On their second day in Taipei, Lin suddenly suggested they take a railway trip. She spoke casually, as if the idea had simply risen with her mood. "I came here once before… and I've wanted to return ever since." She glanced toward Yeh, a faint, almost unnoticeable hope in her eyes. "Will you come with me?"
Their destination was Shifen.
The journey was short, and as the train chugged slowly along the tracks into the hills, the scenery outside grew quieter and softer. Even the names of these Taiwanese stations carried a gentle poetry; when they passed Nuan Nuan—meaning "Warm and Tender"—Lin pointed out the sign, and they exchanged a knowing smile, both recalling the famous song by a famous female singer that bore the same name.
The carriage was not crowded, and as they sat side by side, their shoulders brushed lightly with every sway of the train, only to part again naturally. At one point, Lin fell asleep, her head tipping gently until it rested against Yeh's shoulder.
When they arrived at Shifen, the train came to a halt, and they found themselves right in the middle of a bustling market that spread out along the railway tracks themselves. Shops lined both sides, their stalls piled high with sky lanterns in every colour. Many were already covered in handwritten wishes, puffed out slightly by the breeze like unspoken thoughts waiting to be carried away.
They stopped before one stall and chose a sky lantern together. The shopkeeper handed it over, explaining that wishes could be written on all four panels—two for each of them. The paper was thin and delicate, with a fine texture that could be felt under the fingertips, as if even a light touch might leave a mark.
As Yeh picked up the brush, she glanced sideways at Lin. "Don't look at mine, alright?" Her tone was playful, guarded yet not truly secretive.
Lin smiled and stepped back. "Alright, I won't peek."
Yeh lowered her head to write, pausing for a heartbeat as she wondered whether to put a certain thought into words. In the end, on the side she knew might be seen, she kept it simple: May our GL project succeed and liked by many people.
Then she turned slightly away, shielding the paper from view, and wrote slowly on the opposite panel. When she finished, she brushed her palm gently over the words, as if to keep them from being carried away by the wind.
Now it was Lin's turn. She wrote without much concealment, only pausing briefly over the last line before setting down the brush. Her visible side read: May we create one new work together every year. It was a wish that sounded like a natural, inevitable future.
They kept their private wishes turned inward, hidden from each other's eyes, while the shopkeeper helped them expand the lantern and light the fuel pad. Flames rose softly from below, warm air filling the paper until it grew firm and round, transforming something fragile into something solid and bright.
They released it together. The sky lantern swayed once, caught by the wind, and began to climb slowly upward.
Yeh watched it rise until that small point of light faded into the distance. She realised then that some wishes, once written down, could never be taken back; this quiet ritual felt like binding something of their relationship, and their fates, to the same drifting light.
Life in Shifen moved at a far slower pace than in Taipei. The streets were short and uncrowded; the sound of running water drifted from somewhere nearby, and the air held a soft, damp warmth. They walked slowly along the tracks, with Lin balancing precariously on the rails while Yeh walked beside her, ready to steady her hand.
When reaching a quieter stretch, Lin stopped. Her voice was calm, without fanfare or lead‑up. "The first time I came here… it was with my first love."
Yeh said nothing, only listened quietly.
Lin's tone softened further as she spoke. "We were classmates. At first it was ordinary enough—attending the same lectures, eating together every day—until gradually, we couldn't imagine a day without each other." She smiled, warm with the memory. "She was the one who made me realise… that I could fall in love with a woman."
She looked away as she spoke, as if addressing the younger version of herself from those days.
"We were like something out of a drama," she went on. "We'd hold hands across campus, watch the sunset at Fisherman's Wharf, wander through Shilin Night Market eating and talking, or sit in the park for an entire afternoon doing nothing at all." She paused. "During holidays, we travelled almost all over Taiwan—even went all the way down to Kenting, to the very cape where Cape No. 7 was filmed."
Her voice grew softer still, as if those scenes were playing out frame by frame before her eyes.
"This place…" She nodded toward the spot where they had released their lantern. "…we did the same thing here, too."
She smiled, yet her eyes glistened faintly—subtle, but impossible to miss. It was not merely regret, but a longing for the girl she had been then: someone who had not yet learned to hold back or keep her feelings guarded.
Yeh remained silent, listening intently without interruption or show of emotion. Yet in that moment, she understood that she no longer felt that old familiar regret—that ache of why wasn't I met her earlier?
People met when they were meant to meet. Encountering Lin at this exact stage of her life was already perfect timing.
A thought crossed Yeh's mind: perhaps that story Lin had always insisted they must tell—one she had never fully spoken about—was connected to this girl, this memory.
The lantern had long since vanished from sight. Yet the words each had written remained, still hidden from the other.
On her private panel, Yeh had written: May I be Lin forever.
And Lin's secret wish had been: May I always be with Yeh.
Neither of them had spoken it aloud, yet both wishes have been lifted together into the same sky.