2023

Last night, the WeChat call with Shen Baozhi lasted less than five minutes.

Before coming to Hong Kong, Shen Baozhi had already brought it up over the phone and asked whether Xiaoman was willing to play Xiaoyu. But at the time, Chi Xiaoman still thought it was utterly impossible, and believed Shen Baozhi was only grasping at straws in a crisis, so she hadn’t taken it to heart.

She had never seriously considered it.

And that night, over the phone, Shen Baozhi once again made it clear that she fully supported her wish to play Xiaoyu.

Only then did Chi Xiaoman realize Shen Baozhi hadn’t been joking before.

Surprised that Shen Baozhi backed her idea so wholeheartedly, she hid in the bathroom and asked softly, with some hesitation, “Baozhi, may I ask why you think that?”

“Actually, at first I just instinctively felt that Xiaoman, you were very suited to Xiaoyu,” Shen Baozhi said after thinking for a moment on the phone. “Later I also went to Hong Kong, and I kept wondering why I’d had that thought.”

“Because on the surface, Xiaoman, you and Xiaoyu really don’t look alike at all. Most people definitely wouldn’t connect you to Xiaoyu at first glance, and you’d never said anything like that yourself...”

Seeming reluctant to dampen her enthusiasm, Shen Baozhi kept her tone gentle.

“So at first, I really didn’t understand why I’d think that at a subconscious level.”

While taking the call, Chi Xiaoman stood quietly in front of the mirror and couldn’t deny that Shen Baozhi was telling the truth—

At a glance, she really was too soft, with no aggression at all. There was always a smile on her face, like a delicate doll. She was worlds apart from Xiaoyu, who was innocent, stubborn, and absolutely refused to lose.

But Shen Baozhi said, “But later I figured it out. Xiaoman, actually, the thing you and Xiaoyu have most in common is just the easiest to overlook.”

Chi Xiaoman said nothing.

She didn’t know whether she was looking forward to what Shen Baozhi would say next or growing uneasy because of it, only feeling more and more afraid.

Then Shen Baozhi smiled and said, “Xiaoman, you and Xiaoyu are actually the same in one respect. You both have a childlike heart.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

“Don’t underestimate that, because it’s very precious.” Shen Baozhi didn’t mind her silence and praised her generously. “Especially in a place like this, you were still able to keep it so well, never giving it up because of the good things or the bad things.”

“So I think that’s the most precious thing about Xiaoyu, and the thing we looked for for a long time but never found in anyone else.”

That night, Chi Xiaoman hid in the bathroom, her waist and back pressed against the cold, hard tile.

Listening to Shen Baozhi praise her, she wasn’t quite sure what she felt. She was uneasy because of the bluntness of Shen Baozhi’s description, yet also felt a strange detachment, as if the person Shen Baozhi was talking about was someone entirely different.

After silently listening to Shen Baozhi finish, Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes, rubbed at them, and said softly, “I’m not as good as you make me sound.”

“Of course you are.” Shen Baozhi answered without hesitation. “Not just me; Teacher Chen has thought so for a long time too.”

Chi Xiaoman tightened her grip on the phone; the hard edge pressed into her fingers and made them hurt.

“Xiaoman, do you know?” Shen Baozhi went on. “Actually, I talked about this with my mommy these past two days too, and that’s how I found out she only said those things to you because Teacher Chen mentioned it. But my mommy isn’t very gentle when she handles things. She said those things because she wanted to push you a little. Yesterday, though, Teacher Chen called and told my mommy she hoped she wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“She seemed a little unhappy about my mommy’s approach. Her tone wasn’t very good on the phone. Not angry, just kind of cold.”

That really was how Chen Yue looked when she was unhappy. She wouldn’t lose her temper, and she wouldn’t become overly stern. But the smile at the corners of her mouth might fade a little.

Just from hearing Shen Baozhi describe it, Chi Xiaoman still couldn’t tell how unhappy Chen Yue had been.

She was quiet for a moment, then lifted her head to stare at the ceiling and let out a breath. “Then she and... and your mommy didn’t argue about it, did they?”

“No.” Shen Baozhi said. “They often disagree over little things like this, but nothing ever comes of it in the end. Actually, Teacher Chen can be pretty stubborn sometimes, and she’s especially good at reasoning things through. My mommy never really knows what to do with her.”

“That’s good then.” Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes and, faintly dazed by the vivid Chen Yue she had never had a chance to know from Shen Baozhi’s words, smiled.

“Oh right, Baozhi, remember to tell your mommy for me that I’ll give her the answer she wants within the specified time.”

Shen Baozhi froze. “Xiaoman, actually my mommy didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Chi Xiaoman rubbed her sore eyes.

Then, very gently, she said, “But your mommy is right too. Everyone has things to do. I can’t make everyone stop working and wait too long for me, right?”

Especially Chen Yue.

She still had so many better things to do.

Chi Xiaoman wanted to leave her time to rest, and she also didn’t want to waste too much of her time because of her.

Over the phone, Shen Baozhi was persuaded. “Okay, I’ll tell my mommy.”

“Okay, thank you.” Chi Xiaoman said warmly to Shen Baozhi.

The call ended.

It had lasted only four minutes and forty-five seconds.

Chi Xiaoman stayed in the bathroom.

She looked at the haggard face in the mirror.

And drifted off for a long time.

She tried to curl up the corners of her mouth.

Then she remembered the last time they met at Felicity Noodle Shop, when Chen Yue had said to her—could she not smile like that.

What kind of smile was that?

At first, Chi Xiaoman hadn’t realized it was a problem. Later, she slowly came to understand that smile really didn’t look very good; it was probably just a standard smile, but not a very real one.

Then what would Xiaoyu’s smile look like?

Suddenly, Chi Xiaoman couldn’t imagine it.

She quietly looked at the very strange person in the mirror for a long time, and then abruptly no longer understood who exactly she was looking at.

Because the person in the mirror didn’t seem sincere. There wasn’t much life or spirit in her eyes when she smiled; instead, it looked as though there was a great deal of confusion, panic, and unease hidden there... like someone who had been locked inside a box for a very long time.

She didn’t look like Xiaoyu either.

At least not like the Xiaoyu in Lang Lang’s script.

But why?

Why would Shen Baozhi think this person looked like Xiaoyu?

Why would Shen Yin agree with that too, to the point of using such a method to push her?

Why... would Chen Yue think so too? Or had it been only Chen Yue from the beginning, with Shen Baozhi and Shen Yin merely willing, because of Chen Yue, to use either patient or direct methods to convince her?

Chi Xiaoman had no way of knowing how likely the latter was.

But she thought that whether it was Chen Yue, Shen Yin, Shen Baozhi, or Lang Lang, Fang A-Yun, who believed in her, or even Wang Aimei, who had picked chestnuts in her hometown and saved them for her...

Added together, she already had far too much support.

She really shouldn’t keep hiding inside that box. She ought to give these people a proper, qualified answer.

But before tonight, Chi Xiaoman had never intended to act on that thought.

Counting and counting, she didn’t have much time left.

Maybe the urge to act on that thought had all rushed over her at once, more than she had ever imagined.

So that night she could hardly sleep, and decided to go to the living room to turn off the lights, then return to the bathroom to practice—

To be fair.

She knew she wasn’t a particularly gifted actress. Every time she entered or left a role, she actually needed a lot of time to study the script, to empathize or detach, before she could keep herself in a good state and extend her professional life.

But the brokerage contract she had signed nine years ago hadn’t given her much freedom in that regard; in fact, it had taken away her freedom entirely. At times, she could hardly even feel the joy or pleasure of acting anymore.

The path Song Yingying had built for her was not an easy one.

For nine years, her schedule had been packed: promotion, variety shows, ads, brand deals, public events, going into a production, coming out of a production...

There was very little time between each job for her to settle down, and most of the scripts she received weren’t the ones she wanted. Not only were they repetitive, but occasionally the scripts she got before entering a production and after entering a production didn’t even match. And most of the time, those crews didn’t give actors the chance to adjust or fully empathize with the material... They only needed her to have a strong heart, one that could detach at any moment and face it.

So much so that now, looking back, Chi Xiaoman no longer quite knew whether the feelings she had poured into each role over these nine years could compare to what she had given her very first role.

Now she wanted to try playing Xiaoyu.

A Xiaoyu full of life, stubborn and generous, open and not likable, and not afraid of being unlikeable...

A Xiaoyu completely opposite to herself.

Chi Xiaoman had no other choice.

She didn’t want to become the kind of person she had once despised, the kind who was unfit for the role but could still, because she had resources and connections, naturally get the opportunity and even take it away from someone else.

So she could only use the clumsy, not-very-clever method she had often used in the past, hiding in the bathroom of Chen Yue’s apartment to practice.

She chose the audition segment every actor would submit.

A segment under two minutes.

She practiced in front of the mirror many times.

Adjusting her expression, her breathing, and the emotional state in every breath, repeatedly convincing herself that she was Xiaoyu.

At last.

The one-minute-forty-five-second video recording ended.

She stared at the sink for a long time, almost unable to take another steadying breath, and because she had exhausted herself, she could no longer precisely control the muscles in her face. She even felt this was already the best answer she could give.

So she washed her face again.

Washed away the tears she had shed as Xiaoyu.

Her movements were very slow.

So slow that she felt, once the night was over, she might need to make up a lot of water and electricity fees to Chen Yue.

At last.

Chi Xiaoman, drained of energy, walked out of the bathroom and discovered it was already dawn, while Chen Yue’s bedroom door was still tightly shut.

Too tired to think much.

She carefully checked her recording three times, and followed the format every auditioning actor used to name it with her name + role + audition clip.

When sending the email, she instinctively sent it first to Chen Yue’s inbox.

Only after that did she come to her senses and send it to Shen Baozhi’s inbox.

Only after both emails had gone out, leaving only the notification that they had been sent successfully.

Chi Xiaoman still felt it wasn’t real.

She also felt dazed.

She couldn’t believe she had really sent the audition clip.

But there was no chance to regret it now.

She watched her phone screen slowly dim to black.

She didn’t dare face any reply.

At last, completely listless, she tilted her head and fell into a deep sleep on the sofa.

-

When Chen Yue received Chi Xiaoman’s audition clip, she wasn’t doing anything.

Or rather.

From the moment she learned that Chi Xiaoman had secretly practiced in the bathroom, she had done nothing at all.

She had only waited patiently for Chi Xiaoman to come out, and pretended nothing had happened when asking whether she needed breakfast.

But she hadn’t expected Chi Xiaoman to send such a formal audition clip to her.

The main story of Neon was relatively simple. It told the story of two young people in Beijing chasing their dream of becoming actors.

Liu Shu was stubborn, even a little strange, and obsessive. Li Xiaoyu was innocent, and she never felt ashamed of trying hard to chase after something; from beginning to end, she insisted on sending Liu Shu to the finish line.

Two people with completely different personalities would naturally run into many conflicts. And the biggest conflict, the main storyline, was this—

After nine years of still failing to make it in Beijing, Liu Shu’s body began to show certain symptoms. She was diagnosed with a rare disease that could not be treated, and she had less than thirty days left to live. Liu Shu couldn’t accept this version of herself, so she decided to give up her dream, return to her hometown alone, and wait for death.

But when Li Xiaoyu learned the news, she firmly insisted on personally sending Liu Shu home.

Along the way, they had many arguments and disagreements.

And as Liu Shu’s condition worsened, from setting out on foot at first to finally being pushed in a wheelchair by Li Xiaoyu, the original plan to go home also changed because of the twists and turns, arguments, and tears during the journey. In the end, it became a trip to Hong Kong, to the filming location of the movie they loved most, the one they had watched more than a hundred times over the past nine years.

To fulfill Liu Shu’s last wish.

Change course and start again.

And the audition clip Chi Xiaoman sent was, like every audition clip actors submitted for Xiaoyu, the scene in the script where Xiaoyu had just learned of Liu Shu’s illness.

It wasn’t long.

But because in the storyboard script this scene had almost no shots or reactions from Liu Shu.

It was a one-minute-plus long take.

To fully enter the role, to fully present Xiaoyu’s progression upon hearing the news, from the initial stunned silence and surprise to growing panic, urgency, and unease, then shifting into a confusion that no longer matched the initial emotional layer, and finally sitting down, looking at Liu Shu, and softly calling her name,

“Liu Shu, Liu Shu.”

Twice.

The emotion between those two calls was entirely left to the actor.

Whether it was calm, or the calm before total collapse.

It all depended on the actor’s own understanding of the character.

That was the difficulty of the film.

Not only because a single line in the script had to be worked over many times before the actor could produce the proper reaction, but also because there were blanks throughout the script that depended on the director’s control on set, on whether the actor fully understood the character, and on the exchange with the scene partner during filming.

The quality of a film was never determined by the script alone.

It was always an art of joint creation.

Chen Yue clicked open the email, then clicked open the audition clip Chi Xiaoman had sent. The video cover frame stopped in the bathroom, a very simple setting that did not overlap with the scene in Neon at all.

But for some reason, seeing that empty cover, Chen Yue still paused for a long time before slowly clicking it open—

At first the video showed only the setting.

No person.

The bathroom lights were off; it looked as though it had been recorded at dawn, lit only by a grayish glow. The environment looked pale and bleak.

Two seconds.

The person walked in.

At first.

She stood quietly with her back to the camera.

She didn’t speak.

Two seconds later.

She slowly sat down. Stayed quiet for two seconds, then lifted her eyes toward the camera. She blinked once, then twice, then three times. Tears slowly welled up, and she gave a slightly hurried smile.

This long take of more than a minute had only one line in the script.

For the audience to believe her, for them not to leave the scene, not to be pulled out of the story, how naturally the emotions were handled mattered.

Chen Yue stared at the person in the video and curled her fingers.

The person in the video was also looking at her.

Not at her, exactly, but at Liu Shu—

In fact, in film shots, actors rarely look directly into the camera, because they need to look at the character and keep the audience immersed. At any time, choosing to look straight into the camera is a very bold move. In the first film Chen Yue ever shot, there had been many scenes where she had to look directly into the camera, and as someone just starting out, not yet used to the lens, she had found it difficult.

Fortunately, during that period, there had always been someone by her side, accompanying her on the phone as she got through each scene piece by piece, and giving her a great deal of support.

Now that person was looking into the camera in the video.

Chen Yue couldn’t help but feel tense with her.

But the person in the video did very well. Even while looking into the camera, there was no feeling of being pulled out of the story. Instead, it felt as though everyone outside the frame was being seen by her as Liu Shu.

She looked at Liu Shu; the smile on her lips shifted from panic and dazed confusion at the start to tentative probing, then to stalemate as Liu Shu remained silent.

Then she suddenly stood up.

Yet the moment she stood, she froze in place.

She didn’t dare move forward.

She avoided the gaze behind Liu Shu, hidden beyond the camera.

Avoided that fact.

She blinked, then sat down again, utterly lost.

Everything above, from surprise to acceptance to confusion...

Every actor who sent in an audition clip handled it in their own way. Chi Xiaoman didn’t really have an advantage there.

What would distinguish her had to be her handling of the last two lines.

And in previous audition clips sent over, many actors had chosen to add lines at the end to heighten the drama. That wasn’t forbidden, because in film production, script changes happen often.

It’s just that changing the lines in a way the audience accepts, and feels is better than the original script rather than superfluous, is very difficult.

The person in the video sat down.

Looking into the camera.

She worked her dry lips and called out the first time,

“Liu Shu.”

No one answered.

Audition clips were all solo performances, so the actor had to imagine the response from the scene partner.

She stared at the camera, working her lips.

When she called the second time,

Maybe because she had practiced all night and her throat was dry, she couldn’t get much sound out. So that line in the video came out very blurred, not clear enough.

Chen Yue’s fingers moved.

But the person in the video didn’t show any panic that didn’t belong to Xiaoyu because of that small detail.

She still looked at the camera, body stiff, striving to force sound out of her throat,

“Liu Shu, it looks like you’ve got a white hair.”

Chen Yue’s fingers, resting on the desk, trembled.

After the person in the video said that, she seemed to want to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. The curve of her mouth collapsed into something ugly.

So she lowered her head.

Covered her face, as if in sobs, and lifted her sleeve, using the back of a trembling hand to wipe away her tears again and again. The first time she made no sound, the second time her movements grew more urgent, and the third time she actually sobbed aloud...

Through the whole process, she no longer looked at Liu Shu. Only on the final take did she desperately wipe away her tears, desperately steady herself, and then, in a daze, with a voice that sounded almost light, stare at her slippers and say very slowly,

“Why did you suddenly... get a white hair.”

The audition clip ended with the trailing end of that swallowed line.

And with the girl in the video, her face pale as she tried hard to raise a smile toward Liu Shu beyond the camera.

Then the screen went black.

Reflecting Chen Yue’s own absent-minded face.

She sat at the desk, motionless for a long time. Even the fingers resting on the mouse didn’t move for a long while.

Until the phone rang.

Restless and uneasy.

Shen Baozhi’s name flashed up.

Chen Yue pulled herself together.

Very calmly, she slid to answer, hearing Shen Baozhi say excitedly on the other end of the line,

“Teacher Chen, do you want to watch Xiaoman’s audition clip?”

Chen Yue said nothing.

She typed a reply on the computer:

【She sent it to you too?】

“Teacher Chen?” Shen Baozhi called once, muttering, “Why aren’t you talking?”

Chen Yue typed a 1 and sent it over.

Shen Baozhi moved the phone away a little, as if checking the message, then came back, sounding somewhat puzzled. “Yes, Teacher Chen, you got it too? Or is there some problem?”

Chen Yue’s fingers hovering over the keyboard paused for a few seconds, then she typed and sent:

【No problem. It’s very good.】

“I think it’s very good too.” Shen Baozhi let out a breath. “Actually, I was worried before too. Maybe because I watched Xiaoman teacher’s dramas, I didn’t realize Xiaoman teacher could act this well...”

Her voice lowered, carrying apology. “I was too narrow-minded.”

Chen Yue typed: 【It’s not your fault. A lot of people misunderstand her.】

“That’s true too,” Shen Baozhi said. “But Teacher Chen, you never seem to have misunderstood her.”

Chen Yue suddenly stopped typing.

Shen Baozhi finally seemed to think it was odd that she wasn’t speaking. “Teacher Chen, why have you been silent all this time?”

Chen Yue lowered her eyes.

Deleted the words she had typed.

Then sent a new line: 【There’s someone at home; it’s not convenient.】

“Someone at home?” Shen Baozhi sounded shocked. “What person? So early?”

Chen Yue had no way of knowing whether Chi Xiaoman would want her whereabouts told to Shen Baozhi.

Or perhaps she herself didn’t want to explain things too clearly to Shen Baozhi; she may have wanted Shen Baozhi to misunderstand.

But she also didn’t want to seem disrespectful toward Chi Xiaoman.

So she didn’t say Chi Xiaoman’s name, only sent something more obscure:

【Mm. She’s sleeping.】

Shen Baozhi gasped on the phone.

She sounded extremely shocked.

But perhaps out of respect for her, after the shock, Shen Baozhi chose not to comment on her behavior and shifted to a more formal topic. “So Teacher Chen, what do you think of Xiaoman teacher’s performance?”

Chen Yue was quiet for two seconds, then typed out the most obvious fact:

【Baozhi, why did you suddenly start calling her Xiaoman teacher?】

On the phone, Shen Baozhi froze.

Chen Yue knew she certainly hadn’t meant it and had no intention of making the atmosphere sharp, so she patiently typed again: 【I think the instinctive reaction was already the best answer.】

Considering that Chi Xiaoman was still resting in the living room, the call didn’t last very long.

In the end.

Shen Baozhi felt guilty on the phone about her previous double standard, apologized to Chen Yue many times, and said she would definitely explain and apologize to Chi Xiaoman as well.

But Chen Yue said:

【Baozhi, when I said this, it wasn’t to make you go apologize to her. And it wasn’t to make you reflect on yourself.】

【I just wanted you to know that over the years, she’s probably faced this kind of thing far more than you think.】

【I want you not to have prejudice against her anymore, not to think she’s timid or afraid, and not to have too many thoughts about her choices before.】

【The her now may already be the best version of herself that can be balanced between reality and the things she wants to do.】

To be frank, Chen Yue did not want anyone to think Chi Xiaoman had made a bad choice, or blame her for failing to protect her career, her dream, or the thing she wanted to do.

Because she had always believed a fact she’d believed in since ten years ago:

【Chi Xiaoman is a good actress.】

【From the beginning until now, that has never changed.】

【I want you to believe that.】

A fact that had not changed even after ten years:

【Because I believe it.】

-

After hanging up, Chen Yue did not close the laptop.

In the dim light, she watched the video Chi Xiaoman had sent one more time.

Not out of professional standards as an actress.

Simply because Shen Baozhi had seen this video once, and she wanted to see it one more time.

Chen Yue thought she was childish.

And thought it was funny.

But fortunately, Chi Xiaoman could not know that.

So after watching it, Chen Yue quietly closed the laptop.

Then she walked out of the bedroom at a slow pace.

The weather was still gloomy today. Without drawing the curtains, she saw Chi Xiaoman’s sleeping face on the sofa in the dim light and felt reassured. At least Chi Xiaoman hadn’t slept on the sofa in Shen Baozhi’s house during this typhoon; it probably wasn’t because of Shen Baozhi that she had changed her mind.

Although in the end, the reason she changed her mind might not have been Chen Yue either.

Of course, Chen Yue admitted she had such selfish hopes; she hoped Chi Xiaoman was slowly changing because of her, hoped she could become the person who influenced Chi Xiaoman most deeply, and also hoped this typhoon would never stop, and that Chi Xiaoman would, ideally, stay lying quietly on this sofa forever, never walking out to be hurt in any way.

But amid these murky, hard-to-explain thoughts.

Chen Yue preferred to believe—

Chi Xiaoman chose to do this simply because she was Chi Xiaoman.

The outside had changed a great deal, but the heart within had never changed; Chi Xiaoman was still shining brightly.

And to be the person who had discovered that heart ten years ago.

Chen Yue was already very happy.

But she didn’t want Shen Baozhi, or anyone else, to take away her special place.

So.

That morning.

She waited alone by the sofa for a long time.

Until Chi Xiaoman slowly opened her eyes, still dazed.

Because she could clearly see that Chi Xiaoman was a little at a loss,

when she tried to prop herself up from the sofa—

Chen Yue couldn’t hold back and reached out, using the pad of her finger to touch Chi Xiaoman’s soft, harmless cheek.

Chi Xiaoman looked surprised. But perhaps because she still wasn’t fully awake and felt muddle-headed, she didn’t dodge. She just blinked dazedly and called her in confusion,

“Chen...?”

“Chen Yue?”

Chen Yue did not answer.

She lightly brushed the corner of Chi Xiaoman’s eye with her knuckle, pretending there was a reason for touching her there, and then said in a soft voice, “There’s an eyelash here.”

Chi Xiaoman stared blankly at her, as if she didn’t quite understand.

And Chen Yue, unusually, paid less attention than usual to keeping her distance.

Nor did she withdraw her hand quickly.

Because she still longed to be the only person who had received the email that morning, and the only person who could stand this close to her and see that shining heart.

But that thought was too selfish.

So Chen Yue only slowly pulled her hand back, then instead reached out and patted her head.

The touch was very light; she withdrew her hand the moment confusion appeared in Chi Xiaoman’s eyes.

Then she simply smiled at her, and settled for fulfilling the next thought instead,

“Xiaoman.”

“You’re amazing.”

Chen Yue was certain there would be countless people who would say that in the future, yet she still longed to be the first one.

She thought that didn’t conflict with anything.

[Author’s Note]

Updating Little Neon on time for its thirty-first day [sunglasses]

Xiaoman, you’re amazing! [crying]