2023

【Thanks for taking me in last night】

On the way to the airport, Chi Xiaoman stared for a long time at the chat window where Chen Yue still hadn’t replied, then added another line.

Shen Baozhi had come to pick her up bright and early. She was still by her side, yawning, when she suddenly said, “Huh? Xiaoman, why do you have so many mosquito bites?”

Chen Yue still hadn’t replied. Maybe something had come up. Chi Xiaoman put her phone away too, then followed Shen Baozhi’s gaze down to the red welts on her arms and legs.

She was wearing very little for summer, and her skin was especially fair, so the mosquito bites stood out starkly.

Last night her mind had been a mess. She’d felt dizzy and lightheaded, and she hadn’t actually used the mosquito repellent Chen Yue had bought. By morning, she’d been bitten several times, the welts red and swollen.

“It’s fine,” Chi Xiaoman explained. “Mosquitoes really like me.”

“They look pretty serious,” Shen Baozhi said with concern. “Did you put any medicine on them?”

Chi Xiaoman paused for a moment.

She instinctively lifted a hand to cover them, but she still couldn’t hide them completely.

Shen Baozhi noticed and tactfully looked away. Then she smiled and said, “I used to get bitten by mosquitoes all the time too. There’s a medicine that works really well; I’ll have it air-freighted to Beijing for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Baozhi.” Chi Xiaoman rested a hand over the reddened bites, and the itch slowly started to rise.

Looking out at the cityscape flashing past the car window, she said softly, “But I think I probably did put something on them.”

“Probably?” Shen Baozhi looked confused.

Chi Xiaoman realized that sounded odd, but she didn’t explain.

She only smiled at her and nodded. “Right.”

Because even she couldn’t tell whether last night’s sensations had been a dream or reality.

If it had been a dream, then that made sense—she’d been in Chen Yue’s home, on a small bed not all that different from the one from years ago, and before falling asleep, all she’d been thinking about was Neon. It wasn’t strange that she’d dreamed of Chen Yue too.

If it hadn’t been a dream... Chi Xiaoman looked at the mosquito bites on her skin.

She felt a little at a loss.

Then that would mean Chen Yue had really gotten up in the middle of the night to put medicine on her.

Why?

Why be that good to her?

Would she have done the same for anyone else?

Or was it because, with those old feelings still lingering, she couldn’t help softening toward someone as cornered as she was now?

That was why, from the moment they met, Chen Yue had been so accommodating, so attentive, and had never once spoken harshly to her.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t dare, nor did she have the energy, to speculate and analyze Chen Yue’s behavior too much. But when she woke up today and saw the mosquito bites on her body, she couldn’t help doubting the dream she’d had last night.

At first, she’d looked at the bedroom door, still shut tight.

Then, through the long stretch of blankness and helplessness that followed, one thought kept circling back to her—

After so many years, was Chen Yue still being tormented by insomnia?

And then, with her sleeping there last night...

Would that make Chen Yue sleep better, or worse?

Chi Xiaoman felt it was obviously the latter.

So she could no longer fall asleep, and just stared blankly at that unopened bedroom door.

At seven o’clock, her phone received a WeChat message from Shen Baozhi, saying she’d come to pick her up in two and a half hours.

Chi Xiaoman was dazed for a while, then got up from Chen Yue’s sofa, folded the blanket she’d used, changed back into yesterday’s clothes, carefully collected the hair she’d shed, and put everything she’d used back where it belonged...

Two hours remained.

And by then, Chen Yue’s bedroom door was still tightly shut.

Only then did Chi Xiaoman truly understand that her arrival had indeed disturbed Chen Yue. Even if Chen Yue herself might not have thought so.

But after the state she’d been in yesterday, Chen Yue must have spent a great deal of energy taking care of her.

So what could she do for Chen Yue?

Two hours.

What else did she still have time to do that might lessen the disturbance she’d caused?

Chi Xiaoman wasn’t sure whether this line of thinking was odd. But during those two hours, she truly racked her brains, and in the end hurriedly ordered ingredients and the necessary tools to be delivered.

Delivery couldn’t come all the way to the door, so she had to walk to the property office to pick things up. When preparing the ingredients, it was easy to make clinking, clattering sounds, so she tried to keep every movement as light as possible.

Maybe Chen Yue had rested poorly last night; maybe her cold had worsened. In any case, Chi Xiaoman fumbled around carefully and still managed to boil pear soup and deep-fry the sweet potatoes. There was no movement at all from the bedroom.

She couldn’t help worrying.

But considering her own position, it wasn’t appropriate to enter Chen Yue’s private space.

So in the end, Chi Xiaoman quietly washed and put away all the cooking tools, wiped everything down, and tried to restore the kitchen as much as possible.

The pear soup needed to stay warm, but she couldn’t find any insulated container in Chen Yue’s house.

Then she found the thermos in her bag.

Washed it.

Poured the soup in.

Left the rest in the health kettle, and covered the plate of candied sweet potatoes with a dish.

Then she placed the thermos, the health kettle, and the bowl of candied sweet potatoes on the bar counter in order.

Fifteen minutes remained.

At that point, Chi Xiaoman sat stiffly on the sofa and waited, staring at the things neatly lined up on the counter, and began to regret it again—

Had she gone too far?

Would it scare Chen Yue?

Would it make Chen Yue misunderstand that she still had some hidden motive?

Would Chen Yue think she was trying to curry favor with her?

She spun through these chaotic thoughts for a while.

Then Chi Xiaoman decided to pour out the candied sweet potatoes. After all, it wasn’t good to eat something like that while sick.

She’d built herself a case to feel justified, and really did walk over, intending to dump the candied sweet potatoes into a trash bag to take with her—or put them into a takeout bag and eat them on the way.

But the instant her hand touched the bowl, she regretted it.

It was still warm.

The heat felt good against her fingertips.

Chi Xiaoman stared at the sweet potatoes soaked in syrup for a long time, then in a daze remembered long ago—how whenever Chen Yue was sick, the only thing she could manage to eat was candied sweet potatoes; how every time she finished them, she would narrow her eyes in satisfaction and come over to pat Chi Xiaoman’s head, praising her as a “great chef.”

After a moment of silence, Chi Xiaoman wordlessly put the candied sweet potatoes and the health kettle into the refrigerator.

She set them where they wouldn’t tip over the second the fridge door opened.

Then she closed the refrigerator.

And sat back down on the sofa.

No one was watching.

But she still sat properly out of habit.

She drifted there, waiting for Shen Baozhi to come, and kept staring for a long time at that lonely thermos on the counter.

She adjusted her posture many times during that time.

Always afraid Chen Yue might suddenly wake up.

Afraid she’d discover the candied sweet potatoes and pear soup in the fridge before Chi Xiaoman had even left.

But thankfully, even after Shen Baozhi messaged that she was already downstairs, there was still no movement from the bedroom door.

Chi Xiaoman stood, smoothed out every wrinkle in her clothes, then paused once more in front of the tightly shut bedroom door. She raised a hand, hesitated, and still chose not to knock.

Let Chen Yue sleep a little longer—that was what she wanted.

But just before she left, she turned back again.

To check whether she had missed any stray strand of hair that shouldn’t be there.

And once again saw that lonely thermos.

She also saw the room, the curtains drawn so tightly that not a single ray of sunlight could get in.

For some reason, she suddenly felt sad.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know whether it would feel awful for a person to stay in such a room for too long, and she also didn’t know whether everything she was seeing was intentional on Chen Yue’s part, or simply something Chen Yue didn’t care about at all—

the scarcely used cookware; the fridge stocked only with cold drinks; the house that looked gloomy and sunless; the dim lighting...

Maybe she was meddling too much.

Maybe she didn’t know her place.

But before leaving, Chi Xiaoman, who was always afraid of making mistakes and always afraid of burdening others, and who always received nothing but indulgence from Chen Yue, decided to be presumptuous for once.

She pressed her lips together and pulled open the floor-to-ceiling curtains that had been closed since she came in.

From the big bag, she found the sticker she’d caught a glimpse of last night, though she didn’t know why Chen Yue would buy something like that.

After some hesitation, Chi Xiaoman still picked a white little rabbit that didn’t seem all that suitable for Chen Yue.

Because the rabbit looked very happy, smiling brightly, its blinking motion lively and playful.

Compared with the smiles Chi Xiaoman had been able to give last night, it had so much more life and sincerity.

And thirty-year-old Chi Xiaoman, whose smile was not lively enough and not sincere enough, still stubbornly hoped—

At the very least, the next time Chen Yue inevitably shut herself away again, she would still have this little rabbit for company.

Of course, it would have been better if it hadn’t been pasted on by her. But Chi Xiaoman didn’t have any other way right now.

-

【So cute.】

By the time Chen Yue replied, Chi Xiaoman was in the airport lounge, trying groggily to catch up on sleep.

But she still couldn’t resist opening her phone and saw that Chen Yue had sent over a photo—

the thermos sat quietly on the bar counter, with the white little rabbit sticker pasted on it.

It was obvious the room was bright.

Sunlight was still reaching the edge of the counter, like a layer of shimmering golden gauze.

Chen Yue didn’t appear in the photo.

But Chi Xiaoman understood that drawing back the curtains and welcoming in the sunlight usually meant one thing—

Chen Yue had finally figured out what she needed to figure out, and had completely ended this period of locking herself away.

Not just paused it for the time being.

Chi Xiaoman let out a breath of relief for her.

Then typed back:

【I picked it randomly.】

When she saw the three dots indicating “the other party is typing,” she didn’t want Chen Yue to feel burdened, so she quickly added:

【You can tear it off anytime.】

If she looked at her own actions from a third-person perspective, Chi Xiaoman wouldn’t think very highly of herself either.

But she was herself; conflicted, prone to regret, always tense, and only by doing this could she feel safe. She would never become that generous, open, straightforward other version of herself.

After that she stared at her screen.

She was ready to send “It’s okay if you tear it off” again.

But Chen Yue’s reply had already popped up:

【Why would I tear it off?】

【It’s so cute】

Chi Xiaoman froze.

The airport lounge was quiet; there was no one else there besides her. So she stared at those two lines and could almost imagine the tone Chen Yue would use when saying them—

soft, indulgent, not annoyed at all. Maybe with a little playfulness, because she didn’t often use the word “cute.”

It made it impossible to feel unsafe around her.

Chi Xiaoman’s lashes fluttered.

She wanted to reply.

She also wanted to say “thank you.”

Not out of hypocrisy.

The feeling that rose up when she felt accepted was gratitude; that was her true reaction.

Then she realized she’d said those words too many times. Chen Yue might not be able to feel her sincerity through them anymore.

So she sat in a daze for a long time.

Then, afraid of missing the moment while the typing dots were still there, she finally gathered the courage to choose the most honest reply.

【Thank you, thank you.】

And Chen Yue’s answer came faster than expected.

And more formally too—

【You’re welcome.】

Even the “thank you” she hadn’t liked much yesterday had been accepted.

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t think of a single reason to dislike this woman.

She stared blankly at the chat window, not knowing whether she still needed to reply. Chen Yue seemed to have considered the fact that she was about to board, and took the initiative to end the conversation:

【Have a safe trip】

And Chi Xiaoman’s repeated “don’t eat too many candied sweet potatoes” never got sent.

Her final reply to Chen Yue was just “Okay.”

Chi Xiaoman ended the conversation and boarded the plane as the announcements rang out. Once the plane took off and leveled out, she looked out at the clouds and suddenly remembered that on her flight from Beijing to Hong Kong, she’d been in such pain that a flight attendant had asked whether she needed help. But on the way back, it seemed she’d softened her rigid impression of this city, and become more at ease.

Though maybe that was just an illusion too. After all, she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion during the flight, and even the dreams she had were only a few blurry fragments—

the Chen Yue she’d first met, standing in the alley and smiling beautifully at her, telling her her name was Chen Tong.

the Chen Yue who locked herself away, curled up and exhausted, as if she’d gone to some far-off corner of outer space to travel through the stars alone.

the Chen Yue who, every time she came around after overthinking herself into a dead end, would give Chi Xiaoman a hug.

At those moments, the woman would lean close to her ear and ask a question that didn’t sound like something Chen Yue would ever ask—

Xiaoman, will you always be by my side?

The Chen Yue of those moments was rare.

She was vulnerable, finally willing to show someone what she wanted, and no longer so strong.

Like a tree whose hard bark had been peeled back to reveal the soft wood inside.

And Chi Xiaoman was usually very patient, but she also felt heartache for Chen Yue every time she put herself through this, so she could only pat her back and then pretend to be very unsympathetic as she said, “If you do this again next time, then I absolutely won’t make candied sweet potatoes for you!”

After that, Chen Yue would be silent for a while, then hold her even tighter, as if laughing at her, and say softly,

“So which time was it that you didn’t make them?”

The dream suddenly ended.

It didn’t give her any chance to react.

Chi Xiaoman opened her eyes with difficulty.

She felt very tired.

Her heart was beating quickly too, and then she realized the plane was descending, about to land in Beijing.

Beijing without Chen Yue.

-

The two days in Hong Kong had been exhausting, and the whole team had been called back by the company. After leaving the airport, Chi Xiaoman could only take a taxi back to her place.

Since she didn’t know exactly when she’d be back, she hadn’t contacted Fang A-Yun in advance; she wanted the older woman to get a little more sleep while she still had time off.

By the time she arrived, it was already afternoon.

Chi Xiaoman returned home.

When she opened the door, there was naturally no one inside.

Maybe it was an illusion, but she felt like the house seemed even bigger than it had two days ago.

So even after the sunlight came pouring in, it still felt empty.

Chi Xiaoman spent most of the year away filming and didn’t have much sense of belonging to this house. In fact, every time she came back, it felt unfamiliar.

She always felt she shouldn’t be returning to such a bright, open place; instead, she should be going back to that basement room that cost four hundred yuan a month per person, and buying vegetables at the nearby wet market that got much cheaper by nightfall.

Coming home, carrying the pots, bowls, and pans outside, frying two dishes in the open air, then bringing them back in and covering them with bowls. Riding her electric scooter, helmet hanging from one hand, humming a tune as she slowly went to pick up Chen Yue after wrap.

She stood at the door for a while, dazed.

Then Chi Xiaoman barely managed to recover some sense of familiarity with the house. Thinking Fang A-Yun might be taking a nap, she turned toward the kitchen to look for something to eat.

It wasn’t especially surprising; there was already a covered meal of four dishes and a soup sitting on the table.

Chi Xiaoman touched the edge of a bowl.

It was still warm.

Maybe Fang A-Yun had worried she might suddenly come back, worried she’d be hungry, so she’d made the meal and gotten up several times to reheat it.

Fang A-Yun always did this.

Chi Xiaoman sat down softly.

She lifted the lids off the dishes.

Then, feeling rather at a loss, she stared blankly at the untouched four dishes and one soup.

Only after a while did she slowly begin eating with her chopsticks.

Her appetite was small now, and she couldn’t possibly finish that much.

Fang A-Yun always worried she wasn’t getting enough nutrition.

Even if Chi Xiaoman couldn’t finish it, Fang A-Yun would still try to make more dishes for her at every meal, and then whatever Chi Xiaoman couldn’t eat, Fang A-Yun would save for herself to eat slowly at home.

And because Chi Xiaoman was away for so long, Fang A-Yun tried hard not to let her eat the same dishes every time she came back.

Chi Xiaoman ate a few bites in silence.

Then Fang A-Yun came out of the bedroom—she wasn’t deaf or mute. The doctor had said she simply didn’t want to speak. So her hearing was especially sharp, and she could tell the moment Chi Xiaoman came home.

“Did I wake you?” Chi Xiaoman hurriedly put down her chopsticks. “I can eat by myself. Go back to sleep.”

Fang A-Yun shook her head.

She didn’t say anything.

She just walked over quietly.

Pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, apparently planning to keep her company while she finished this lunch after coming home.

Knowing Fang A-Yun always insisted on eating with her, Chi Xiaoman said nothing more; she only forced herself to eat a few more bites. When she truly couldn’t take another mouthful, she put down her chopsticks and smiled at Fang A-Yun.

“It’s delicious, Auntie A-Yun.”

Fang A-Yun looked at what she’d left behind. Perhaps noticing she’d barely eaten, she frowned slightly; in the end, though, there was nothing she could say to her, and she only sighed while looking at her.

“I ate a lot already,” Chi Xiaoman explained.

Fang A-Yun shook her head and cleared away the dishes.

Chi Xiaoman wanted to help.

But then Fang A-Yun seemed to remember something.

Suddenly she pressed her down.

Then she found something from the little pocket sewn into the inside of her undershirt—Wang Aimei had the same habit. So the first time Chi Xiaoman saw Fang A-Yun do this, she’d found it oddly comforting.

Fang A-Yun rummaged in the inner pocket for a while.

She took out a cloth bundle, opened it layer by layer, and inside was a passbook.

She smoothed out the folded corners on the passbook.

Then handed it to Chi Xiaoman with both hands.

“What is this?”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t take it.

She curved her eyes and smiled. “So Auntie A-Yun thinks I’m a good girl and wants to reward me for finishing my meal?”

Fang A-Yun held the passbook out to her, then stared silently into her eyes.

Chi Xiaoman thought she looked very serious, so she subconsciously took it, opened it to glance inside, and then froze.

A few seconds later, she quietly closed the passbook again and smiled at Fang A-Yun. “Auntie A-Yun, so you’re actually this rich?”

Fang A-Yun looked at her.

Then, very slowly, she typed something into her phone.

She showed it to Chi Xiaoman.

“Xiaoman, I want to invest in you.”

The smile at the corners of Chi Xiaoman’s mouth stiffened.

Her gaze dropped.

She stared at that precious passbook, hidden for so many years in Fang A-Yun’s inner pocket, for a long time, then smiled and said softly, “Auntie A-Yun, you’ve even heard that I can’t find investors?”

Fang A-Yun shook her head.

Then she pointed again to the words on the phone screen.

The same sentence.

Xiaoman, I want to invest in you.

Chi Xiaoman felt a sting in her nose.

She didn’t dare say that the money Fang A-Yun had wasn’t even a drop in the bucket as far as a film’s budget went.

But Fang A-Yun had followed her all these years, and her income was basically just the salary Chi Xiaoman paid her.

And when she’d just seen the number in the passbook, she understood that Fang A-Yun probably hadn’t spent much on herself all these years to save so much.

“Auntie A-Yun.”

Not wanting Fang A-Yun to worry too much, Chi Xiaoman sniffled.

She pushed the passbook back, then smiled at Fang A-Yun with deliberate ease. “I have a lot of money too.”

Fang A-Yun looked at her for a while.

Then she put her phone away.

Typed again.

When she held it up this time, the words had changed to—

“Xiaoman, I want to invest in the film.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

She lifted her head and met Fang A-Yun’s gaze.

Pressed her lips together.

She wanted to try persuading her again.

But Fang A-Yun was very stubborn; she also seemed to be getting anxious, and pointed at the words on the phone.

Afraid she would get worked up and make herself ill, Chi Xiaoman could only temporarily accept the passbook.

And in her haste, she hurried over and hugged her too.

When she felt Fang A-Yun’s breathing gradually steady, Chi Xiaoman patted her back and said softly, “You’ve worked hard, Auntie A-Yun.”

It took Fang A-Yun a while to recover.

She no longer got as agitated as before, and tried hard to calm herself down. She also patted Chi Xiaoman’s back in return.

The argument with Fang A-Yun didn’t last long. That night, Chi Xiaoman carefully put away Fang A-Yun’s passbook.

She thought about it for a long time.

In the end, she decided to keep the passbook for Fang A-Yun.

And she also decided to add Fang A-Yun’s name to the final list of film investors.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to accept a single bit of kindness.

It was just that if Fang A-Yun put all those years of savings into it, she couldn’t be sure.

Nor could she guarantee that the Neon she ended up filming would satisfy Fang A-Yun.

So she could only choose this somewhat less aboveboard method.

But it was fine.

Chi Xiaoman had already done far too many things that weren’t entirely aboveboard; this might just be one very small thing among them, and she hoped Fang A-Yun wouldn’t blame her too much in the end.

Still, the film was indeed much more difficult than she’d imagined.

Although she’d prepared a great deal before making up her mind—including watching film analyses whenever she had time, and over the course of several years, whenever she happened to have a break, taking every related class she could fit in.

Whenever she was on set and had time, she would watch the monitor, and work hard to learn things from the director, producer, and screenwriter.

Then, based on her understanding of the characters, she repeatedly refined the script Lang Lang had left behind...

Even so, she didn’t know whether any of it would ultimately be useful, or whether it would truly help her make Neon well.

But filming Neon had nearly become an obsession.

Back when the idea first came to her, she’d thought that whatever the result, she could bear it herself.

But now.

Only now did she suddenly realize that this had never been something she could shoulder alone.

Could the young producer Shen Baozhi, who’d been running around for her, ultimately get the return she deserved? Could the top actress Chen Yue’s fearless commitment at such a critical moment avoid being wasted?

Could Fang A-Yun, who was fifty this year and wanted to support her, and whose support was by no means insignificant, get the result she wanted?

And even the art, cinematography, production, other actors, the whole team... every person, hundreds of people who could fill a large lecture hall, would eventually pour their hearts into this film, and it would by no means be as simple as taking money and doing a job.

As the person insisting on making this happen, Chi Xiaoman would need to be responsible for every single person in the crew.

She couldn’t afford even one moment of carelessness.

All she could do was make the film well; in fact, she had to make it even better than she’d imagined before.

Which also meant that from this moment on, every step had to be handled carefully. One mistake, and she could fall into an abyss.

At that thought, Chi Xiaoman let out a breath and opened her phone.

She forwarded several business cards from investors she’d already contacted and thought might have some hope to Shen Baozhi:

【Baozhi, sorry to bother you so late.

These are a few investors I’ve contacted before. Do you know any of them?

If you do, we can also arrange to meet them sometime in the next few days.

If it’s too late, you can reply tomorrow~

Thank you~】

And Shen Baozhi just happened to be online; her reply came quickly：【No problem.】

She also showed proper concern for her:

【Xiaoman, you worked hard coming to Hong Kong this time. I didn’t expect they’d have you drink so much and then not have anywhere for you to stay.】

Chi Xiaoman had originally thought that with the distinctive style of the projects she’d signed onto, Shen Baozhi would also be a very particular person.

But compared with “particular,” she had more of the shrewd flexibility that came with being a businessperson. Of course, that wasn’t meant as criticism.

Because Chi Xiaoman also saw Shen Baozhi’s next message, sent promptly afterward:

【If you don’t want to go to this kind of event next time, I can go alone.】

Strictly speaking, Shen Baozhi was younger than her this year too, yet she was already able to handle all kinds of banquets and occasions with ease.

But that still wasn’t a reason for Chi Xiaoman to let the younger woman go out alone and fight this battle by herself with no sense of guilt.

She replied:

【Please be sure to come with me】

Shen Baozhi typed for a while before answering：【Xiaoman, are you sure?】

【Sure.】 Chi Xiaoman replied, then worried Shen Baozhi might hesitate because of how she’d handled things last time, so she explained：【This won’t happen again next time, I promise.】

【It’s not because of that】 Shen Baozhi replied quickly this time：【I was worried you wouldn’t like this kind of setting. Since you think it’s fine, I’ll be sure to contact you in time next time too.】

Once she got the answer she wanted, Chi Xiaoman breathed out in relief.

But after that, Shen Baozhi sent another new message:

【Xiaoman, I’m very happy to work with you.】

Chi Xiaoman stared for a long time, maybe because she hadn’t received good feedback on this matter for so long that she couldn’t react right away. But in the end, she still gave a brief reply:

【Me too.】

Her conversation with Shen Baozhi ended there. Chi Xiaoman then logged into Weibo with a secondary account.

She didn’t find any leak in the hot searches about her and Chen Yue’s meeting this time.

She also didn’t see Chen Yue, or anything related to the film, on the trending list.

That made her shoulders relax a little.

There were, however, some tags about her contract termination with the company, and some ads and short pieces she’d shot before.

But Chi Xiaoman didn’t pay much attention to those.

Instead, she logged into another community account and checked whether the post questioning whether Chen Yue had ever been to Nepal had been updated.

This was already part of her normal life.

The original poster hadn’t replied.

But a few people watching the drama had responded to her “there’s nothing to not believe” comment—

【How do you know? You went with her?】

【It’s only because it’s Chen Yue.

If this kind of thing were hanging on Chi Xiaoman, just look at how ferocious the hot searches would be. If there weren’t a paparazzi crew hanging on her 24/7 live-streaming, analyzing whether what she ate for breakfast today had one more egg than the local teachers, that’d already be pretty good.】

【Hahahahaha, at the end of the day it’s just because she’s a flop.】

【I get it.

The moment Chen Yue shows up, they have to drag Chi Xiaoman out to be used as a foil. That’s how it is when a flop tries to leech off a top star, huh.】

【Fine, a dual Best Actress winner has turned into a flop in your Xiaoman fans’ mouths? Chi Xiaoman, look at the people you’ve raised—just how foul-mouthed are they all?】

【Hahahaha, I’m a hated Xiaoman fan again now】

Just mentioning her name made the words in the thread turn much harsher and sharper.

Chi Xiaoman stared at them for a while, very clear that she actually had no power to change this situation.

She could only pray Chen Yue wouldn’t see it.

And now Chen Yue was still coming onto her set.

It was unavoidable.

In the future, Chen Yue would receive even harsher, sharper voices.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t want to regret it, and even less did she want Chen Yue to be disappointed in her. The only way she could think of to make Chen Yue suffer a little less damage was to keep her appearance absolutely secret until the film started shooting, and after filming began, minimize her own visibility and keep production as low-key as possible.

But because she was used to hiding behind the screen, taking off the hat that belonged to Chi Xiaoman and using an identity that wasn’t hers to make rather ineffective rebuttals...

So on this night flying back to Beijing from Hong Kong, she was still tucked under the covers, yawning, forcing her eyelids open, and facing those unpleasant comments head-on, replying one by one:

【Chen Yue didn’t leech off anyone】

【Chen Yue isn’t a flop】

She opened a new account, changed to a suitable avatar and bio, and typed out word by word—

【Chen Yue and I were university classmates. She’s a very good person. When things weren’t going well for her, she would go donate money. She really is kind, and she really is a good person, the kind who truly would go to Nepal as a volunteer】

She might be mocked for being inarticulate, or be thought to sound too flat and robotic in her replies. But because she could get a brief breath of relief from those dense walls of text, and secure a moment where she didn’t have to be Chi Xiaoman, she wasn’t tired.

And she wasn’t hurt by those words either; nor did she get angry and end up thinking worse of the people who liked Chen Yue.

Because she could still choose to be that clumsy, slightly stupid Chen Yue supporter with the default white avatar.

Urgently, loudly, telling those voices:

【Please believe me, Chen Yue really is a very, very good actress.】

If Chen Yue used this app and happened to see this post, she might once again discover traces of the twenty-year-old Chi Xiaoman hidden in these scattered words.

And she would also discover that this might be the only moment of courage left in the thirty-year-old Chi Xiaoman—the one who was not as brave as she used to be, not as vivid as she used to be, and no longer needed any hesitation.

But Chen Yue would never know.

And Chi Xiaoman hoped she never would.

【Author’s Note】

Update on time for Little Neon’s twenty-third day [sunglasses]