2013

“Chen Yue, are you all right?”

Even though she knew perfectly well it wasn’t the right time.

On that typhoon day, after rushing from the airport to see Chen Yue for the very first time, the first thing Chi Xiaoman wanted to ask was still that question.

The wind and rain lashed around them; the sky was dark and low. Chen Yue held the umbrella over her, and the expression on her face was hard to read—whether she was more surprised by Chi Xiaoman’s sudden appearance, or more pained to see her soaked through and still coming to find her.

She stepped closer, tilting the umbrella farther toward Chi Xiaoman and shielding her from more of the rain blowing in from outside.

Chen Yue hesitated for a long time and didn’t ask what had happened, or why she had suddenly run over.

She only reached out very gently and brushed the wet strands of hair off Chi Xiaoman’s face.

“Xiaoman.”

She looked at her for a long time beneath the umbrella; her voice was swallowed by the wind and rain, but it still carried softness and patience.

“Let’s go inside first, okay?”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t like standing out in a typhoon with someone, and she also couldn’t tell whether Chen Yue was actually all right.

She parted her lips, found that she couldn’t refuse, and once again let Chen Yue lead her back to where she was staying in silence.

Compared to the last time she had been drunkenly hauled away, this wasn’t much better. Chi Xiaoman had become a drenched, miserable little wreck in the typhoon, and she couldn’t understand why she always seemed to make such a mess of herself in front of Chen Yue.

But Chen Yue had always been considerate.

She didn’t immediately ask about how bad Chi Xiaoman looked.

Instead, she first found a clean towel and clothes, and told her to dry off and change.

While Chi Xiaoman was hiding in the bathroom cleaning herself up, Chen Yue was busy going in and out of the kitchen, making her a pot of brown sugar ginger tea.

By the time Chi Xiaoman slowly came out, she saw Chen Yue, who had once known almost nothing about the kitchen, standing by the stove and staring blankly at the ginger tea bubbling in the pot.

Maybe she heard Chi Xiaoman come out.

Chen Yue looked up, and the smile in her eyes spread like steam.

“Are you cold?”

After looking at Chi Xiaoman’s thin T-shirt for a moment, as if considering something, she asked again, “Do you want to put on a little more?”

Her voice was especially gentle.

Chi Xiaoman shook her head and walked over to the stove. Looking at the brown sugar ginger tea bubbling away, she suddenly lowered her voice.

After hesitating for a moment and seeing that Chen Yue didn’t seem to react, she asked softly, “Is it ready?”

“Hm?” Chen Yue looked a little surprised. Realizing what she meant, she turned off the heat, then looked at her again, smiling as she explained, “I haven’t really used the kitchen before.”

“Mm.” Maybe because she’d been out in the rain.

Chi Xiaoman heard the slight nasal quality in her own voice, making her sound soft and almost petulant.

“The bubbling stops all of a sudden when it’s done.”

As soon as she said it, she realized how that sounded, and quickly shut her mouth.

Chen Yue probably hadn’t noticed.

She was dealing with the kettle that had just boiled on the stove, and she also found a cup, washed it clean, then poured the steaming brown sugar ginger tea into it.

After she finished pouring it, Chi Xiaoman instinctively reached out to take the cup.

But just as her hand extended, the woman suddenly reached out and gripped her wrist.

Maybe it was because of the brown sugar ginger tea.

Those fingers, usually cold no matter the season, had become very warm.

Right now, they were pressed against the inside of her wrist.

Soft, warm, and intimate, wrapping around her.

Chi Xiaoman froze instantly.

Chen Yue also turned her face to look at her.

As if noticing what she had done, the palm resting against Chi Xiaoman’s wrist loosened slightly, though it still didn’t fully let go.

“Hot.”

Her voice was soft and drifted into Chi Xiaoman’s ear through the steam rising from the tea.

Chi Xiaoman came to herself, lowered her eyes, and answered a little tightly, “Okay.”

Maybe seeing her agree, and making sure she wouldn’t reach over without thinking, Chen Yue finally let go of her hand.

“This cup doesn’t have a handle. Don’t just reach straight over and grab it.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t say anything.

In silence, she lowered the hand that had just been held at her side, then used her other hand to lightly rest on top of it, cupping the lingering warmth Chen Yue had left there, the heat making her feel flushed all over.

“Go sit down first; I’ll bring it over.”

That was what Chen Yue said.

Then she smiled, turned around, and went to find a cup with a handle on her own.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but Chi Xiaoman kept feeling that tonight, Chen Yue was unusually gentle.

As if afraid of startling her, her tone even sounded like she was coaxing her.

Maybe she had misunderstood and thought something had happened to her, which was why she had come running in such heavy rain.

Chi Xiaoman wanted to explain, but by the time Chen Yue had washed another cup clean, poured the ginger tea for her again, and finally set the brown sugar ginger tea on the table, she had drifted off, missing the chance.

By the time she came back to herself, she was already sitting face-to-face with Chen Yue at the bar.

The typhoon was drawing near. Outside, the wind and rain were fierce; inside, the lights were bright. Chen Yue sat upright beneath the warm yellow glow, and she looked especially warm as a whole.

“Don’t say anything yet. Drink the ginger tea first.” Chen Yue must have noticed that she wanted to explain something, because that was what she said.

The steam from the ginger tea rose to Chi Xiaoman’s eyes.

The heat spread to the corners of her eyes, making them sting a little; but because she could basically confirm that Chen Yue hadn’t been hurt, she relaxed slightly and instinctively hid her eyes behind the steam before saying, “Okay. Thank you.”

“Mm, no rush.”

Maybe to keep her from feeling pressured.

Chen Yue also poured herself a cup of ginger tea.

She sat quietly across from her and slowly began to drink.

After going through rain, brown sugar ginger tea really did warm you from the inside out once it reached your stomach.

And through the rising steam, it also let you feel that the person sitting opposite you was looking at you with the same warmth.

Chi Xiaoman usually ate very slowly and in small bites. But this time, afraid of wasting Chen Yue’s time, she’d planned to drink quickly from the start.

After drinking several mouthfuls, Chen Yue, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly asked, “Just me looking at you like this—does it put a lot of pressure on you?”

Her voice was very light; it wasn’t an accusation. On the contrary, because her tone was so soft, it sounded almost like she was being vulnerable, or doubting herself.

Chi Xiaoman froze.

After a while.

She came to herself.

First she put down the cup, then looked into Chen Yue’s eyes and said reflexively, “No, I…”

Maybe Chen Yue’s eyes were always too accepting.

Too much like a mirror, one that let a person see straight through themselves at a glance.

Chi Xiaoman lowered her gaze.

Not daring to look too long, she said, “I’m just used to it.”

Chen Yue looked at her.

Chi Xiaoman tightened both hands around the porcelain cup. The temperature of the ginger tea was just right, hot enough to warm her fingers.

Then she smiled a little.

“It’s not that I feel pressured. I just don’t want to waste your time, so I wanted to drink it quickly.”

And I always want to do a little better in front of you. But because of that very thought, I end up seeming even less at ease.

After saying that, she looked at Chen Yue’s face; it seemed blurry, and she also felt lost.

So she lowered her head and lightly scraped her fingertip along the side of the cup.

She didn’t drink anymore.

Chen Yue looked at her, and no one knew what she was thinking.

A long time later, she finally let out a soft sigh that was neither heavy nor light. “That habit isn’t very good.”

Rarely, Chen Yue gave a negative assessment of her behavior.

Chi Xiaoman opened her lips, wanting to say something, to fill in the response she should properly give after such a comment—but Chen Yue went on,

“Because it doesn’t waste time.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Then Chen Yue took a sip of ginger tea, looked at her in the lamplight, and said gently,

“I have plenty of time. Drink slowly.”

“Okay.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t dare look into Chen Yue’s eyes anymore.

Maybe it was also because every promise she made to Chen Yue, she wanted to do her best to keep.

After that, she relaxed a little and slowly finished the tea sip by sip.

But even so, Chen Yue didn’t seem especially pleased that she was being obedient.

Only after Chi Xiaoman finished drinking did she keep looking at her with an expression Chi Xiaoman couldn’t understand.

She must have been looking at her like that for a long time already.

It looked like confusion, and also like helplessness.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know why, but she couldn’t bear Chen Yue’s gaze like that.

So she took the initiative and smiled.

She also explained why she had come over: “I just wanted to come see whether you were all right.”

“Why did you think I wasn’t?” Chen Yue asked.

“I…” Chi Xiaoman studied Chen Yue’s expression. After confirming that there was only confusion on her face and nothing being hidden, she let out a breath again. After a pause, she chose her words carefully.

“Earlier, Shen Baozhi answered a call. It should have been from your manager. She said…”

“She said what?” Chen Yue frowned, sensing that something was off.

Chen Yue really didn’t know.

The string in Chi Xiaoman’s head tightened again.

“She said if we didn’t find the actor for Xiaoyu as soon as possible, you’d quit and go make a foreign film.”

“She said that to you?” Chen Yue’s furrowed brow didn’t relax.

“Yes.” Chi Xiaoman gripped the cup harder. The remaining warmth pressed faintly against the pulse in her palm.

“You… you didn’t know about this?”

Chen Yue sighed. “I guess I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Chi Xiaoman was confused.

Chen Yue didn’t rush to explain.

She first lowered her head and took a sip of ginger tea. Then she looked back up at Chi Xiaoman, pausing for a long time as if thinking about what wording would make this easier for her to accept.

“I mentioned it to her once before.”

“I had an actor I recommended for Xiaoyu. But you definitely wouldn’t agree.”

“At the time, she said she’d help me think of a way.”

Although she spoke slowly, she still didn’t give Chi Xiaoman a chance to interrupt.

“I just didn’t expect she’d come up with this kind of way.”

Her apology was carried in the last sentence.

It took Chi Xiaoman a little time to sort through the chain of events. Her first reaction wasn’t anger, but complete relief, and even a bit of gratitude.

“So it was just a misunderstanding?”

So Chen Yue hadn’t been forced into making a decision she didn’t want to make. So Chen Yue could still go make the film she wanted to make. So Chen Yue… was still as free as Chi Xiaoman had hoped she would be?

“It was a misunderstanding.”

But Chen Yue didn’t seem as relaxed as she did. “Sorry. I didn’t know she would do that.”

She looked at her across the bar.

After a long while, she said hesitantly, “Chi Xiaoman.”

“Mm?” Chi Xiaoman looked up, her expression genuinely lighter now.

Chen Yue said softly,

“So you rushed over on purpose because she said that?”

As if for emphasis, the moment those words fell, the wind and rain outside grew even louder with a booming roar; there was even the sound of lightning and thunder, underscoring the fact that this was something that could have been cleared up over a phone call, instead of someone racing through the rain to the neighborhood downstairs in a typhoon.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t want Chen Yue to think she was overreacting, so she instinctively lifted her cup and tried to take a sip of the brown sugar ginger tea as cover.

But then she realized her cup was already empty. After a moment of silence, she smiled slowly and said,

“It wasn’t really on purpose.”

Not wanting her explanation to sound too flimsy, she searched desperately for another reason. “It just happened that I also had something else to do.”

“Is that so?” Chen Yue looked at her; it was impossible to tell whether she believed her.

“Of course.” Chi Xiaoman said this while clutching the empty cup.

Chen Yue sighed and suddenly took the empty cup from her hand.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know what she was going to do.

She cooperated instinctively.

She placed the cup into Chen Yue’s hand.

And when Chen Yue stood up, Chi Xiaoman also instinctively sat very properly on the bar stool, bringing her knees together.

She waited for Chen Yue’s arrangements.

She had said she could finally breathe easy, no longer needing to worry that Chen Yue had little say in her career.

Yet at the same time, she realized—

It was a typhoon night.

Three hours ago, she’d missed the last flight. She didn’t know whether she could still book a hotel for the next two days if she stayed in Hong Kong.

Lost in thought, Chi Xiaoman wanted to take out her phone and book a hotel, only to remember that she had changed clothes and her phone wasn’t on her.

She was just about to go look for it when Chen Yue already came back with a fresh cup of ginger tea and set it in front of her.

“You got caught in so much rain just now. Have another cup.”

Chi Xiaoman had no choice but to sit down again and stare blankly at the ginger tea that had been handed to her.

Did she regret rushing over?

Not really.

But she did regret being seen by Chen Yue again.

Was she worried about where she’d spend the typhoon night?

She was.

But because she’d been in the rain, her head still wasn’t clear enough.

She still wanted to take this chance to finish the ginger tea Chen Yue had poured for her, to be on good terms with Chen Yue, without conflict and without confrontation, and without the ten years between them, as if they were just two ordinary actresses exchanging stories about the past and the choices they had made in their careers.

“Thank you.” Taking the ginger tea from Chen Yue, Chi Xiaoman said it again.

This time, Chen Yue didn’t mind her repeated “thank you.” She only replied, “You’re welcome.”

Her fingertip rubbed lightly against the cup.

Then she said softly,

“Xiaoman, I’m doing very well.”

Chi Xiaoman paused, then smiled. “That’s good.”

Chen Yue stopped for a moment, however, and didn’t leave the topic there.

“I wasn’t threatened, and I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. Although this misunderstanding happened, my manager may have given you a very bad impression.”

“I also need to apologize to you on her behalf for this. But don’t misunderstand; she’s actually a pretty good person. She never disrespects my choices; it’s just that sometimes she acts very decisively.”

“I understand.” Chi Xiaoman’s smile remained at the corner of her mouth. “Actually, being a manager is hard too. If you don’t think of more methods, don’t have some means, how are you supposed to protect your artist in a place like this?”

Maybe Chi Xiaoman’s greatest strength was that she had an extremely delicate sense of empathy, one that could understand everyone’s position to the greatest extent, and the behavior they chose while standing in that position.

But that might also be her biggest flaw now.

Because her empathy was too strong, she was more easily hurt in this circle.

She became someone Chen Yue no longer knew, and no longer dared to know.

“Xiaoman.”

Which was why, before they met again, Chen Yue had thought she still carried resentment and blame toward her; and because she didn’t want to be in the weaker position, she’d instinctively hidden all her resentment and blame.

But once they were truly face-to-face, she couldn’t help treating the current her more carefully.

She wanted to change, but remained lost all the same, afraid that her closeness would also become the biggest source of pressure for Chi Xiaoman.

In the end, she could only hope that the two cups of hot ginger tea she had poured for her after the downpour would still be hot.

“I’ve been doing very well.”

Maybe only now were they finally starting to talk about the nine years they had been apart.

At first, Chi Xiaoman showed a look of confusion, as if she didn’t know what kind of response she should give.

Then.

She began to lift the corners of her lips, half-smiling and not quite smiling.

But as if realizing that, she forced herself to relax.

In the end, she managed a smile that looked genuinely sincere.

“That’s good.”

She also repeated it without thinking.

“That’s good.”

And at that moment—

The decision Chen Yue had originally been hesitating over in her heart was finally settled.

Because she realized she couldn’t just watch Chi Xiaoman become like this and, because she refused to accept being in the weaker position, continue to ignore it in a way that didn’t hurt.

And because she herself had always stood outside the glass jar, never being able to give Chi Xiaoman much sense of security.

So.

When Chi Xiaoman seemed a little flustered under her gaze and hurriedly tried to stand up, saying she should leave, Chen Yue spoke first.

“Xiaoman, can you stay and watch a movie with me?”

Because she knew her own strengths, she softened her voice as much as possible and chose a slightly roundabout approach.

At the same time, she was also glad that her biggest strength was that she had a lot of patience.

-

Outside, lightning flashed and thunder rolled; rain poured down in sheets. Chi Xiaoman understood that Chen Yue was probably offering her this abrupt request as a way to keep her here without making her feel too awkward.

The rain before the typhoon was coming down hard, almost like a roar from heaven.

In this situation, if Chi Xiaoman wanted to preserve her crumbling self-respect, not stand there and be taken in by Chen Yue again in such a sorry state, and leave with dignity and grace, she didn’t have many options.

So after a long silence, all she could do was smile.

She also said to Chen Yue, “Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chen Yue said it again.

As if she were declaring her determination every time—

From now on, every one of Chi Xiaoman’s out-of-place “thank yous” would get a “you’re welcome” from her.

“I was already watching it before you came; there’s only half an hour left. Do you want to start over and watch it with me, or continue from here?” After bringing her into the projection room, Chen Yue asked.

Chi Xiaoman sat down rather cautiously at the corner of the sofa. After clearly seeing the paused frame in the middle of the screen, she stiffened for a moment and said softly, “Let’s just keep watching.”

The projection room wasn’t large and didn’t have much decoration. Aside from the projected image on the white wall, there was only a blue sofa placed in the center. It wasn’t very comfortable to lie on; maybe Chen Yue had never wanted her to think of watching a movie as indulgence rather than work just because it was too comfortable.

Chen Yue’s standards for herself really were that high.

But perhaps considering Chi Xiaoman, she’d also brought out a cushion and a blanket separately, explaining, “I don’t like having too many things around the house. Cover yourself a little first.”

“Okay.”

Chi Xiaoman agreed, taking the cushion and blanket. She held them a little stiffly in her arms, then belatedly remembered something. Pressing her lips together, she still asked,

“You just said you had an actor in mind. Why didn’t you come tell me directly in the first place?”

And why did you think I wouldn’t agree?

Did you think it went against the agreement we made before?

If so, Chi Xiaoman felt she needed to make it clear to Chen Yue that she had completely given up any idea of acting in Neon. To be honest, although Shen Baozhi had brought it up with her in a desperate attempt to grab at straws, she still hadn’t changed her mind.

It’s true that an actor’s job is to know how to play characters completely contrary to one’s own behavior, attitude, and beliefs.

But in reality, most actors most of the time choose, or are forced to choose, to stay within their comfort zone. There are many reasons: the market, capital’s choices, company direction, one’s own positioning, and so on...

Of course, there are also actors with exceptionally strong skills who decisively step out of their comfort zones and seize opportunities, becoming a different face in every role.

But Chi Xiaoman did not think she was one of them now, and she also couldn’t guarantee that—when most audience members walked in and saw her face on the big screen—

they would recognize her as Xiaoyu, and not Chi Xiaoman.

And Chi Xiaoman and Xiaoyu were not alike.

That was the reality she had to face.

There was no one to blame; only herself to blame.

Even though that reality was very different from the future she had once imagined ten years ago.

But no matter what, it was still a choice she had made herself.

Chi Xiaoman did not regret it.

And she also understood that reaching where she was now already made her a lucky one in the tide of the times.

Because compared to what she had gained, these costs weren’t much.

Unexpectedly, Chen Yue didn’t answer her question right away. Under the blue light of the projection, she looked at Chi Xiaoman for a long time, then said softly,

“Let’s finish the movie first.”

The projected image paused on a frame.

For some reason, Chi Xiaoman sensed something subtle and wanted to ask, but by then Chen Yue had already resumed the film; she could only swallow her words back and hope Chen Yue’s thoughts wouldn’t turn out to be what she feared.

Back then, the two of them had both been very focused when watching movies, and until the end, there usually wasn’t much conversation in the middle.

That hadn’t changed much now.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t interrupt Chen Yue, whose expression had become focused because of the movie. She also turned her attention to the film and became absorbed as well.

This was Chen Yue’s first film, Running Away on February 29th, the story of a young woman from Shenzhen in Hong Kong.

At its core, it was about finding oneself.

Then and now, the film’s narrative and visual style were fairly uncommon.

There were many obscure, hard-to-follow long takes in the movie.

It used many close-ups to express emotional shifts, and many static shots to express imagery. All the dialogue was in Cantonese, and this version still didn’t have subtitles.

But Chi Xiaoman didn’t find it difficult to watch. Because she could recite every line in it from memory.

When Chen Yue was filming this movie, she was still by her side, making long-distance phone calls with her for a long time every day to rehearse lines. On those calls, she memorized the lines herself, found old Shenzhen classmates she knew to record the pronunciation, and helped Chen Yue correct her Cantonese and get closer to the Shenzhen accent.

But whether she had watched it from outside the camera before, or secretly watched it alone later, it was all different from watching it now beside Chen Yue.

This counted as the first time they had calmly sat together and watched each other’s starring work.

After it ended, they still didn’t discuss it right away.

They just sat quietly side by side.

Watching the end credits roll by.

It was hard to say whether this was tacit understanding or some habit they had formed together.

Only when the credits rolled to the very last line did Chen Yue turn her gaze to Chi Xiaoman’s face.

And ask, “What do you think?”

As if she really wanted her evaluation.

Chi Xiaoman was quiet for a moment. Brushing her fingers over the edge of the blanket, she smiled softly. “Chen Yue, you’re a very good actress.”

It was a very simple sentence.

Yet sincere enough.

If in the past Chi Xiaoman had only looked at Chen Yue’s face and thought she was suited to making movies, then now she truly felt that Chen Yue was a rare and excellent actress.

Not only was her image a perfect fit, drawing the eye the moment she appeared on the big screen; as a woman who had only stepped onto this path at twenty-three and then passed the audition and landed the lead role in her first film half a year later, Chen Yue really was talented. Her emotional expression and line delivery were both excellent.

Enough to make people believe she really was that lost, hesitant young woman.

Although compared to the present, Chen Yue in this film might still have a lot of rough edges, she also had the charm of that period.

The reason this film, buried in the river of time, could be dug back up and gain attention years later also came from Chen Yue’s careful preservation of her career lifespan—

in each period, she only made one film, never repeated herself, and never overexposed herself.

“If I were that director, I’d have said it had to be you too.” The projection screen automatically changed; the tropical fish screensaver was projected onto the white wall. Chi Xiaoman said this from the heart, and emphasized, “That’s absolutely not just polite talk.”

Chen Yue seemed not to have much doubt about what she said. She gave a faint smile.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to ask you this too.”

Her voice was buried in the sound of the rain.

“After all, it was you who encouraged me to go to Hong Kong.”

She paused. When she spoke again, the words were much blurred by the wind.

“Only back then, I didn’t know that later on, I wouldn’t have the chance.”

Because by the time the movie was released, they had already been completely separated.

To be honest, ever since they met, they hadn’t talked much about those years. More than once, Chi Xiaoman had tossed and turned late into the night and thought that maybe too much time had passed; Chen Yue had already forgotten everything that happened in that rented apartment, which was why she could interact with her so properly and almost never show resentment or blame. It was as if they were just two old friends from the past.

After all, nine years was such a long time.

Not two or three years.

Even that rented apartment had long since been torn down and replaced by high-rise buildings.

How could the things that happened inside it be easy to remember clearly?

But Chi Xiaoman hadn’t expected Chen Yue to bring it up on her own.

Even more unexpectedly—

After saying that, Chen Yue brought up a completely unrelated next sentence.

“Xiaoman.”

“I really did have an actor in mind for Xiaoyu.”

By then Chi Xiaoman’s thoughts had already slowed.

It was hard to give a proper reaction.

“She’s a very good actress.”

The tropical fish screensaver in the projection shifted to the ocean; the blue of the sea fell across Chen Yue’s face, shimmering and rippling, swallowing the side of her face and making her features look damp and tender.

“Before she became famous, she would loudly say that being an actress was the happiest thing in her life. She’d also run ten kilometers to fight for a role and prove she could handle the hardest scene.”

“She never gave up easily when faced with setbacks; in order to live and still chase her dreams at the same time, she would stand in front of steaming bamboo baskets and rehearse her lines to a lot of buns.”

“Even after becoming famous, she never used a stand-in. When she had to film a scene where she was hit by a car, her first reaction was still to smooth things over. Lying in the hospital bed, she was still smiling, because she didn’t want what everyone remembered when they watched the drama to be the news about her.”

“She’d still secretly hide away to practice lines; to understand a character, she once rode a green train on New Year’s Eve to experience the Spring Festival travel rush. She also worked in a noodle shop for a month as a waitress delivering food; every time customers yelled at her, she’d still smile, and only after being photographed would she cover her face and have no choice but to walk away. Later, when she was criticized for all this as showboating, she didn’t explain a single thing, because she didn’t want it affecting the role.”

“I understand that she has many things beyond her control now; but I believe she isn’t as bad as she thinks she is, because whenever it’s within the scope of what she can fight for, she always does her utmost to be responsible for every role she takes on.”

If she still hadn’t reacted to Chen Yue’s words by now, that would certainly be a lie.

But even after figuring out Chen Yue’s purpose, Chi Xiaoman still couldn’t fully give a good, positive response.

She suddenly felt like a wooden puppet whose clockwork had broken; it took her a very long time to focus her eyes on Chen Yue’s face and ask with difficulty,

“What are you saying?”

Chen Yue didn’t look away.

She still looked at her.

After a very long time, she suddenly called her “Chi Xiaoman” in a strangely abrupt way, and then asked her another question.

“Do you know why I suddenly wanted to become an actress later on?”

It was hard to imagine any connection between those two questions.

For those few seconds, Chi Xiaoman felt the ocean screensaver stretch on endlessly; it was unbearable, as if in this brief span she had been split into two selves—

one of them still unrepentant, wanting to know the answer. The other, though, was terrified that the answer really would be what she thought, terrified that she wouldn’t be able to respond well afterward if it was, and desperately wanting to flee.

Then Chen Yue said,

“Because of you.”

Four simple words.

Effortlessly.

They brought the two split halves of her back together, painfully and sweetly.

As if returning once more to 2013.

A summer night in Beijing; the roads were wide. Lang Lang was riding a tricycle, clattering along, and the broken speaker was singing The Moon Reflects My Heart. She rode the electric scooter with Chen Yue on the back, heading toward Xingfu Road. Facing the wind, she laughed and shouted happily,

“Chen Tong, Chen Tong!”

Every word she shouted leapt up in the wind.

“We’re almost there! We’re almost at Xingfu Road!”

[Author’s Note]

Updating Little Neon on time for its twenty-fifth day [sunglasses]

(It’s time for my favorite part again: the transition [glasses])