「2023」

To be fair, no matter how long they’d been apart, Chen Yue had always believed she understood Chi Xiaoman’s inner world well enough.

Maybe she was no longer familiar with Chi Xiaoman’s outward behavior, and there were many times when she couldn’t agree with Chi Xiaoman’s choices.

But she still believed, stubbornly and without regret, that no one in this world could see Chi Xiaoman more clearly than she could. She also believed that, apart from her, everyone else’s judgment of Chi Xiaoman was never fair enough, never objective enough, always clouded by preconceived notions.

Even Chi Xiaoman herself had never been that person.

And yet now, looking at Chi Xiaoman’s hunched back; looking at her as if she were desperately trying to hide herself...

Chen Yue began to suspect that she might have been wrong.

After all, she had never known whether her own desire to get close was, for Chi Xiaoman, also one of the sources of fear.

Not until this very moment, from so close, did she personally see Chi Xiaoman trying to hold back tears and struggling to steady herself after receiving a simple, kind compliment.

Only then did Chen Yue finally understand it completely; only then did she have no choice but to slowly draw her hand back.

She stopped touching her.

She wanted to ask what she should do to make Chi Xiaoman stop being so afraid of her.

But when she finally spoke, Chen Yue only asked, “Can I wipe your tears for you?”

And that sentence didn’t make Chi Xiaoman feel any better. On the contrary, her bent back trembled again.

The sobs she was trying so hard to suppress grew heavier, harder and harder to contain.

Chen Yue felt lost.

She wanted to lean closer and comfort her.

But the sight of that trembling, sharply outlined back made her feel helpless.

Chi Xiaoman might have been too thin.

When she bent over, even the bones at the back of her neck stood out under her skin; lit by the projector’s blue glow, she looked like a fragile little goldfish on the verge of being swallowed whole.

“Chen Yue.” After a long while, having barely calmed herself, Chi Xiaoman softly called her name.

“Hm?” Chen Yue slowly curled her fingers, looking at Chi Xiaoman’s hunched shoulders as she said, “I’m here.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t cry again. She covered her face and forced herself to breathe.

These years, it seemed she’d become better at putting emotions away and taking them out again, like a seasoned actress.

Or maybe it was more like there was a jar of emotions inside her body that could be opened at any time; in the ten years Chen Yue hadn’t seen her, she had sealed away a great many feelings, good and bad, only to take them out again when she needed them.

But because those emotions had all been real, immediate, and never truly released, every opening and closing might have been a huge shock to her emotional system.

Chi Xiaoman raised her face and looked at Chen Yue with reddened eyes. “I’ll think about it carefully.”

That was already the timid, uneasy Chi Xiaoman giving the best positive response she could manage about herself.

Chen Yue looked at her still-red eyes and the tears at the corners that hadn’t been wiped away, and didn’t think she was being indecisive. She also knew Chi Xiaoman probably didn’t need her pity right now, so she just smiled and said, “Okay.”

“Mm.” Chi Xiaoman was still trying to steady herself. Maybe because she had cried, her voice had a heavy nasal quality when she spoke, but she still insisted on finishing the sentence with her, one word at a time. “Thank you very much for being willing to tell me all this.”

“I meant it,” Chi Xiaoman added, perhaps because Chen Yue hadn’t spoken.

“Don’t misunderstand.”

Her nasal tone made her voice sound softer.

And because she was forcing the words out, her speech slowed down. “I really do mean it when I say thank you. That’s why I said all this.”

“I know.” Chen Yue’s voice was gentle as she held the tissues out to her. “You’re welcome.”

Because of that phrase she’d said countless times before, Chi Xiaoman’s eyes reddened again.

But this time she lowered her gaze quickly so Chen Yue wouldn’t notice, and took the dry tissue a little awkwardly, slowly gathering herself.

Chen Yue thoughtfully helped her clean everything up, saying in a steady voice,

“I know that over these years, what you’ve faced and what I’ve faced haven’t really been the same. Don’t rush. Take your time.”

Watching Chi Xiaoman’s expression beside her, she added lightly, as if joking to ease the mood, “Don’t worry, I won’t give you a deadline like my agent does.”

Chi Xiaoman paused mid-wipe.

She sniffed her blocked nose. Her thoughts were a little muddled from the emotional swing, and after staring blankly at the projector’s screensaver on the white wall for a while, she said very slowly, “Chen Yue.”

“Mm?”

“Actually, you’re really a very patient person.” The dry tissue quickly turned damp and wrinkled in Chi Xiaoman’s hand as she kneaded it into a ball. “If it were someone else, they probably wouldn’t want to keep saying these things to me.”

“You might be...” She hesitated, not sure whether she should be so direct.

But because Chen Yue was too good, she felt there was still a strong need to express her gratitude. “You might be the only person right now who’s still willing to be patient with me.”

“Is that so?” For some reason, Chen Yue’s tone didn’t sound pleased.

After a pause, she said, “Then I hope that’s not true.”

“What?” Her voice was too low; Chi Xiaoman hadn’t heard clearly.

“Nothing.” Chen Yue shook her head.

She turned to look at her for a moment, then took out a fresh dry tissue and handed it over.

Chi Xiaoman took it.

Seeing the wad of used tissues in her hand, Chen Yue very casually opened her palm. “Give them to me.”

Chi Xiaoman leaned back a little. “No need. I’ll throw them away myself later.”

“Okay.” Chen Yue didn’t insist.

She looked at Chi Xiaoman, slowly drew her hand back, and tucked it beneath the pillow. Then, as if remembering something, she said softly,

“Do you remember? I used to hate spring onions, but I really liked the buns from that place over by Xingfu Road.”

Chi Xiaoman was still trying to calm down. “I remember, yes.”

“Why bring that up all of a sudden?” she asked Chen Yue, then reacted instinctively. “Do you want them now? I can buy some and mail them to you the next time I go back to Beijing. I can vacuum-pack them; they just wouldn’t be very fresh.”

“No.” Chen Yue shook her head gently. “The last time I went there, it was already gone.”

Chi Xiaoman fell quiet, rolling the fresh dry tissue in her palm again. It took a long time before she could barely manage, “Maybe it’s been too long.”

“Mm.” Chen Yue lowered her face and said softly, “But back then, you used to pick out every bit of spring onion from the bun filling for me, one piece at a time.”

“The filling in those buns was huge, and when they were just steamed they were scorching hot. Every time, you’d tear them open in a fluster, split them into a few pieces, and use chopsticks to slowly pick out the scallions for me beside you. After you finished one piece, you’d let me eat it, because you were afraid it would get cold too fast.”

Chen Yue didn’t look at her; her eyes were half-lowered, her expression unreadable, as if she were merely recounting the most ordinary memory in the world.

“Just because I liked eating them.”

And so Chi Xiaoman found it hard to respond quickly, too. She didn’t know why Chen Yue brought this up now, or whether it was nostalgia or reproach.

When Chen Yue finished and turned her face to look at her, Chi Xiaoman felt lost, unable to meet her eyes, as though the person Chen Yue was describing were someone entirely different. She could only tighten her grip on the tissue in her hand and keep her silence.

“Even back then, before we were together,” Chen Yue said, “when we were only roommates, you’d still do that for me.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know what she could say.

But Chen Yue said, “What I mean is, you don’t have to be so polite with me.”

Her tone was soft. “I still hope I can be the one to hand you tissues when you cry, to throw them away for you. Because if you’re in a bad place, then you deserve to have the person beside you do a few things for you.”

Chi Xiaoman’s clenched fingers slowly loosened.

“This has nothing to do with what our relationship is now.” Chen Yue leaned back against the sofa, her profile soft, her expression carrying a tenderness that was impossible to resist, almost dreamlike.

“At the very least, don’t be too afraid of me, okay?”

-

Chi Xiaoman wasn’t sure what Chen Yue truly thought of her, but that day she had fully exposed her panic, fear, and weakness in front of Chen Yue, only to have Chen Yue accept all of it without reservation. It was something she couldn’t have imagined.

She couldn’t imagine who in this world could hate Chen Yue.

And she couldn’t imagine who in this world would be so lucky as to possess Chen Yue’s love in the end.

But that line of thought wasn’t respectful toward Chen Yue herself.

To judge a person’s goodness or badness by saying they were “good at loving others” was, in the first place, one of the cruelest forms of condescension.

So Chi Xiaoman hoped Chen Yue could be a little more selfish; that she could leave all that gentle, tolerant love for herself.

Stop demanding so much of herself. Stop being so hard on herself when she got stuck in a dead end. Stop letting other people’s faults become her own burden. Stop lying awake all night because of someone else’s business, sitting by the window and watching the rain until dawn.

She didn’t want the world to contain a single voice cursing Chen Yue. If that day truly came, Chi Xiaoman wanted to be the one to take it for her.

The typhoon didn’t stop just because the conversation had ended.

Afterward, they kept watching the movie.

Probably to help ease Chi Xiaoman’s emotions.

Chen Yue didn’t continue watching the drama they’d started earlier, but instead chose an old Hong Kong film they used to watch a lot in the past; it wasn’t heavy, and its tone was relatively light.

Maybe Chi Xiaoman had spent too much emotion. After watching for only a little while, she fell into a deep sleep.

At that time—

she still hadn’t allowed herself to sit in a relaxed way.

Instead she leaned against the uncomfortable sofa back, holding a cushion, her head slightly bowed, breathing very lightly and slowly.

Like Sleeping Beauty.

But Chen Yue didn’t think “Sleeping Beauty” was a good description. She hoped Chi Xiaoman could sleep more comfortably.

So.

She very gently took away the cushion to make room, and adjusted Chi Xiaoman’s rather stiff posture into a more comfortable one.

Then she sat down at the side of the sofa.

She watched her sleeping face quietly and lowered the projector volume, choosing to let the movie keep playing.

Because if she suddenly turned it off,

Chi Xiaoman might startle awake.

When they met again, Chen Yue could tell Chi Xiaoman was more easily frightened than before.

But nine years was too long.

She couldn’t tell whether that came from the large-scale incident years ago when Chi Xiaoman had been surrounded on the street, or from the matter Shen Baozhi had mentioned in passing, when Chi Xiaoman had once been terrified into the hospital after someone peered at her through a crack in the floor in a hotel, or from the agent Xiao Qi had spoken of, the one who was very good at manipulating public opinion... or perhaps from other details Chen Yue had no way of knowing.

The movie finished playing.

Chen Yue couldn’t quite tell whether she had watched the film longer, or watched the not-very-comfortably-sleeping Chi Xiaoman on the sofa longer.

At that point the playback interface automatically exited.

It jumped to the viewing history.

The previous record, in a small four-by-three thumbnail, was Chi Xiaoman’s face from when she was in her early twenties.

The drama’s core was the anti-cyberbullying wave that was popular in web series at the time.

Chi Xiaoman played a female star who suddenly died in the news, which led to endless speculation. The series was labeled a suspense-and-deduction type, but it wasn’t really. Because the ending was given away from the start.

But because the character design was too perfect and her identity too special, no one was willing to believe she had died by suicide. Rumors spread in an instant; many people refused to accept that a female star at the top could be so fragile as to take her own life simply because she couldn’t withstand online abuse.

Chi Xiaoman had delivered a striking performance in it. Every story used to shape the character, and every scene in which different people’s memories portrayed her softness, had all been acted beautifully. And because of that, Chi Xiaoman had attracted a great deal of attention.

Of course, the irony was that if you opened the drama now, every episode featuring Chi Xiaoman was flooded with the lingering controversies of history in the barrage comments—

There was the early praise from netizens for this newcomer actress.

There were also the filthy insults that came later after the “snatching resources” scandal broke, and the appearance-based judgment, clearly far from objective in Chen Yue’s view, directed at her youthful, inexperienced face.

There were also the ugly words from many people who hated her now.

And comments from many who loved her, expressing support and telling her to keep moving forward.

And then the doubts about those comments, and the emphatic insistence on the theory that Chi Xiaoman had suppressed criticism.

...

Whether out of protection for the drama or to maintain data, the platform hadn’t cleared the barrage comments. And at the time, perhaps because the controversy around Chi Xiaoman brought in more traffic, neither the production team nor the company had given any clarification about it.

The projector automatically entered screensaver mode.

Chen Yue stopped looking at the blue light.

She sat leaning against the side of the sofa, turned her face again, and looked at Chi Xiaoman, who had been asleep for a long time.

Maybe the time when the current Chi Xiaoman most resembled the one from years ago was when she was asleep.

Equally quiet, equally well-behaved.

There was no pain on her face, no fear, and no excessive caution.

As if she had never been hurt at all.

As if there were no way to blame her for not being strong enough, for not showing the kind of resilience and steady core she should have shown in the face of violence.

But Chen Yue had never wanted to blame her.

She was willing for her to be vulnerable when vulnerable, afraid when afraid, uneasy when uneasy.

Chen Yue was willing for her not to be strong.

But Chi Xiaoman’s sleep still wasn’t completely peaceful. Even in her dream, a transparent tear slid silently from the corner of her eye.

Chen Yue reached out a finger.

Then hesitated.

Her fingertip pressed against Chi Xiaoman’s soft eye corner.

Soft, damp.

Chi Xiaoman’s lashes trembled because of it.

Chen Yue quickly withdrew her hand and slowly curled her fingers back in.

She didn’t dare touch her carelessly again.

More than the unease her touch brought.

She wanted even more for her to be able to sleep a little better.

-

She slept for quite a while.

No dreams.

When Chi Xiaoman opened her eyes, the projection room was completely dark, and she seemed to have been laid flat and adjusted into a fairly comfortable position, stretched out on the sofa with a blanket over her.

The emotional exhaustion from before she fell asleep, and the fatigue from these days of running around, had recovered somewhat through the brief sleep.

She sat up and looked around in confusion through the darkness.

After a moment.

She stood.

And went to open the door.

Then she saw—

Chen Yue was standing in front of the apartment’s open kitchen, studying a few simple ingredients with her brows knitted, looking rather at a loss.

Chen Yue really was perfect, without a single flaw. Being clueless about kitchen work was certainly not one of them.

On the contrary, it made her look more like a real person.

Not a deity drifting high above.

Chi Xiaoman stood by the door and watched for a while. Just as she saw Chen Yue pick up a knife, ready to wash and cut with it, she couldn’t help walking over and saying, “Let me do it.”

Chen Yue looked up and curved her eyes at her. “Awake?”

“I don’t even know when I fell asleep.” Chi Xiaoman felt a little embarrassed for having kept Chen Yue busy these past two days. She pressed her lips together and walked over. “I’ll do it. Be careful not to cut your hand.”

Chen Yue didn’t stand on ceremony with her. She naturally handed the knife over and said,

“I was originally planning to make you a bowl of noodles before you woke up.”

On the cutting board were washed vegetables; on the stove were three eggs laid out, a bag of dried noodles, and some shrimp soaking in a glass bowl, their veins not yet removed.

The ingredients looked simple.

Chi Xiaoman rolled up her sleeves and tied back the hair she’d messed up in her sleep.

She was very thin.

Her wrists showed, looking delicate and pale.

Once her hair was tied up, her exposed neck looked equally slender.

But her shoulders and neck had smooth lines, and the upward and downward curve of her chin was beautiful, fitting most people’s aesthetic.

Chen Yue looked at her for a while. “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Hm?” Chi Xiaoman put on the apron; the waist cinched by its straps looked very thin, almost paper-like. She lowered her head slightly and worked on the vegetables on the cutting board, very skillfully cutting off the tough ends. “Compared to when I was younger? Yes, I’ve lost a lot.”

Younger. When she said that, her tone was very light.

So Chen Yue knew she was probably talking about when they were twenty.

“How much did you lose?”

“About twenty jin.”

Eighty-one.

Chen Yue mentally converted the number.

In fact, even one hundred jin had never counted as fat for the younger Chi Xiaoman; she had even been on the slim side.

Because she wasn’t short, and she used to be running around all day, she had more muscle mass.

Now she was even thinner.

That small bit of baby fat she’d once had when she was rounder and fuller had long since disappeared.

It was as if she had shed many shells over these nine years; each time she molted, she became lighter, until now she had become a person whose appearance was entirely unfamiliar to Chen Yue.

But if even the most ordinary thing had to be met with pity, Chen Yue also felt that would be unnecessary.

So she could only say, “Still, don’t get too thin.”

“Mm, I know.” Chi Xiaoman had already put on gloves. She lowered her head to deal with the shrimp veins, her expression focused.

“My agent used to say that too,” she said. “She told me not to get too thin, said being too thin isn’t pretty either, and told me to put on a little weight.”

She pressed her lips together and said softly, “But now, it seems gaining weight is even harder than losing it. So I’ve never been very successful.”

As she spoke,

Chi Xiaoman opened the fridge and looked at her own very slender wrist.

She wrinkled her nose, apparently not liking it very much either. “This really doesn’t look very good.”

Without giving Chen Yue time to respond,

Chi Xiaoman quickly changed the subject in a leap of thought. “Chen Yue, you barely have any fresh ingredients in your fridge.”

“It’s a typhoon day, isn’t it?” Chi Xiaoman stood by the refrigerator, looking a little blank. “Why didn’t you stock up more?”

“There are a lot of frozen things,” Chen Yue explained. “And I’m only one person; I don’t eat that much.”

Chi Xiaoman closed the fridge’s chilled compartment.

She pressed her lips together and opened the freezer door.

Only then did she discover that there really were a lot of things inside, but they were basically all semi-prepared convenience foods for microwaving: steak, dumplings, wontons, beef balls... things like that.

Besides those, there was some shrimp.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t speak.

Chen Yue may have been afraid she’d overthink it, so she walked over, closed the refrigerator door, and said with a smile,

“Even if I bought them, I wouldn’t know how to make them.”

That did seem to be true. Chen Yue had never been a person with much desire for material things.

Back then, because she felt she didn’t have anything to do, she had moved into that basement and become Chi Xiaoman’s roommate.

Now she had become a glamorous Best Actress, had made so many good films, and was still living such a simple life: a two-bedroom, one-living-room apartment, not buying too much unnecessary furniture, not thinking about filling her fridge or her life, and not making too many changes to herself.

Nine years. Compared with Chi Xiaoman, Chen Yue seemed not to have changed much at all.

Chi Xiaoman came back from the fridge and continued dealing with the shrimp veins.

Chen Yue followed and watched her from the side, a little hesitant. “How can I help you?”

“No need.” Chi Xiaoman’s nose was still blocked; when her voice lowered, the nasal tone became very obvious.

“Don’t get your hands dirty.” She told Chen Yue.

“Okay.” Chen Yue accepted that immediately. She was now better than Chi Xiaoman at accepting other people’s kindness.

Chi Xiaoman let out a breath.

She focused even more on dealing with the shrimp veins, then felt she was being too forceful, acting as if she wanted Chen Yue to eat the cleanest shrimp in the world, so she relaxed a little and asked, “After all these years, you still haven’t thought about learning to cook?”

“I did learn.” Chen Yue said simply. “I just later thought it was troublesome, so I didn’t really want to keep learning.”

Chi Xiaoman nodded. “Actually, you don’t have to learn either. Food is convenient now. If you don’t want to cook, you can always go out to eat.”

She added with relaxed ease, “Anyway, once you have money, you can always go eat something good.”

Chen Yue laughed. “That’s true.”

The atmosphere seemed to loosen because of the joke. Chi Xiaoman exhaled, feeling as though she had finally done something well in front of Chen Yue, and that not everything between them was negative or lacking warmth.

“Then what about you?” Chen Yue asked again.

“Mm?”

Chi Xiaoman gathered up the cleaned shrimp, took off her gloves, and was about to turn on the pot to make the noodle broth. “What about me?”

Chen Yue looked at her.

It seemed she was considering whether to say it.

But in the end, just as Chi Xiaoman switched on the induction cooker, Chen Yue still said it.

“Have you made noodles for anyone else in all these years?”

Chi Xiaoman’s motion paused for a moment.

But it didn’t last more than three seconds. She turned on the heat, and when the induction cooker beeped, she smiled.

“Yes.”

Chi Xiaoman poured in a little oil and reminded Chen Yue, who was still standing beside her and hadn’t moved, in a low voice, “You should stand a little farther away. I’m afraid it’ll splash on you.”

Chen Yue quietly stepped back a little.

Seeing her move farther away, Chi Xiaoman felt that the distance was enough that nothing would splash onto Chen Yue, so she began cracking the eggs into the pan.

The egg mixture spread in the frying pan, slowly turning from golden to pale yellow.

Chi Xiaoman threw away the shells and realized Chen Yue had been silent for a long time, so she said, “My assistant.”

“You should have met her last time.”

“Mm.” Chen Yue nodded, watching her expression. “Anyone else?”

After a pause, Chi Xiaoman hesitantly finished the thought, “Like... someone I liked, things like that.”

“No.” Chi Xiaoman’s answer came very quickly.

Chen Yue nodded. “Okay.”

She stood a little farther away, giving Chi Xiaoman more room to work. After a pause, she asked again, “Not even one?”

Chen Yue didn’t seem like someone who would keep pressing, but she pressed several times about this matter.

Chi Xiaoman’s movements stalled.

Chen Yue seemed to realize something too, and added, “If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

“No.” Chi Xiaoman added the cleaned shrimp to the broth. Pulling herself back from a brief daze, she looked at Chen Yue and curved her eyes gently, like she was joking with her.

“Look at me now. How could I still go and like someone else?”

“What kind of way?”

Even though she knew this was a topic that shouldn’t continue, Chen Yue still furrowed her brow.

Chi Xiaoman was stunned for a second because Chen Yue hadn’t avoided it. Then she turned her head to look at the soup in the pot and, after a long while, said slowly, “Chen Yue, the noodles might be almost done.”

Chen Yue didn’t keep asking. She probably knew if they kept talking, the two of them would end up at odds again, unable even to eat a bowl of noodles properly.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t say anything more either.

Both of them fell silent by the stove.

Until the noodles were cooked.

Placed into two very large-looking bowls.

Chi Xiaoman, still wearing her gloves, brought them to the dining table on the grounds that she didn’t want Chen Yue’s hands to get dirty.

The two of them sat down opposite each other, calmly sharing what was probably a very ordinary lunch.

Neither of them spoke during the meal. Since their reunion, every meal they’d shared had been quiet.

Perhaps because she had grown used to eating at the same table as her, this time Chi Xiaoman didn’t act as restrained as she had the first time.

On the contrary, Chen Yue felt a great deal of dissatisfaction with her own handling of things after the earlier, not-too-pleasant conversation.

In retrospect, she thought that might not have been the right question; the timing was wrong, and the way she handled it afterward... probably wasn’t right either.

Chen Yue didn’t think she was as good as Chi Xiaoman believed she was, and certainly not the flawless Chen Yue people often spoke of.

In truth, she was always troubled by details other people didn’t care much about, and because of that she became quiet and reserved, needing the person across from her to have a great deal of patience before they could notice and properly handle her displeasure.

Anyone who truly wanted to get close to her; anyone who wanted her permission to come nearer, would need to be even more patient than the Chen Yue who habitually hid herself.

Thinking of this,

Chen Yue silently picked up a bite of noodles.

Then she saw, beneath the bottom of Chi Xiaoman’s bowl—

A fried egg with crisped edges, hidden there.

Two of them.

She lifted her eyes to look at Chi Xiaoman.

Chi Xiaoman was eating very slowly. Even after so long, she had only eaten a little.

But she was still trying hard not to waste food, determined to finish every strand.

She ate with complete concentration.

She didn’t look at Chen Yue.

Chen Yue picked up one of the fried eggs and took a quiet bite.

The yolk ran out.

The firmness, temperature, and taste were just right.

Maybe Chi Xiaoman hadn’t lied; over these years she probably hadn’t made noodles for many other people, which was why she still kept the way Chen Yue liked when cooking them.

That made some of Chen Yue’s hidden displeasure ease a little.

But she still didn’t speak.

She only finished the fried eggs Chi Xiaoman had made for her, slowly, bite by bite.

Maybe she had also judged her appetite correctly; the noodle portion was just right too.

That eased Chen Yue’s faint displeasure a little more.

After they finished eating,

Chen Yue wiped her mouth.

Then she raised her face and looked at Chi Xiaoman.

Chi Xiaoman had already finished too; she had just been waiting for her, and only now hurriedly set down her chopsticks.

Her eyes habitually curved into a smile as she said to her very formally,

“Chen Yue, thank you for keeping me company for lunch today.”

It was such a simple sentence, yet it made all the dissatisfaction in Chen Yue’s heart disappear.

She put down her chopsticks and looked at Chi Xiaoman, whose eyes were still swollen but who was trying hard to smile at her, and said softly,

“You’re welcome.”

-

On a typhoon day, she and Chen Yue peacefully spent an entire day together.

By night, after arguing with Chen Yue once more and finally deciding to lie down on the sofa to sleep, Chi Xiaoman let out a breath.

She was also worried about bothering Chen Yue, so she took out her phone to charge it, intending to check whether she could book a suitable hotel.

But before that,

she first replied to a WeChat message from Shen Baozhi.

Shen Baozhi didn’t know she had come to see Chen Yue again. Last night she had been concerned about whether she’d arrived safely in Beijing; after Chi Xiaoman replied, today she sent photos she’d taken at home, complaining that she still couldn’t go out tomorrow.

She hadn’t taken the initiative to mention Neon, or Chen Yue’s agent.

Chi Xiaoman replied to the photos and comforted her, telling her to rest well at home for a few days.

After that, after some hesitation, she sent a message asking:

【Baozhi, do you think I’m suitable to play Xiaoyu?】

Almost as soon as the message went out.

A sharp vibration came through her palm.

It was a WeChat call from Shen Baozhi.

Chi Xiaoman’s hand went numb. In a flurry of panic, she glanced at the tightly shut bedroom door.

No movement.

She pressed her lips together, lowered her eyes, and looked at the WeChat call Shen Baozhi had made.

On tiptoe.

She carefully walked to the bathroom to answer it.

-

That night, before sleeping, Chen Yue took out a thicker blanket and walked out of the bedroom, wanting to ask whether this would be suitable.

But she found that Chi Xiaoman wasn’t in the living room.

There was movement coming from the bathroom.

It seemed Chi Xiaoman was hiding inside the bathroom making a phone call.

Her voice was very low.

It came through the door muffled and indistinct.

Chen Yue couldn’t make out her tone.

But the call went on for a long time.

Chen Yue waited patiently outside for ten minutes and still didn’t see her come out.

So she had no choice but to put the blanket down.

She quietly walked back into the bedroom.

Turned off the light, lay flat on the bed, and crossed her hands.

The room was dark, so the sliver of light from the living room under the door looked even more glaring.

Chen Yue turned over, trying not to look.

But she couldn’t help opening her eyes again and again.

In the end, she calmly took out her phone.

She found Chi Xiaoman in her contacts and wanted to send an iMessage to ask what call could possibly take so long.

And to give the poorly sleeping Chi Xiaoman a proper reminder, or warning—if she didn’t sleep well, she’d get migraines when she was older.

But just as she hesitated over how to word the message so it wouldn’t seem as if she were trying to control the short-term life of the Chi Xiaoman living in her home—

The living room light suddenly went out.

Chen Yue had no choice but to put her phone away and prepare to sleep.

But the person outside didn’t seem to intend to sleep properly.

After the lights were turned off,

Chi Xiaoman didn’t obediently lie down on the sofa, but instead walked softly into the bathroom again and carefully closed the door.

Apart from that, she made no further sound.

After all, with two doors between them,

Chen Yue had no way of knowing why she had gone into the bathroom again.

Chi Xiaoman might still have chosen to continue the phone call that had lasted so long deep into the night, but didn’t want to affect Chen Yue, with whom she wasn’t close enough, so she first turned off the living room lights, then made the call that had to be made late at night.

But in the end, Chen Yue wasn’t close enough to her. If she rashly ran out now and said something unnecessary, Chi Xiaoman might think she was causing an unwarranted disturbance and become even more careful around her.

So,

Chen Yue didn’t pick up her phone to draft a message either. She laid her hand flat over her lower abdomen, and while waiting and listening for any new sound from the living room, prepared to sleep.

But that night,

Chi Xiaoman stayed in the bathroom far longer than expected.

Chen Yue was a light sleeper, and her nights were usually short.

And by then.

She woke up, found that the sky was already faintly bright, and in slippers stepped softly out to check on Chi Xiaoman’s condition, to see whether she had once again been bitten up with a lot of mosquito welts during the night.

She walked out very quietly.

But found no one on the sofa.

And Chi Xiaoman seemed to still be in the bathroom.

Speaking vaguely with someone.

Maybe it had already been going on for three or four hours.

At four or five in the morning.

Chen Yue stood by the sofa and listened to Chi Xiaoman’s hushed voice coming from the bathroom. She could no longer convince herself that nothing was happening, and she could no longer remain patient.

So she walked straight over.

She wanted to open the door directly and ask whether Chi Xiaoman was dealing with some urgent matter... and if there was an emergency, whether she needed help; if there wasn’t, then who had she been on the phone with until morning and still didn’t want to hang up?

Chen Yue reached the bathroom door.

Through the thick door,

She heard Chi Xiaoman’s voice, always kept very low, speaking warmly in a soft, shifting tone as she went on.

And within those conversations, in which Chi Xiaoman kept practicing diction, pronunciation, and tone, Chen Yue heard a familiar name.

Liu Shu.

One of the female leads in the Neon script.

At that moment, Chen Yue suddenly understood: once again, she had misunderstood her.

Because the thirty-year-old Chi Xiaoman might not be strong; she had many doubts about herself and was always uneasy, needing patient guidance.

But her heart was still soft, and she still longed for this world to be just and fair. Perhaps unlike before, she was no longer generous or open enough toward her own efforts, and was even trying to hide them so no one would discover them. Yet she still wanted what she earned to be earned with dignity.

So she was using the time that night to courageously practice a formal audition request.

Probably because she’d become so absorbed in studying it, Chi Xiaoman didn’t notice Chen Yue’s presence as quickly as she had before.

Instead, through that door, she was still speaking softly and trying hard.

Like every ordinary actor who submitted a scene for audition, she practiced the lines in that audition excerpt.

One line.

Chewed over again and again.

Practiced again and again.

Chen Yue slowly withdrew her hand from the doorknob; the shadow on the glass door shifted with it.

And Chi Xiaoman finally seemed to notice, instantly falling silent like a wary rabbit with its ears standing up.

Chen Yue hid to the side and held her breath.

The bathroom was quiet; Chi Xiaoman wasn’t breathing either. She didn’t speak. After a long while, her shadow shifted, as if she were about to walk this way.

Chen Yue hesitated, wanting to push the door open and explain first.

But just as she lifted her hand—

Chi Xiaoman stopped moving.

After a quiet moment, she simply picked up the things resting on the sink.

Chen Yue stood by the door and watched for a bit, then shifted her own rather obvious shadow away again.

In the vague darkness she heard it; three seconds later, Chi Xiaoman’s voice appeared again, different from before, more muffled and carrying static, as if coming from a phone video recording.

Probably to review her own performance, Chi Xiaoman had taken her phone in to record.

The bathroom door had been specially treated. Chen Yue couldn’t see her expression or movements while she checked the video, but she could hear—

Chi Xiaoman dragging the progress bar over again and again. When she heard something she thought was bad, she would stop and practice it separately. Sometimes there was no sound; sometimes there were lines spoken in an unusually low and blurred voice. In the end, she watched the recorded video all the way through, from beginning to end, two or three times.

She probably still wasn’t very satisfied.

Chi Xiaoman put the phone away again.

Turned on the water; washed her face once. It was cold water, because there was no sound from a water heater. Even in summer, four or five in the morning was cold enough; cold water was chilly enough to keep a tired, drained person awake.

The sound of water gradually stopped.

Chi Xiaoman patted her face, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

Then she seemed to press the record button.

Starting over from the beginning.

Practice like this might have been repeated many times already that night.

Or perhaps in those times Chen Yue couldn’t see, it had happened many times before, for different roles, in different productions.

But because Chen Yue had been absent for so much of it, she could only stand outside the door and listen, trying her best to imagine what Chi Xiaoman was doing in the bathroom that night—

Maybe still in a slightly uncomfortable posture, but probably facing the mirror, lifting her face and smiling, adjusting every inch of the muscles at the corners of her eyes, every arc of her lips, and the emotional expression that would shift depending on the direction of her gaze, in a way that might feel like a kind of self-torment.

After the video recording ended, she would probably very ruthlessly rub her face hard so the muscles could relax. While rubbing, she would keep her head down, focused, her eyes still red from crying, rubbing them too without really caring, concentrating fully on checking the audition clip she’d recorded.

Chi Xiaoman wasn’t a naturally gifted actress, nor was she classically trained. So the fact that she had reached this point, that she had secured that role back then at the crucial moment, and that the role everyone had once dismissed as having too little screen time had finally been seen amid all the rights and wrongs...

Perhaps it all came from this kind of clumsy effort, this kind of effort that others found too tense and not relaxed enough.

If it were spread around, people might even say she was trying too hard and dislike her for it.

But because the one who saw it was Chen Yue.

Only Chen Yue.

On this four- or five-o’clock morning, she stood outside the door with her for a long time. Even though there were many moments when she wanted to push the door open, walk in, look at her still possibly swollen red eyes, and say something very simple to her—

This is the part of you that looks the most like Xiaoyu.

Or with the subject and object completely reversed.

This is the part of Xiaoyu that looks the most like you.

But because Chen Yue was the first person to notice this, and had always held to that belief, she inevitably felt a great deal of relief about it and would not allow anyone else to destroy it without permission.

So in the end, she did not push the door open.

【Author’s Note】

Updating Little Neon on time for its thirtieth day [sunglasses]

Happy one-month anniversary, babies! [glasses]