2023

No one knew whether the smile on Chi Xiaoman’s face when she left was genuine. That night, Chen Yue stood alone on the overpass and didn’t feel particularly angry or resentful about it.

She watched the back of the woman she loved slowly fade into the distance, like an insect flying away. She also watched the headlights drifting along the road below.

A long time passed. Then her agent, Shen Yin, called and said,

“‘Neon’ is a script I just finished reading. It’s a good story, and it suits your path and style. If it’s made well, it can compete for awards. If it’s made badly, then that’s just fate. Making films is about trying one after another; who can win awards with every single one? It’s not as if all the major film festivals belong to our family.”

“Mm, thanks, Sister Shen.”

The wind on the overpass was strong. Chen Yue pulled her coat tighter and lowered her head, watching countless cars blur into indistinct streaks of color as they sped away.

“Only…” Shen Yin paused, as if there was still something she wanted to say.

“Only what?”

Shen Yin sighed on the other end of the line. “Only I have to tell you this now: you really should stay away from Chi Xiaoman. Are you going to ignore everything I say?”

Her tone wasn’t harsh; if anything, it carried a hint of helplessness. Chen Yue heard it and only kept her head lowered, letting out a light, indifferent laugh. “Why does everyone think the same thing?”

“Chen Yue.” Shen Yin seemed to notice her mood and called her name before saying, “In my eyes, you’ve always been a good actress. All these years, you’ve been steady in the industry; never arrogant, never impatient.”

“Take the first time you won Best Actress, for example. So many variety shows, short films, web dramas, and TV dramas came looking for you, and you turned them all down. You focused entirely on choosing scripts because you said a film actor keeping a sense of mystery is the greatest respect for the audience.”

“The script you chose later was pretty good too. Even though the box office wasn’t high in the end and it didn’t make much of a splash, when I think about the things in it now, I still find them interesting. During that period, there were plenty of people saying you’d flopped, that you were fake, that even after winning awards you still couldn’t carry a film. The scripts sent to you also became much fewer.”

“And you? You didn’t force it. You packed your bags and turned right around to go to Nepal.”

“Now that The Clouds of Zhou Yun has finally turned out well, you’re telling me you’ve got your eye on this ‘Neon’ script…”

“This decision may not be impulsive, but given our situation now, it’s not like it’s the only option.”

“I’m actually pretty surprised. I always thought I knew you fairly well. By all rights, you shouldn’t be insisting on touching ‘Neon’ at a time like this. I just want to ask why.”

Shen Yin had a sharp eye, and there was nothing wrong with what she said. Chen Yue could completely agree with it.

She considered herself a thorough rationalist. Some of her decisions might seem unconventional, but they were usually the result of careful thought.

It was just… right now, even she couldn’t make sense of what she was thinking.

So she answered a question with another question. “Then what kind of person do you think Chi Xiaoman is?”

“Chi Xiaoman?” Shen Yin thought it over on the line. “I’ve only seen her once or twice at events. She’s a polite girl, a good kid, though when she smiles there’s always something a little careful about it. To be honest, I didn’t expect her to come make this film, let alone make such a big deal out of it.”

“Doesn’t seem like the type to charge straight ahead,” Shen Yin concluded.

Chen Yue suddenly touched the plum candy she’d been left with. Her fingers scraped against the cheap, rough wrapper. Softly, she said, “Actually, she is.”

“You know her?” Shen Yin immediately sharpened. “So you’re eyeing this Neon script for her? You think she can’t find the right actress to carry it, so you’re planning to do it yourself?”

“I’m not that capable.” Chen Yue found Shen Yin’s interpretation amusing.

She laughed.

Then slowly said,

“I’m doing it for myself.”

Shen Yin said nothing.

Then she hung up.

Chen Yue lowered her eyes and saw the plum candy lying quietly in her palm.

Maybe tonight’s meeting had made it clear that Chi Xiaoman really had changed a lot.

It had also inevitably left her feeling a great deal of disappointment and melancholy.

But because some of Chi Xiaoman’s habits were still the same—when she had two eggs, she’d give Chen Yue both; when she had two plum candies, she’d give her both—

because back then, when she was afraid Chen Yue would cough, she would stiffly stand there with a spatula in hand, her hips set stubbornly, refusing to let her touch the rice or the firewood; and now, when she was afraid she’d hurt her hand, she would carefully scrape the splinters off disposable chopsticks—

all of it was completely instinctive, with no thought of taking anything back.

So now Chen Yue wanted to fulfill the promise she had made ten years ago; she also wanted to confirm whether that lively, spirited Chi Xiaoman had truly vanished completely from the bones of the person standing before her now…

That probably couldn’t be counted as her being too hung up on it.

-

After leaving the overpass, Chi Xiaoman began to regret it.

The last time they met, her farewell with Chen Yue hadn’t gone well either. Now this was the second time they’d parted on bad terms.

She didn’t know whether Chen Yue would regret having dinner with her at the same table tonight.

But in any case, they wouldn’t see each other often. Maybe by the next time, much later, Chen Yue would have already forgotten how hasty, awkward, and foolish she had seemed when she left tonight.

At least when it came to keeping a little distance from Chen Yue, Chi Xiaoman was very confident.

Her meeting with producer Shen Baozhi was set for a week later.

Shen Baozhi was not yet thirty that year. Before this, she had been putting projects together overseas and in Hong Kong and Taiwan; the scripts she was handling now all had a distinct style. She dared to make what others didn’t dare to make, and what others did dare to make, she insisted on approaching from a different angle.

A few days earlier, the script had been sent over, and Shen Baozhi had written in her email that she was inclined to join Neon. She even flew specially from Hong Kong to Beijing to invite Chi Xiaoman to meet and discuss it in detail.

When they met, she was much as she’d seemed in the email. Shen Baozhi was very open and cheerful, speaking in clumsy Mandarin colored by years of studying abroad and by the fact that her native language was Cantonese. Smiling, she said,

“To be frank, I actually think very highly of this story.”

Before Chi Xiaoman could react,

Shen Baozhi adjusted her glasses and said, “But as it stands, this script really doesn’t fit the mainland market. If you want to pull together reliable investors and a solid team, there are two ways.”

Chi Xiaoman hadn’t expected Shen Baozhi to be so decisive; after only a few words, it sounded as if she wanted to settle the whole matter. “What are they?”

“One, you invest yourself,” Shen Baozhi said with a smile. “If you have money, you can make things happen. I can help coordinate the middle part and also find the people you want.”

Chi Xiaoman had considered this. Song Yingying had been right too: the moment word got out that she was making a film, the whole internet would laugh at her. Once filming really started, every stage would surely be chaos; what investor would dare take the risk of backing a rookie filmmaker at a time like this?

The problem was that over the years, her share from the company had been too small.

Putting up the money alone would be difficult enough, and once production started, she might also end up hesitant and constrained; that would be a completely different situation from bringing in multiple investors to assemble a team.

This could only be a fallback option.

If there really was no other way, she’d grit her teeth and go through with it.

Thinking of this, Chi Xiaoman smiled at Shen Baozhi and lowered her head to take a sip of warm water.

She didn’t rush to speak, so Shen Baozhi continued on her own.

“Xiaoman, I know the risk is too great if you invest on your own. It would make this project very easy to fall apart halfway through.

“So I think your best option right now is to first find a literary-film actress who can carry the box office and lock down the lead. Then the matter of investment will be much easier to discuss.”

That was indeed the norm when putting together a project in this industry.

Script, director, actor.

Choose one of the three leverage points, or stack them together.

Find someone capable of carrying the film as your selling point; let investors see real, tangible chips on the table, and they’ll be willing to buy in.

But it was exactly as Song Yingying had predicted: under the current circumstances, what actor who cared about her reputation would dare take the risk of teaming up with Chi Xiaoman?

Let alone a female lead who could carry the box office in an art film?

It was easy enough to say. But for someone who could truly bear the weight, the list was tiny.

After hearing all that, Chi Xiaoman smiled at Shen Baozhi. “You say that like you already have someone in mind.”

Shen Baozhi smiled but said nothing.

There was no need for much telepathy.

Chi Xiaoman and this young producer who had rushed in from Hong Kong looked at each other quietly, and very quickly she understood what the other person was thinking.

Before she could say anything, Shen Baozhi smiled and said, “Xiaoman, the name that just came to mind for you right now—would it happen to be the same one I’m thinking of?”

Maybe when people reach the limit of what they can bear, they remember all kinds of moments from the past.

Chi Xiaoman drifted, dazed.

Suddenly she remembered the bowl of egg noodles that had been pushed toward her the night before, and the faint warmth on Chen Yue’s face when they said goodbye last night.

She also remembered Song Yingying’s words, the sharp clash of their first two Weibo arguments; she had kept her chin tightly lowered, and her face had gradually gone pale.

“Maybe.”

When the meeting ended that day, Chi Xiaoman didn’t really remember whether her reaction at the mention of “Chen Yue” had been reasonable. Was she happy that Chen Yue had become the representative of a “top-tier film actress” in other people’s eyes?

Or was she relieved that the hardness and cruelty she had tried to hide had not been seen by Chen Yue herself?

“But sorry, Producer Shen.”

All she remembered was that the sun had been blistering that day. She stared at the warped ripple of heat in the air for a long time before, in a daze, she had to confirm that the person who finally said this really was herself.

“Chen Yue absolutely won’t do.”

[Author’s Note]

Updating Little Neon on time for the twelfth day [kiss]