The Hidden Caller
Lina Everett struggles with her relationship with Jude James as she tries to hide her terminal illness and plans for their inevitable breakup, while also dealing with suspicions arising from a deleted phone call.Will Lina be able to keep her secret from Jude, or will the truth come out before she's ready?
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Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend: The Dinner That Never Happened
Let’s talk about the dinner. Not the food—the *dinner*. The one that was set, lit, plated, and utterly abandoned. In *Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend*, the centerpiece isn’t the steamed fish in the white ceramic bowl, nor the bottle of Romanée-Conti chilling beside it. It’s the empty chair across from Chen Wei. Because Lin Xiao never truly sat down. She walked in, she pulled out the chair, she even adjusted her skirt—but her body language screamed hesitation. Her shoulders were too straight, her hands too still. She wasn’t joining a meal. She was staging an intervention. And Chen Wei? He knew. He didn’t look up when she entered, but his fork paused mid-air. A micro-expression—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—betrayed him. He’d been rehearsing this moment. Not the confrontation, but the deflection. The way he reached for his wineglass not to drink, but to buy time. The way he spoke in clipped, neutral tones, as if reciting lines from a script he’d memorized in the bathroom mirror while Lin Xiao was dialing that number for the third time. The genius of this sequence lies in what’s *not* said. No accusations. No tears. Just the clink of porcelain, the soft hum of the chandelier overhead, and the unbearable weight of unsaid things. Lin Xiao’s necklace—a simple silver chain with a single pearl—catches the light every time she tilts her head, as if it’s trying to signal something urgent. Her earrings, delicate diamond studs, glint like tiny warnings. She’s dressed for a date, not a divorce. And that’s the tragedy: she still believes, deep down, that if she just sits long enough, if she just waits patiently enough, he’ll look up and remember who she is. But Chen Wei is already gone. He’s scrolling through his contacts, not because he’s bored, but because he’s verifying alibis. He taps ‘Dr. Tang’—not to call, but to *confirm* the number matches the one Lin Xiao dialed earlier. He’s not hiding. He’s cross-referencing. Like a detective reviewing evidence against himself. Then comes the phone drop. Not dramatic. Not staged. Just a casual slip of the wrist as he reaches for his chopsticks—his phone slides off the table, lands face-up on the marble floor. The screen lights up. Not with a notification. With the call log. And there it is: three missed calls from ‘Lin Xiao’, all within the last ten minutes. Chen Wei freezes. For a full two seconds, he doesn’t move. Then he bends slowly, deliberately, and picks it up—not to hide it, but to *study* it. As if the device itself holds the answer to why he can’t look her in the eye. Lin Xiao watches him. She doesn’t reach for her own phone. She doesn’t demand an explanation. She simply stands, grabs her coat, and walks out—leaving the fish, the wine, the untouched dessert plate with its three colorful pastries (yellow, green, orange—like a failed rainbow). The camera follows her back through the hallway, past the mirror where her reflection blurs into the background, as if she’s already fading from the story. Later, at the outdoor café, the mood shifts from domestic tension to existential reckoning. Dr. Tang isn’t the villain. He’s the witness. The man who saw Chen Wei’s panic, who received the frantic text at 8:47 PM—‘She knows. What do I do?’—and chose to respond not with advice, but with a meeting. A neutral zone. A place where truths can be handed over like documents. Lin Xiao sits across from him, wrapped in a gray wool coat that swallows her frame, making her seem smaller, younger, more vulnerable than she did in the dining room. But her eyes? They’re sharper. Colder. She’s not here to beg. She’s here to receive the autopsy report on her marriage. And when Dr. Tang opens that small black box—revealing not a ring, but a folded sheet of paper with timestamps and location pings—Lin Xiao doesn’t gasp. She exhales. Long. Slow. As if releasing the last bit of hope she’d been holding in her lungs. The final shot is Chen Wei standing outside the café, rain beginning to mist the pavement, his coat collar turned up against the cold. He sees them. Sees the box. Sees Lin Xiao’s face—calm, resolved, *done*. He doesn’t run toward her. He doesn’t yell. He just turns and walks away, disappearing into the neon glow of the city, as if he’s finally accepted that some exits aren’t meant to be dramatic—they’re meant to be silent. That’s the haunting brilliance of *Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend*: it doesn’t end with a bang, but with the echo of a phone that stopped ringing. Because sometimes, the loudest betrayal isn’t what’s said. It’s what’s left unsaid—and the deafening silence that follows when love stops answering its own call. Lin Xiao doesn’t need revenge. She just needs to stop waiting for a reply that will never come. And in that realization, she becomes the only character who truly survives the last ninety days—not unscathed, but unbroken.
Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend: The Phone That Never Rang Back
There’s a quiet kind of devastation in modern relationships that doesn’t come from shouting matches or slammed doors—it comes from the silence after a call is made, and no one answers. In *Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend*, the opening sequence isn’t about grand betrayals or explosive confrontations. It’s about a woman named Lin Xiao, her fingers trembling slightly as she dials a number she knows by heart—198-2786-3589—her husband’s phone. She stands in a hallway bathed in warm, almost theatrical lighting, like a stage set for a tragedy she hasn’t yet admitted to herself. Her cream cardigan, black turtleneck, pearl buttons—everything about her is composed, elegant, controlled. But her eyes? They’re already grieving. She doesn’t cry. Not yet. She just stares at the screen, watching the digits appear one by one, as if each keystroke is a tiny surrender. When the call fails—or worse, goes straight to voicemail—she doesn’t hang up immediately. She lingers. She scrolls through recent calls, not because she expects to find something new, but because she’s searching for proof that he was still *there*, even if only digitally. The camera lingers on her hands, the way her thumb hovers over the green call button like it’s a detonator. This isn’t just a missed call. It’s the first crack in the foundation. Then we cut to Dr. Tang, a man in a white coat walking down a hospital corridor, phone pressed to his ear, brow furrowed—not with concern, but with irritation. He’s not listening to Lin Xiao. He’s listening to someone else. Someone whose voice makes him glance sideways, as if checking whether anyone’s watching. Behind him, another doctor gestures urgently, but Tang barely registers it. His world has shrunk to the three inches of glass and metal in his hand. The irony is brutal: he’s a healer, yet he’s failing the most basic diagnostic test—listening to the person who needs him most. And when Lin Xiao finally walks into the dining room, where her husband Chen Wei sits alone, sipping red wine beside a steaming fish dish, the tension doesn’t erupt. It simmers. Chen Wei looks up, offers a half-smile—polite, practiced, empty—and says something innocuous like ‘You’re late.’ But his eyes don’t meet hers. They flick to her phone, then away. He’s already checked it. He knows. What follows is a masterclass in subtext. Lin Xiao sits. She doesn’t touch the food. She watches Chen Wei eat—methodically, deliberately—as if performing normalcy for an audience only he can see. He picks at the fish, lifts his glass, speaks in short sentences about work, about traffic, about nothing. Meanwhile, Lin Xiao’s gaze keeps drifting to his pocket. Not accusingly. Just… waiting. Waiting for the phone to light up. Waiting for him to flinch. When he finally pulls it out—not to answer, but to *check*—the camera zooms in on his screen. We see the same contact list she saw earlier. Same name. Same number. But now, there’s a new entry: ‘Dr. Tang – 198-2786-3545’. One digit changed. A typo? Or a deliberate decoy? The editing here is surgical: quick cuts between Lin Xiao’s face—tight-lipped, calculating—and Chen Wei’s hands, fumbling slightly as he types a message. He deletes it. Types again. Deletes again. He’s not texting a lover. He’s texting a lie. And Lin Xiao sees it all. She doesn’t confront him. Not yet. She simply stands, gathers her coat, and walks out—leaving the untouched plate, the half-finished wine, the unspoken truth hanging in the air like smoke. The final act shifts to an outdoor café at night, fairy lights blurred into bokeh behind them, turning the scene into something out of a dream—or a confession. Lin Xiao sits across from Dr. Tang, now in a tailored suit, a silver star pin on his lapel like a badge of moral ambiguity. He holds a small black box. Not jewelry. Not a gift. Something heavier. A USB drive? A recording? The script never tells us. But his expression says everything: guilt, regret, maybe even pity. Lin Xiao listens, sips her tea, her posture rigid, her fingers wrapped around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t shout. She just asks, softly, ‘Did he know?’ And in that moment, the entire weight of *Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend* collapses into two words. Because this isn’t about infidelity. It’s about complicity. About how easily love becomes a transaction, how quickly trust turns into data, how a single phone call—or the absence of one—can unravel nine decades of shared history in ninety days. Chen Wei arrives later, breathless, coat askew, eyes wide with panic. He sees them. He sees the box. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, frozen, as if time itself has paused to let him absorb the consequence of his silence. And Lin Xiao? She finally looks up. Not at him. At the streetlamp above. As if asking the universe: *Was I ever really here?* That’s the real horror of *Last 90 Days with My Boyfriend*—not what happened, but how quietly it all fell apart, one unanswered call at a time.