2023
“Hello.”
Being recognized was unexpected, but Chen Yue didn’t hide. She greeted them openly and generously.
Her voice wasn’t loud.
But in the sealed space of the elevator, it was enough to cut through the haze and stiffness and land squarely on Chi Xiaoman’s wildly pounding eardrums.
It really was Chen Yue.
In the dim light, Chi Xiaoman stared at that strip of fabric and felt the pain in her arms and neck seem to vanish, turning instead into a kind of numbness spreading through every limb and bone.
The sensation was so baffling that it pulled her mind loose from her body; she tightened her grip on the wheelchair armrest and couldn’t react at all.
And clearly,
Chen Yue’s one “Hello” stirred up quite a commotion.
Rustling broke out in the elevator. Someone gathered the courage to add, “Congratulations, Best Actress!”
Hearing that, Chen Yue seemed to turn and smile, then said, “Thank you.”
Her tone was gentle, her enunciation exceptionally clear; her voice carried the soft tenderness that was uniquely hers, like water.
This woman always thought of everything and treated everyone politely, never making things difficult for others.
Back then, Chi Xiaoman had especially envied how flawless and considerate she was, and she had disliked her own recklessness the most.
Now, ten years later, Chi Xiaoman had become, as she once hoped she might, no longer as impulsive as she’d been in her early twenties, and she had also picked up some of Chen Yue’s ease with people.
But back then, she probably never imagined that one day she would be the only person in this elevator who couldn’t manage an open, straightforward “Congratulations” to Chen Yue.
The elevator was full of chatter. Those who recognized Chen Yue kept saying “Congratulations, Best Actress” over and over; those who didn’t were guided by the people beside them and quickly searched on their phones, then happily chimed in with the same line.
Chen Yue took it all in stride. With every “congratulations,” she replied softly, “Thank you.”
Compared with Chi Xiaoman’s mixed reputation, Chen Yue was still very well-liked by the general public.
All these years, she had kept a low profile and worked hard; aside from films, she didn’t often appear before the public, and she rarely did variety shows or livestreams. In the public eye, she was the textbook example of a good actor who let her work speak for itself.
“Ding—”
The elevator doors opened again, but no one wanted to get out first.
Chi Xiaoman, standing in the corner, tilted her head up and stared at the elevator buttons in the dim light, still saying nothing.
The doors closed again.
Then there was a sharp click.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it was abrupt.
Chi Xiaoman’s thoughts were a blur; she couldn’t help but flinch in the corner, her shoulders trembling slightly.
But Chen Yue behind her probably noticed anyway. Without a word, the woman shifted a little closer and thoughtfully blocked the flash from behind.
Chi Xiaoman struggled to part her lips, feeling she should at least say thank you.
But after a few seconds of hesitation, she missed the chance.
The click sounded again—
Chen Yue moved behind her, apparently about to turn and speak up to stop it.
“Hello—”
“Sorry.”
Chi Xiaoman cut Chen Yue off and, with her dry throat pressed tight, spoke first.
“Could you not take pictures?”
They spoke at the same time, which made the person taking photos pause.
But Chi Xiaoman’s cool, hoarse words still drowned out Chen Yue’s comparatively gentle “Hello.”
The photographer said, a little begrudgingly, “Oh, fine.”
No one knew whether they’d actually put the phone away, only that they muttered, “What’s the rush? It’s not like I’m photographing you.”
Chi Xiaoman said nothing, her eyes fixed on the rising numbers in the elevator.
In truth, she hadn’t said it for herself.
Chen Yue had just won Best Actress, and the hot searches were still boiling over; everyone was trying to dig up some angle on the “Golden Image Best Actress.”
If tonight turned into a story about “refusing to be photographed,” who knew how the marketing accounts and anyone with ulterior motives would spin it.
After all these years of rising and falling in the industry, no one understood these tricks better than Chi Xiaoman.
If she was overthinking it, then so be it. But if Chen Yue really ended up on the hot search because she’d helped by saying “don’t take photos,” then Chi Xiaoman would owe her yet another debt.
She could no longer say “congratulations” with any real honesty, and she didn’t want to owe Chen Yue any more.
The elevator fell quiet and kept rising.
Chi Xiaoman could feel it—
Chen Yue was standing right behind her, still shielding her from any unnecessary exposure that might happen; her gaze might have been resting on her, or maybe not.
Maybe it was that habitual soft, drifting look she gave people when she watched them. Or maybe it was the exhausted, polite, resentful, sensitive kind.
Chi Xiaoman couldn’t see it. She was grateful she couldn’t see it, and grateful this was only a confrontation she didn’t have to face herself.
“Ding—”
The doors opened again.
Still no one got out.
Chi Xiaoman’s thoughts were a mess.
After a moment of silence, she almost wanted to be a coward again and flee from this absurd, sudden situation in time.
At the same moment—
“Click—”
Another photo was taken.
Chi Xiaoman hesitated and tried to turn her wheelchair.
But Chen Yue behind her moved first.
The woman pressed the door-open button in time, yet still didn’t step out immediately.
She paused behind Chi Xiaoman for about ten seconds, as if she wanted to say something.
But in the end, she still said nothing.
Just like these past ten years. Just like every unavoidable encounter; every time they met at award-show backstages or by chance at banquet tables.
Always polite; always pretending they had never known each other, brushing past one another again and again.
After a long silence, Chen Yue walked out.
Leaving behind that sliver of dark green clothing still lingering in Chi Xiaoman’s field of vision.
And a soft, gentle breeze.
And the soft touch of that breeze as it brushed slowly over Chi Xiaoman’s arm.
It also took with it the annoying flash of the elevator.
The elevator doors closed, and the noisy world returned.
No one was secretly taking photos anymore, and the flashes that Chi Xiaoman always struggled to deal with when she was tired were gone too.
The pain that had been hiding itself surged back up, densely packing into the cracks between her bones.
Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes and stared at the red number left on the elevator display: 13. She felt like she had fallen into a black hole wrapped in spider silk, not even a finger able to move.
It wasn’t until Fang A-Yun came over and gently adjusted the cap on her head that she vaguely realized—
Knowing Chen Yue’s considerate nature, the reason she had paused behind her just now may have simply been that, after seeing her startled twice, she was considering whether to help adjust her cap before going out.
It was just that, like the “congratulations” and “thank you” she couldn’t bring herself to say, Chen Yue, who was so thorough in everything, had still never managed to do it for her in the end.
-
Chi Xiaoman had no memory of how she got out of the elevator, or what those people in the elevator said after Chen Yue left.
When she came back to herself, she was already lying on the bed in the VIP ward, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Fang A-Yun knew she always liked to fall asleep with the TV on, so she turned it on and set it to the movie channel Chi Xiaoman usually left on when sleeping.
Hearing the sound, Chi Xiaoman turned her gaze in a daze and caught an empty shot; she immediately recognized it.
It was *Running Away on February 29th*, an old film from seven or eight years ago, maybe even longer.
The next second, the lead’s bare-faced profile cut into view, confirming her guess.
It was a natural-born movie face; under the light and shadow, it had a beauty that was both distinctive and tired.
Chen Yue’s first film.
An art film, full of long takes; it was by a young female director and had very little plot, mostly long takes without dialogue.
When it was released, it didn’t make much money.
A film critic even said:
It doesn’t talk about love, only about the self, and it’s painful and obscure. Who still wants to watch such arty stuff now?
It wasn’t until three years ago, when Chen Yue won Best Actress for the first time, that the film was dug up and briefly went viral again.
At that time, people also dug up the long-retired female director’s evaluation of Chen Yue from back then—
“Chen Yue was born with a pair of eyes full of mist, rain, and wind, so tender they pull people in. The very first time someone meets her gaze in a movie theater, while looking at her on screen, they feel as though she is loving them with all her strength and with heartbreaking sadness.”
“So much so that, when you suddenly come to your senses, you realize it was actually you who fell in love with her at first sight. And you would willingly, happily run away with her on February 29th.”
Today wasn’t Chen Yue’s first time winning Best Actress, and the Golden Image award carried especially great weight.
In an instant, everywhere Chi Xiaoman looked, there was news about her.
After taking the painkillers Fang A-Yun handed her, Chi Xiaoman listened for a while to Chen Yue’s flexible, languid voice in the movie, didn’t rush to close her eyes, and didn’t ask Fang A-Yun to change the channel. Instead, she first found her phone and opened Weibo—
Her business had happened to collide with Chen Yue winning Best Actress, which was another headache.
Of course she hadn’t done it on purpose.
But the last time Chen Yue won Best Actress, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from posting a Weibo in the middle of the night; although it was only an unnamed “congratulations,” it was indeed because she hadn’t been thinking straight that she’d caused Chen Yue unnecessary trouble.
Now it had happened again. Chi Xiaoman only wanted to press her own matter down as quickly as possible.
She didn’t want to steal Chen Yue’s thunder.
And she also wanted Chen Yue to be out of sight and out of mind, to get through the day peacefully.
But reality never did what she wanted.
Opening Weibo on a burner account, the first thing she saw was a statement on her own account; it had been posted by the publicity team.
When something like this happened, the most important thing was to calm public opinion as quickly as possible. At the time, she’d just gotten to the hospital and still wasn’t fully conscious; everything before her eyes was black, and she couldn’t see anything clearly. The PR team had dragged her into taking a peace-sign photo for damage control.
The Weibo had gone up several hours ago.
In the photo, her eyes were half open, half closed. But out of professional instinct, facing the camera, she had still struggled to curve her lips into a dazed smile.
Her own comments were actually fine; they were all words of comfort and encouragement.
But in a top-liked comment that had been screenshotted and reposted by marketing accounts, one stood out especially clearly—
[Looking at this photo, isn’t Chi Xiaoman still smiling? And didn’t she even deliberately get such a nice haircut?
Am I the only one who thinks Chi Xiaoman hates Chen Yue this much?
She just had to pick the day Chen Yue won Best Actress to put on a show; and it’s not the first time, is it? / cold sweat]
The replies under that top comment were mixed—
[The girl was in a car crash, for God’s sake; please save your mouth karma and go to hell faster.]
[Honestly, I’m so sick of this. Her hair was obviously cut for the role, okay? I think you’re the one who hates Chi Xiaoman so much you can’t sleep at night.]
[Once is a coincidence; twice... this really does seem intentional.]
[I’m saying Chen Yue really is a classy person. She’s won Best Actress twice, and both times she got clout-jacked by Chi Xiaoman; she still didn’t buy a promo post to hit back.]
[How do you know she didn’t buy one? Maybe she hates Chi Xiaoman privately to death.]
[Why don’t you say Chi Xiaoman hates Chen Yue instead? She got hurt and lost so much blood and she’s still unconscious in the hospital; does she have to check the calendar to see whether Chen Yue wins Best Actress? I’ve got it now; every time Chen Yue is involved, Chi Xiaoman has to be the one taking the blame, right?]
[I think these two never have anything good happen whenever they collide. Good or bad, it always leaves both sides covered in mess.]
There was even a reply that directly posted a screenshot of a Weibo image: a gossip post from an unknown marketing account—
[Film Neon, original screenplay; unsurprisingly, another art film, a road movie, two female leads.
Director: Chi Xiaoman
Screenwriter: Lang Lang
Starring: Golden Horse Best Actress Chen Yue (front-runner for the Golden Image Best Actress award)
Filming begins in the second half of this year; shooting period: one year.]
This had been posted late last night and deleted in seconds. At first, not many people had seen it; everyone had just treated it as trash gossip. But as luck would have it, in less than twelve hours it had run into both Chi Xiaoman’s car crash and Chen Yue’s Best Actress win, and by now it had crossed a million reposts.
Chi Xiaoman looked at the gossip post with calm eyes; she didn’t even need to open the comments to know what the replies would be.
But perhaps because she had never seen these three names placed together before, she couldn’t control herself and still clicked in.
The replies below were exactly as she expected—
[...I’m saying, did Chen Yue owe Chi Xiaoman eight hundred million yuan in her last life or something? The first time she won Best Actress, Chi Xiaoman rode the hype with a Weibo post and got a polite “Thank you” in return; leaving it at that would have been fine. Now, when she finally wins Best Actress a second time, she gets dragged into more clout-chasing by this trash gossip.]
[Who’s this screenwriter? I’ve never even heard of her. What has she written?]
[Above, it’s obviously fake gossip and a fake name; if even the screenwriter’s name is made up, what kind of authenticity could there be?]
[Is it possible that even Chi Xiaoman herself doesn’t know about this?]
[I don’t believe Chi Xiaoman lacks that much self-awareness that she wouldn’t know she’d get mocked to death for this the moment the gossip was fabricated...]
[Trying to farm black-red popularity, I guess. Chi Xiaoman’s pulled this kind of move before.]
[hahahaha, I’m just waiting to see whether Chen Yue will fight back. At this point, I don’t believe she can really stay this Buddha-like.]
[I’ll just ask quietly: was the gossip really made up by Chi Xiaoman’s side? Are she and her company really this stupid? Do they still think black-red clout is a good thing these days?]
[Then I’ll say this quietly: Chi Xiaoman should be close to ending her contract with the company.]
[Tsk, no wonder. So the top star is leaving; of course the company has to strip a layer of skin off her first.]
After reading a few comments, the painkillers were starting to kick in.
Chi Xiaoman’s energy was fading. She put down her phone and met Fang A-Yun’s tentative gaze—
She smiled, her voice very light.
“Don’t worry. The movie will be made.”
In fact, that gossip post was half right.
The movie really was something Chi Xiaoman planned to make.
And her contract with the company really was close to expiring, which was what made her finally resolve to do this.
Some time ago,
she’d taken the script to a few producers she knew, but they still hadn’t worked out any results.
Then last night, the gossip post broke.
As for whose handiwork it was—
she of course knew.
It was just that, with her contract nearing its end and her schedule packed tight, she didn’t have the energy to make a fuss over this kind of thing.
What a pity.
Chen Yue had been dragged into her mess because of it.
The lead certainly couldn’t be Chen Yue.
Chi Xiaoman wasn’t that awful.
From the moment she took the project and script to look for producers, she knew that once this got out, she would absolutely be mocked to the heavens and back.
No one believed it was real, and no one believed she could really make a movie.
Even if she did end up filming it, who knew how many people would be waiting to judge every frame just for the spectacle.
Before making the decision, Chi Xiaoman had repeatedly confirmed that she could bear the worst possible outcome.
She just hadn’t thought that now, not only had Chen Yue been dragged into the stench of her mess, it had happened on this very day.
She didn’t know whether Chen Yue hated her even more now.
Maybe not.
Chi Xiaoman couldn’t imagine what Chen Yue would look like when hating someone.
In her memory, Chen Yue was always smiling.
Always tolerant and considerate.
She never lost her temper easily, and she never said out loud who she disliked.
And she was never disliked by anyone.
But it was precisely this kind of person.
Who had run into her.
Once or twice, and nothing good came of it.
The heavy rain gradually eased; the sound of rain grew softer, and the medicine began to spread through her body. Chi Xiaoman started to feel sleepy; her consciousness turned heavy.
She closed her eyes, and her hand slipped loose, the phone slowly dropping to the edge of the bed.
Fang A-Yun caught it for her.
She also tucked the blanket around her, and touched her forehead with those wrinkled hands.
Chi Xiaoman was almost asleep.
Still, she forced her lips up into a smile. “You should go sleep for a while too.”
Fang A-Yun didn’t move.
After saying that, Chi Xiaoman could no longer hold on. Listening to the rain and to Chen Yue’s somewhat distorted voice from the TV, she sank into sleep.
Maybe because so many people had mentioned Chen Yue to her today, Chen Yue’s voice on the TV had never disappeared.
She felt as if she might have dreamed of Chen Yue—
A run-down rental room, a narrow 1.2-meter bed, the sound of dripping water from a bathroom partitioned off with wooden boards, and harsh light outside.
Chen Yue looked at her through a layer of swaying green gauze.
She smiled at her, singing an old song in a soft, gentle voice while covering her ears and coaxing her to sleep:
“Just a gentle kiss has already moved my heart. A deep and lasting love has taught me to miss you to this day...”[1]
This had always been Chen Yue’s favorite song.
It was also the song Chi Xiaoman loved hearing Chen Yue sing the most.
In the past, she would always sing it when Chi Xiaoman woke up in the middle of the night. Back then, Chi Xiaoman never understood why Chen Yue was always so sleepless, still unable to sleep so late at night.
Now Chi Xiaoman hadn’t heard it in a very long time.
Not even in dreams.
But dreams were cruel; they didn’t satisfy her wishes just because she longed for them with all her strength, and they weren’t willing to last any longer for her sake.
Very soon,
she felt as though she had woken up.
In a daze, she heard Chen Yue on the TV speaking those lines she knew so well she could recite them backwards and forwards; she heard the light rain pattering outside the window; she heard footsteps passing by in the corridor; she heard Fang A-Yun get up and leave; and she heard a voice that was exceptionally familiar, clearly coming through—
“How is she?”
The voice was blurred, the tone warm, like the most ordinary kind of greeting.
Four words.
Chi Xiaoman jolted awake from the dream.
It was absolutely not any line from a movie.
It was Chen Yue.
She couldn’t have heard wrong.
And she couldn’t confuse reality with a dream.
In that instant, it felt as though all the blood in her body ran backward, forcing her into a panicked unease, like a limp pool of liquid frozen onto the hospital bed.
But that was the only sentence.
There were no more sounds outside the ward.
Fang A-Yun didn’t speak; she had never spoken much anyway.
Chen Yue also didn’t say anything else, perhaps carefully trying to understand the information Fang A-Yun had given her.
Chi Xiaoman blinked blankly on the bed, her pulse nearly bursting out of her chest.
But there was no movement outside the ward for a long while.
Only when Fang A-Yun closed the door and came back in, once again tucking the blanket around her, did Chi Xiaoman finally realize slowly—
So Chen Yue hadn’t come in.
Running into each other in the elevator, being forced to reveal herself because of her, then having to get off the elevator early because of her, and now even making a special trip to check on her; that was already Chen Yue being considerate enough.
If she really came in to greet her, what else could they possibly say to each other?
The frozen blood began flowing again; the noisy heat slowly ebbed away. Chi Xiaoman gradually loosened her fingers from the twisted bedsheet, forcing herself to exhale and stop agonizing over that ordinary greeting.
Fang A-Yun probably thought she was asleep, so after coming in she didn’t speak either, only turned the TV volume down a little.
Chi Xiaoman kept her eyes tightly shut as the cold sweat and self-imposed suffocation slowly faded. Maybe because the emotional swings had drained her, it wasn’t long before she sank into sleep again.
This time she didn’t dream.
And she didn’t hear any more noise.
When she woke again, it seemed the sky was bright; then again, maybe not. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window of the VIP ward, everything was gray and a little blue.
There was a silhouette standing with its back to her, vague and hazy. It should have been Fang A-Yun.
Chi Xiaoman felt thirsty. She laboriously parted her lips, about to ask her for a glass of water—
But before she could make a sound,
as if by telepathy, the silhouette suddenly turned around.
It was a woman.
She looked at her through a layer of green gauze behind the curtain, her long black hair swaying, her face impossible to make out.
Chi Xiaoman froze.
The woman paused for a moment, then walked slowly closer, and in the blur seemed to be smiling at her.
“Did you cut your hair?”
Her voice was hidden in the rain, low and soft.
“It looks pretty good.”
Later, whenever Chi Xiaoman recalled this reunion, she always felt that after so many years without any contact, Chen Yue’s opening line was truly baffling.
It sounded like small talk; it sounded like concern. So much so that Chi Xiaoman almost thought it was Chen Yue’s revenge on her.
Because ten years ago,
in the sweltering summer of 2013, a rental unit converted from an underground garage cost just four hundred yuan per person per month.
Chen Yue wore a pair of dark green thick-rimmed round glasses every day; her skin would turn red as soon as she got some sun, but whenever she passed an old goods market, she would linger under the blazing heat and spend time hunting down strange little things for Chi Xiaoman.
And Chi Xiaoman went out makeup-free every day to run around on production teams, developing eczema whenever the weather turned rainy. She also worried about Chen Yue, who had never had strong health and always coughed in the middle of the night, getting caught up in the choking fumes from the kitchen. Every time she cooked, she pushed Chen Yue out of the kitchen, but every time she made noodles, she would secretly add an extra egg for her.
Back then, they loved each other without asking what the future held, never looking back; later, they were forced toward the ending called separation.
In fact...
it counted as twice.
[Author’s Note]
I’m here, I’m here; I’ve brought our Xiaoman and A-Yue with me [glasses]. Is everyone still here? [kiss]
[1] The lyrics are from “The Moon Reflects My Heart.”