Backstage

The lobby of the Formosa Oriental lay in the muted half-light of crystal chandeliers as Wang Jian-hong (王建宏) hurried through the big glass doors, opened for him by the neatly dressed concierge.

His gaze swept over the bar and seating areas, where people drank, talked or simply waited.

Until he saw her.

Lin Yi-yun sat alone at a low table near the windows, both hands wrapped around a fine porcelain teacup.

Her face was flawless as ever, and yet there was something absent in it, like a quiet shadow that did not belong to a nineteen-year-old.

It looked as though she was listening less to the soft piano music filling the lobby than to something else entirely: thoughts far removed, intangible and beyond reach.

Wang straightened his shoulders and quickened his pace.

“Sorry for being late,” he said before sitting down, setting his briefcase beside the table. “Traffic... you know how it is.”

Yi-yun looked up and smiled politely.

“Yes, yes,” she said calmly. “Always traffic in the big metropolis.”

The sentence sounded slightly out of place, as though it belonged to another era.

For a moment, Wang frowned, then sat down without commenting.

“How was the shoot today?”

“Quite good.”

That was all.

No details. No emotion.

He nodded as if he hadn’t expected anything else.

The briefcase clicked softly as he opened it and neatly stacked contracts, scripts, and dog-eared printouts came into view.

Wang spread them out in front of her like a deck of cards.

“So,” he began, picking up the first script. “We can forget this one right away. Too shallow, doesn’t move us forward at all.” He set it aside. “This one would be fine, but only if they’re willing to adjust the fee. And this one…” A brief tap of his finger. “…we’ll definitely take. Good role, well-known producer, clean image.”

Yi-yun nodded faintly, took another sip of tea and said nothing.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t listening, she heard every word, it just felt as though they concerned someone else entirely.

She wondered why she was even there at all.

Wang continued, barely pausing for breath.

What didn’t fit. What was too risky. What might damage her image.

Finally, he reached for another stapled bundle of papers.

“Talk show invitation…” His mouth twisted. “Young stars who became famous early and how they deal with it. Nonsense. Nothing but image-damaging poking around.”

He was about to set the invitation aside when Yi-yun flinched almost imperceptibly.

“Do we know who has already agreed to appear?”

Wang blinked surprised, took the papers back and licked his thumb, before flipping through them.

“Let’s see…” he read aloud. “Wei-wei, former child star… then that young model, Annie Hu…” His voice stalled for just a moment. “And that baseball player. Chen Zhi-hao.”

The name lingered between them.

Yi-yun’s gaze sharpened, as though something inside her had shifted.

“I want to do it”, she said quietly.

Wang sighed and leaned back. “Ms. Lin, that’s not a good idea. The topic practically invites trouble. And those talk shows only...”

“I want to do it,” she repeated, still calm, but firmer now.

He rubbed his forehead, searching for counterarguments.

“It doesn’t fit your current image. I think we should really...”

“I know,” she said. “But I still want to do it.”

Another sigh, longer this time, before he shrugged reluctantly.

“Very well. If that’s what you want. But we’ll only accept if they disclose the intended questions in advance, alright?”

Yi-yun nodded, then lowered her gaze back to her tea.

When she reached for the cup again, the tea had gone lukewarm already.

But for the moment, at least, the melancholy was gone.

᯽᯽᯽

The applause began before the final sentence had fully faded.

“…and with that, we’d like to extend our heartfelt thanks to all of tonight’s guests!” the host said with practiced warmth.

The cameras panned, spotlights washed over the stage, and the live band’s funky music kicked in.

Yi-yun stood with the other guests, smiling, inclining her head slightly, clapping along.

She knew exactly how long to hold her gaze toward the audience, what her smile needed to look like, and when to shake the host’s hand.

It felt like a routine her body had internalized long ago, even when her mind was elsewhere entirely.

The applause faded, the music softened, a technical cue... and suddenly it was over.

An assistant was already taking her by the arm, deftly removing the microphone from the collar of her dress.

Chen Zhi-hao was still talking with Wei-wei, his microphone already off, his smile perfectly practiced.

Yi-yun hesitated for a moment, then followed the assistant down the narrow corridor behind the stage.

When she reached the greenroom, she let out an audible breath, grabbed a bottle of water, and studied her reflection in the mirror, thinking about what she had said on air.

That her early success had been an opportunity.

That she was grateful for it, even when it wasn’t easy.

That she had learned how to deal with pressure.

None of it had been untrue.

And yet it felt hollow, as though she had said exactly what everyone wanted to hear, except herself.

Chen, on the other hand, had spoken openly. Too openly, perhaps.

About doubts. About expectations. About things others had planned for him without ever asking if that's what he really wanted.

Almost as if he had been waiting for a chance to finally say it out loud.

For the media, it would be a feast, Yi-yun knew that.

And yet she couldn’t help admiring him for it.

With a sigh, she sat down on the leather sofa just as Chen walked in.

His shoulders were slightly hunched, his baseball cap dangling absentmindedly from his hand.

Their eyes met.

“Hey.”

“Hey…”

During the show, their interactions had been strictly professional.

Even when their shared school days were mentioned, nothing personal surfaced.

“Earlier,” Yi-yun said at last. “What you said back there…” She hesitated. “Did you really mean that?”

He looked at her with tired eyes, then lowered his gaze, a brief smile flickering across his lips.

“It probably sounded strange, didn’t it?” he said with a quiet snort. “Everyone always thinks I should love all this. The sport. The success. But actually…” He searched for the words.

“I always wanted a quiet life. Doing something useful with my hands. Something that grows.”

Yi-yun looked at him as though she needed a moment to take that in.

“Things you nurture,” he added, almost shyly. “I used to help my grandpa in his garden when I was ittle, you know? That was… nice.”

Something warm tightened inside her, as if his words had touched something long buried.

“I… spent a summer with my grandma when I was a kid,” Yi-yun said slowly. “In Pinglin. On an old tea plantation.”

His eyes lit up.

“Really?”

She nodded, smiling.

“Yes. I never thought I’d like it back then. But I did. Very much.”

For a moment, there was something between them that had nothing to do with cameras, contracts, or expectations.

Then the door opened, and someone called Chen’s name.

“I have to go,” he said. “Interviews…”

Yi-yun glanced at the clock and nodded.

“Yeah. Me too.”

A brief hesitation.

“I… was glad to see you again.”

She had just turned toward the door when he called after her.

“Wait.”

She turned back.

“You have one of those new mobile phones too, right?”

She blinked, then nodded.

“Yes?”

He smiled crookedly.

“Do you want to... exchange numbers? Maybe text sometime. If you’d like…”

Yi-yun’s heart began to race.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”

They exchanged numbers, hurriedly, almost awkwardly.

“All right… saved.”

Chen hesitated for a moment when he caught a glimpse of her phone display, then looked at her.

“You can just save me as Zhi-hao,” he said quietly. “We’ve known each other for quite a long time after all...”

Yi-yun’s thumb hovered over the screen for a second.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Zhi-hao.”

They smiled at each other, a little unsure, but genuine.

Suddenly Yi-yun’s phone vibrated.

“Oh… damn. Who is it now…”

She glanced at the screen.

Mom.

“Sorry… I have to get that.”

“All good,” Zhi-hao said immediately, stepping back. “Go ahead.”

“Yi-yun,” Mei-ling’s voice said, unusually tense. “There’s something I need to tell you. Your grandmother… Shu-fen… she’s had a stroke.”

For a moment, Yi-yun didn’t understand what the words meant.

“What?”

“She’s stable for now, but she needs surgery immediately. I know you’re busy, but I thought you should know. I understand if you can't...”

“I’m coming right away!” Yi-yun cried, loud and unrestrained.

“Are you sure?” her mother’s voice asked.

“Just send me the name of the hospital by text. I’m leaving now.”

When she ended the call, she looked up at Zhi-hao.

“Did... something happen? Are you okay?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” she said softly. “Not at all.”

Only then did she notice the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Yi-yun, you...”

But she had already turned away, running off, leaving her bag and everything else behind.

Zhi-hao remained where he was, worry etched across his face, as the noise backstage slowly returned.

And somewhere far away, it felt as though time had suddenly stopped waiting for her.