Though separated from Lin, Yeh did not fall into the despair she had once imagined; instead, she felt held up by a quiet, steady strength. It was no fleeting mood, but a slow, deep shift within her: she found herself wanting to grow better—not to prove anything, but simply when the next time they met, she would stand before Lin a whole, calm, and fully herself.
That month, Yeh's days were filled to the brim. She met producers, platforms, potential collaborators-moving between conference rooms, cafés, and offices, each conversation flowing more smoothly than they expected. She could feel that they were not only judging the project, but judging her; and little by little, she gave them every reason to trust her.
Meanwhile, the seriers had reached its fourth episode, with viewership and discussion climbing steadily. Every release drove waves of posts across social media, consistently landing in regional top trends, and even audiences as far away as Latin America began talking about the story and characters. That feedback, crossing language and culture, made her realise for the first time: this work had outgrown her original vision and taken on a life of its own.
The cast attended promotional events, growing from tentative newcomers to performers who knew how to meet their audience's satisfication. Crowds gathered visibly at every appearance; scattered support grew into organised movements, and fans travelled from other cities just to be there. Business offers poured in, many from overseas, coming so fast that there was barely time to breathe.
Everything was unfolding exactly as they had hoped.
Late at night, after long days, Yeh and Fiona would catch each other's eye, sharing a wordless excitement they could not hide: they were beginning to believe they really had found a way forward.
Yet amidst all this momentum, Yeh always carved out small spaces for herself.
She would sit alone in a quiet corner café, sipping her coffee slowly; wander through art galleries and linger before a single painting for ages; or walk beside the river, watching light dance across the water with every breeze. In those undisturbed moments, time seemed to soften and slow.
And it was there, in that stillness, that Lin would come to her mind, naturally and unbidden.
No special trigger, no deliberate effort—only a quiet pause, and she would wonder: What is she doing now? Resting with her eyes closed between takes, debating a new character with her team, or frowning at a clip of footage she did not like, scrolling idly through her phone.
Sometimes she would pick up her phone, glance at their chat thread, then set it down again without sending a word.
That month, they did not speak often, yet never truly fell out of touch. It was nothing forced or maintained by effort—messages arrived gently: Finished shooting very late today sent by Lin; or Yeh would send a photo of an exhibition poster she passed, or sunlight falling across a café window. And Lin would sometimes send a trivial, gentle message late at night—always arrived just when Yeh had finished her work and finally let her guard down. Short exchanges of messages never pushed further, always ending just where they felt easy and unstrained.
They rarely spoke of feelings, as if by silent agreement to keep that most direct question unasked. Yet nothing faded; if anything, restraint let things settle deeper and grow clearer.
Neither pushed for more, nor pulled away. They simply let what was between them rest, unlabelled, existing quietly in each of their lives. Like a thread that had never been cut: unseen, yet always holding.
And both were waiting-not for something driven by rush or feeling, but for the moment that would come naturally, when everything had finally fallen into place.