“2023”

The fourth text went out.

Because of her sudden movement, the corner of the blanket slid off the edge of the bed, but Chi Xiaoman didn’t care.

She curled up, clutching a small section of the blanket.

She drew up her knees too, pressing her chin against the hard bone, staring fixedly at her phone.

The unease and regret came rushing back in waves.

But Chen Yue still hadn’t replied.

That gave her a distinct, nagging premonition: Chen Yue had really shut herself away again.

Most people who had spent time with Chen Yue probably remembered her for little more than the usual compliments—gentle, considerate, all the positive words one could think of—because she often had a smile in her eyes and in her voice, and she always looked at people with warmth. Being around her never made anyone feel uncomfortable.

Maybe that was simply how she conducted herself socially.

But it also meant her private emotions were hard to read. Even people close to her sometimes struggled to notice when she was unhappy, or when she was feeling anything negative she didn’t want, and wouldn’t, pass on to anyone else.

But Chi Xiaoman had once had a trick.

Daydreaming.

Normally, Chen Yue listened patiently when people spoke and answered them reasonably.

Even when her mood was bad, that hardly changed.

Only at times like this would Chen Yue’s thoughts slow down a little; she might drift off during a conversation.

And when it got worse, Chen Yue would shut herself in and go a long time without speaking, either sleeping or spacing out for hours.

But she wouldn’t throw tantrums, and she wouldn’t take her feelings out on other people. She just needed time to recover, like a tree needing a long stretch of sunlight.

Tonight, she had drifted twice on the call.

It hadn’t seemed serious at first.

But Chi Xiaoman had already been having trouble sleeping, and after hanging up, she kept replaying every word Chen Yue had said, over and over, along with the tone she’d used.

Maybe she was being too sensitive.

Only afterward did Chi Xiaoman realize something was off.

Then she thought of how Chen Yue always tended to get trapped in her own head at times like this, and she couldn’t stop herself from sending the texts to ask.

At first, she had only wanted a definite reply from Chen Yue; something like: I’m fine, thanks. Or: I’m with my manager talking about work right now. Or even: Okay, I know.

Then Chi Xiaoman would stop and not send anything else, even if she understood it might only be Chen Yue being polite.

But she would also realize that her concern had crossed a line, and she wouldn’t keep making self-important inquiries into Chen Yue’s private life.

But after four messages.

Chen Yue still hadn’t replied.

Chi Xiaoman grew more and more uneasy.

She pressed her lips together.

She picked up her phone and weighed each word again and again, as if she were taking the most stressful exam alone, checking her answer sheet over and over before turning it in to make sure there were no loopholes.

So every time she wanted to say something to Chen Yue, it took her a very long time.

It was almost ten minutes later.

She finally confirmed a line in the chat box, but before she could send it,

her phone vibrated—

There was a reply in the conversation window from the unknown contact not saved in her address book:

[Okay.]

Just one word.

That meant Chen Yue might really have taken her words to heart.

Or it might mean Chen Yue hadn’t actually shut herself away the way Chi Xiaoman feared, but was replying with a simple okay just to avoid hurting her with her assumptions.

And then Chi Xiaoman realized.

After so many years, what she knew about Chen Yue might have fallen far behind the times; it was no longer appropriate to send this kind of overly heavy concern.

Thinking of this, Chi Xiaoman lowered her chin a little and suddenly felt a sharp pain, because she had been pressing it against her hard knee bone for too long. The moment she moved, her skin went numb and prickly; she didn’t even know if she’d left a red mark.

She didn’t care. She kept pressing the sore spot under her chin against her knee, then hugged her legs and deleted the line she had painstakingly typed out, one character at a time—

[Do you still like candied sweet potatoes?]

She didn’t send it.

Because Chi Xiaoman had regretted many things, and she despised how she always seemed to regret things only after they were already done.

But in the earth-shattering stretch from age twenty to thirty, the only two things she had never regretted were these.

One was in Beijing that year, riding the secondhand electric scooter she wasn’t very skilled at handling, sweating all over as she found Chen Yue standing in a little alley, smiling at her.

The other was in Hong Kong that year, when she and Chen Yue finally went their separate ways.

-

Chen Yue knew Chi Xiaoman would sit there with her phone, hesitating and agonizing. She also knew that the current Chi Xiaoman, whenever she was with her, seemed to keep herself tightly strung, as though afraid Chen Yue would blame her for everything.

So when the fourth text came through.

Chen Yue waited for a long time, then decided not to be greedy for any more. She took the initiative and sent the “okay” she had been unwilling to send for so long.

Because she hoped Chi Xiaoman could get a good night’s sleep.

Perhaps because of the kindness and innocence of the owner of this number, 9873, Chen Yue also slept well that night.

Of course, that wasn’t her intention. She wasn’t the kind of person who listened easily to advice, and she wouldn’t immediately set down all the pressure in her life and feel better just because of one sentence from Chi Xiaoman.

But she really did sleep well.

And she dreamed of the candied sweet potatoes she used to eat when she was sick.

Back then, they were still in Beijing. Every time Chen Yue shut herself away, the result was illness.

And every time, Chi Xiaoman would scold her, telling her not to isolate herself. Sometimes, when she got anxious, she would even wrap Chen Yue in the blanket and carry her out on her back, but in the end, she still couldn’t beat Chen Yue’s stubbornness. She would carefully put her back, then come over from behind through the blanket and hold her like a newborn baby.

And after Chen Yue ran a fever, Chi Xiaoman would still purse her lips, rummage through their piggy bank for loose change, step out in her slippers to the wet market to buy sweet potatoes, then come back and make candied sweet potatoes for Chen Yue, who always craved sweets when she had a cold. But because the dish was so heating, each time she put so much thought and effort into making it, she would only feed Chen Yue two or three pieces to satisfy her craving.

In the dream, Chen Yue vaguely opened her eyes and, through the small, blurry window in the underground garage, saw Chi Xiaoman crouched outside, sweat pouring down as she peeled sweet potatoes.

The glass was yellow.

Chi Xiaoman’s hair was black, her skin pale. Her slippers were green, and the oversized T-shirt she wore, big enough to cover her ankles when she crouched down, was a faded, wrinkled red from too many washes. The sweet potato flesh she cut up and dropped into the pot was shining gold.

Sensing Chen Yue’s stubborn gaze whenever she was sick, twenty-year-old Chi Xiaoman turned back, sighing like an adult.

She probably wanted to lecture her for locking herself away, to tell her it was very bad behavior. But in the end, she only wrinkled her nose and said helplessly,

“Fine, fine. I won’t argue with someone who’s sick.”

After she woke, Chen Yue didn’t come fully to her senses for a long time. Maybe it was because the dream from ten years ago had been too real; maybe it was because the reality ten years later was too cold and quiet.

The projector hadn’t been turned off yet, and the version of herself on the screen was still playing over and over.

Chen Yue rubbed her sore eyelids and struggled upright from the sofa.

Only then did she realize her chest was tight, her nose was blocked, and even walking made her feel slightly dizzy.

She steadied herself against the wall and managed to take a few steps to the bar, where she poured herself a glass of cold water and forced it down.

Then she just stood there.

She stared blankly at the empty kitchen and the sky outside, which somehow already looked like evening.

Just how long had she slept?

It had still been late night before she fell asleep; when she woke, it was already dusk?

Chen Yue rubbed her temples, her head aching, and took unsteady steps to open the fridge. Cold light spilled over her face as she looked at the refrigerator stocked only with chilled drinks, and then she suddenly smiled.

Because she had finally accepted that when she was sick, she would never get to eat candied sweet potatoes again.

Chen Yue closed the fridge.

Then she laboriously finished a cup of warm water.

But just then, the doorbell started ringing.

She went to open the door and saw an unexpected visitor standing outside.

Shen Baozhi, who had asked her yesterday whether she could be given contact information.

Now she seemed to have come fully prepared.

She was holding ingredients fresh from the supermarket.

When Chen Yue opened the door, she smiled at her.

“Teacher Chen Yue, do you want to eat candied sweet potatoes now?”

-

Chi Xiaoman didn’t reach out to Shen Baozhi on her own.

It was the next day before Shen Baozhi called her.

Her contract was almost up.

Her work for this period was basically finished. Originally, she had planned to rest for a while and then focus entirely on preparing Neon.

And Shen Baozhi had shown great interest in Neon as well; Chi Xiaoman also trusted her eye and her producing style enough, so she intended to work with her.

So when Shen Baozhi called.

She answered without any hesitation.

After Shen Baozhi asked whether she and Chen Yue had been in contact, and whether the communication had gone smoothly.

Chi Xiaoman was silent for a moment, then asked softly, “Have you gone back to Hong Kong?”

“I got back yesterday.”

Shen Baozhi was very enthusiastic. “Do you need me to help you with anything in Hong Kong?”

“For example, meeting Teacher Chen Yue and talking to her?”

“No.” Chi Xiaoman refused quickly.

“Oh, okay.” Shen Baozhi sounded a little regretful. “Sounds like your communication with Teacher Chen Yue isn’t going very smoothly.”

But she quickly rallied.

“Still, it’s fine, Xiaoman. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

“Thank you.” Chi Xiaoman kept her tone polite. “For making the trip to Beijing.”

“It’s nothing,” Shen Baozhi said. “I’m willing to make multiple trips for a story I like.”

Maybe because of her accent, the phrase “make multiple trips” sounded a little odd coming from Shen Baozhi. Chi Xiaoman laughed.

Then Shen Baozhi said casually, “But I’ll go to Teacher Chen Yue’s place later and check on her.”

“To her house?” Chi Xiaoman hadn’t expected them to be that close.

“Hm? Didn’t I tell you?” Shen Baozhi laughed. “My mommy is her manager.”

Chi Xiaoman’s fingers tightened.

When she didn’t answer, Shen Baozhi went on, talking to herself, “But my relationship with Teacher Chen Yue isn’t actually that close either. She seems like someone who has a hard time getting close to people.”

That was true. Chen Yue was easy to get along with, and it was easy for anyone around her to develop affection for her, even like her. But most people’s relationship with her stopped there; it was hard to get any closer.

“Then she…” Chi Xiaoman didn’t miss the “check on her” in Shen Baozhi’s words, and after a beat asked, “Is she okay?”

“Not okay.” Shen Baozhi answered promptly.

Chi Xiaoman’s hand jerked and knocked over a cup of water.

“She probably isn’t doing very well,” Shen Baozhi corrected herself. “My mommy said they haven’t been in contact these past few days, so she asked me to go take a look when I have time.”

Chi Xiaoman, flustered, reached out to catch the falling water.

Hearing that sentence, she realized what she was doing and hastily curled her fingers back in, her wet palm pressing into her knee.

“Xiaoman, actually, are you very familiar with Teacher Chen Yue?” Shen Baozhi asked again, as if she had no idea what was happening on Chi Xiaoman’s side.

“No.” Chi Xiaoman denied it reflexively. “We’re not very familiar.”

“Okay.”

Shen Baozhi didn’t ask further.

She just muttered, “I was thinking, if you were close, I could find out from you what Teacher Chen Yue likes to eat when she’s feeling bad, instead of asking my mommy.”

Before hanging up, Shen Baozhi said to Chi Xiaoman, “Because I just had a fight with my mommy.”

Chi Xiaoman said nothing for a long time.

Even her breathing grew less frequent, as if she were a fish stripped of its gills, stranded on shore.

“Xiaoman?” Shen Baozhi noticed her oddness.

“Nothing.”

Chi Xiaoman gathered herself, smiled into the phone, and said softly, “We’re not very familiar.”

Shen Baozhi didn’t really understand why she had said the same thing twice, but she didn’t ask in detail. She only said a few more things before hanging up.

After the call ended, Shen Baozhi shook her head. She didn’t understand why this mainland top star had no trace of the airs other big celebrities gave off, and why every sentence she spoke seemed to have been run through her head several times first.

Then her phone vibrated.

It was Chi Xiaoman, who had only just hung up.

Thinking she had an emergency, Shen Baozhi quickly answered. “Xiaoman, what is it?”

Chi Xiaoman was silent for a long time on the other end.

Then she spoke very quietly.

“When she’s not feeling well, she likes sweets.”

Shen Baozhi didn’t react at first.

Chi Xiaoman paused to give her time to process it, then continued softly, “Especially candied sweet potatoes.”

Shen Baozhi thought it was strange and didn’t say anything.

“But I’m not sure if she still likes them now,” Chi Xiaoman added, apparently sensing her silence.

“Okay.” Once she was sure the other person had finished, Shen Baozhi said, “Thank you, Xiaoman. I’ll make candied sweet potatoes for Teacher Chen Yue.”

Chi Xiaoman said, “Mm,” and then, “Thank you.”

Her tone was very sincere.

As if she really had a lot to thank her for.

Shen Baozhi found that even stranger. Shouldn’t she be the one saying thank you?

But in the end, she didn’t ask the question out loud. She only said, “Thank you,” once more.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t say anything.

She seemed to realize that the one who should be saying thank you was Shen Baozhi, not herself.

So she fell silent for a moment.

When Shen Baozhi suggested ending the call, Chi Xiaoman came back to herself from that daze, gave her usual small smile, and said, “Mm, okay.”

The call ended again.

Shen Baozhi let out a breath.

She didn’t know if she was misunderstanding things, but every time Chen Yue came up, Chi Xiaoman’s reaction seemed off.

Yet before she could think it through carefully,

Chi Xiaoman called again, and with Shen Baozhi’s ringtone sounding as well, it felt almost urgent.

Shen Baozhi answered politely. “Xiaoman, do you need something else?”

Hearing her ask that, Chi Xiaoman seemed to drift off instead. After a while, she asked softly through the phone, “Do you know how to make candied sweet potatoes?”

Shen Baozhi suddenly remembered, and was about to say, “Maybe I used the wrong wording just now; actually, I was planning to buy a ready-made one from a tea restaurant nearby, though I’m not even sure if they’ll have an authentic version.”

Then Chi Xiaoman seemed to feel a lot of frustration and said,

“Forget it. I’ll send it to you.”

The call was hurriedly cut off before Shen Baozhi could speak. Within three minutes, she received a densely packed long text message—

As if the person who had to think over every sentence several times before speaking had no hesitation or wavering at all when typing out this message, which looked to be seven or eight hundred words long; as if she knew every line by heart.

Because the text was a recipe for candied sweet potatoes.

Along with some very careful notes, such as not letting Chen Yue eat too much at once because it could make her too hot. And when boiling the sugar, she had to be patient; she had to wait until the syrup was hard enough to stand on its own before pulling the threads...

It was as if such a dish, something that didn’t seem like the kind of thing a big star would be good at making, had in fact been prepared by her for one person, countless times.

And then the follow-up message Chi Xiaoman sent after the fact:

[Sorry to trouble you.

If you weren’t planning to make it, please ignore this message.

If you really do make it, it’s best not to mention my name.]

Not mention her name? Shen Baozhi thought that was bad. After all, she had been making films for so long, and the basic principle she believed in was to put the names of everyone involved into the end credits.

She was planning to talk Chi Xiaoman into it if necessary. But before she could, Chi Xiaoman sent another message:

[Otherwise I’m afraid she won’t be happy eating it either.]

[Author’s Note]

On time for the fifteenth day of Little Neon [sunglasses][sunglasses]