simply walked beside her, glancing over now and then as if she was confirming that these memories were real.
Yeh realised suddenly that she was not just hearing locations—she was hearing Lin's past.
Their final stop was Shilin Night Market, which was far more crowded than they had expected. Bright lights, calls from vendors, and the smell of frying food blended into a vivid, living atmosphere. The crowd almost push them forward, and even slightly slow meant being separated.
They had been walking side by side, but were soon pushed apart by the crowd.
Without thinking, Yeh reached out and grasped Lin's hand.
"Don't get lost," she said naturally, yet the moment her fingers tightened around Lin's, the gesture became more direct and meaningful than any deliberate attempt of closeness.
Yeh did not let go immediately, but held on, pulling Lin along through the thickest part of the crowd, and slowed and released her until the throng became less.
Yeh took a step forward, then looked back with a smile as if a new thought had struck her. "Come on, keep up."
Lin did not move at once. She glanced down at her hand, where a faint warmth still lingered—light, yet undeniable. In that moment, she realised something different: this time, she had not been the one moves closer. She smiled, then hurried to catch up.
They wandered on, buying food as they went—bubble tea, salt‑and‑pepper chicken, oyster omelets—each carrying their own treats, yet naturally offering a bite to the other. Nothing was forced or arranged, yet every action spoke of a relationship coming alive.
Yeh was unaware of how openly she was smiling. It was a lightness she had not felt in this connection for a very long time—no hesitation, no expectations, no holding back.
Back at the hotel later that night, they were tired yet thoroughly happy.
Unlike Bangkok, this place carried a layer of meaning that could never be replaced. It was not where they had met, but it felt like a space where they could more easily draw near to one another, because it belonged to Lin's history.
A thought formed clearly in Yeh's mind—
She wanted to walk every place Lin had ever been, again, with her. Even those memories had never included her.
Yeh also hoped that Lin would tell her every story from those years. Even if those stories included other people.