Before falling asleep, Yeh found herself almost instinctively typing Jing's name into the search bar — her fingers moving of their own accord, without conscious thought.
She had watched countless videos featuring Lin and Jing before — almost all posted officially by Lin's studio. Back then, she could always reason herself into calm: These are only work and scripted, performed, and carefully crafted.
But she had never truly stepped into Jing's own world — never had seen what lay beyond the roles she played alongside Lin.
Jing's social media wasn't updated frequently, yet every post bore her distinct style — nothing forced or carefully curated to maintain an image. She possessed a natural ease before the camera; every photograph captured her sharp, striking features — clear‑eyed, bold, and effortlessly elegant. Objectively speaking, she was undeniably beautiful.
The dynamic between Yeh and Jing had always remained delicately balanced. Both were close to Lin, yet they kept a polite, careful distance — never cold, yet never truly drawing near. More than once, Yeh had considered trying to grow closer, yet deep down she had always unconsciously placed Jing in a quiet, unspoken position — instinctively seeing her as a rival. And she suspected, with equal certainty, that Jing felt exactly the same way toward her.
They never reached out to one another first, as if bound by a silent, mutual understanding. They had no professional reason to interact, nor any personal necessity to meet, and in a strange way, that carefully maintained distance felt almost fitting.
Yeh kept scrolling through Jing's photos. There was a striking strength beneath her softness — an unmistakable air about her that made it clear she was drawn to women.
Digging deeper, Yeh discovered that Jing had been something of a campus star back in university — a rising star of the arts, excelling in singing, dancing, and stage performance alike. She had competed in countless talent shows and appeared on several variety programs in recent years; one particular performance had gone viral, the spotlight fixed solely upon her, leaving even a renowned actress sitting among the judges unable to tear her eyes away. Her comment had been widely quoted: "She possesses a beauty that transcends gender — the softness of a woman, yet the striking, commanding presence of a man."
That very performance had led to her being scouted by an agency — though she had chosen to join Lin's company only two years after that. Yeh had never pressed for details about how Jing and Lin first met or grew close, never allowed herself to dwell too deeply — yet now, her heart stirred with faint, rippling unease.
She even came across old posts revealing Jing had been in a relationship throughout university. Scrolling further, Yeh couldn't help a faint, self‑mocking smile — she felt as though she were obsessively researching her rival, like a devoted fan digging for every last detail.
Then she clicked on a recording of a recent live stream of Jing. There, Jing seemed far more relaxed and authentic than she ever appeared in their polished short films. Comments scrolled rapidly across the screen, one teasing question rising above the rest: "Are you and Lin actually together for real? The chemistry in your videos feels far too genuine to be acting."
Jing paused for barely a heartbeat before smiling smoothly, deftly steering the conversation elsewhere — neither confirming nor denying. It was exactly the kind of ambiguous response most likely to fuel endless speculation.
Another question followed: "What's Lin like as a boss?"
Without the slightest hesitation, her tone steady, sincere, and utterly unshakable, Jing replied: "She is the kindest, most wonderful person I have ever known — and I will always stand by her, follow wherever she leads."
Yeh stared fixedly at the screen, her heart tightening almost painfully. As someone who understood these things all too well, she recognised instantly what lay beneath those words — far more than mere admiration, far deeper than simple trust. It was a profound, all‑consuming devotion, a quiet, unshakable attachment that ran deeper than friendship could ever reach.
Suddenly, the memory of dinner resurfaced — Jing casually rolling up Lin's sleeve while pouring her a glass of water, naturally standing close beside her whenever they were in company; those countless photographs, the years spent side‑by‑side, every shared memory and quiet moment — all piling together into a vivid, undeniable picture.
Slowly, Yeh set her phone aside, her mind crystal‑clear now: Jing was undeniably in love with Lin.
And what of Lin?
She could not answer that — yet she knew, with cold, unflinching certainty, that someone as perceptive as Lin could never remain unaware of such deep, unwavering affection.
Her chest tightened sharply, as though something heavy sank slowly, steadily, dragging all her fragile hopes down into cold, quiet disappointment. For so long, she had dared to believe there might still be a chance — yet Lin and Jing already shared years of history, a bond recognised and accepted by everyone around them. And she? She was merely the latecomer, the outsider who had only recently stepped into their world.
The contrast was stark, undeniable — almost too painful to bear.
Yeh let out a long, slow breath, striving desperately to steady herself. A faint, bitter flicker of relief stirred — at least, she hadn't let herself fall too deeply, not yet. There was still time to step back, to stop before it hurt beyond repair.
Night had deepened outside, her phone casting a faint pale glow across her face, her fingers curling around its casing growing cold. She understood now — what she faced was not merely tangled, unspoken feelings, but the fierce, aching possessiveness in her own heart, and the overwhelming, helpless realisation that she might never truly belong.