2023

After returning to her room, Chi Xiaoman didn’t stay long.

Today was the first day of filming.

She wasn’t just preparing as an actress for the opening scene; she also had to direct the set.

So she still didn’t get to go to the location with Chen Yue.

Once she arrived, everything piled up at once. She had already held meetings with every department beforehand, so today was just about confirming the details on site again, doing live tests for the set and camera positions, and checking a few points with the assistant director in charge of the monitor rigs.

Directing and acting at the same time was difficult, of course.

Especially since this was a field she had never touched before.

By ten o’clock, the set gradually filled up. The camera crew, art department, directing team, actors, production crew… Although they hadn’t invited the media to the opening ceremony this time, quite a few reporters who had heard the news, fan photographers, and fans had also arrived on site.

Chi Xiaoman had rushed over early that morning. She hadn’t done her makeup yet; wearing a baseball cap and an ordinary gray hoodie with a vest over it printed with the crew name, Neon, she had walked the entire set, busy confirming details with each department.

By noon, when she finally sat down to take a break and drink some water, she heard a neat chorus drifting over from behind her.

“Xiaoman, Xiaoman, you’re the best!”

Chi Xiaoman turned back in surprise, bottle in hand.

Outside the line strung up around the set, she saw several rows of girls standing neatly, faces lifted, holding a red banner high over their heads.

Seeing her turn around, they waved vigorously at her with their arms raised.

Chi Xiaoman adjusted the baseball cap that was about to slip off, her eyes curving with a smile as she walked over—

She hadn’t even reached them yet.

The rows of people were already calling in perfect unison again:

“Xiaoman, Xiaoman, you’re the sweetest!”

“Xiaoman, Xiaoman, you’re the one and only shining light in all the worlds!”

The set was crowded, and the noise was loud.

A lot of people turned to look.

Chi Xiaoman stopped in front of them a little bashfully, then made a small “shh” gesture and said softly, “Could we keep it a little low-key?”

“Nope, nope,” several girls in the front row shook their heads together, extremely matter-of-fact. “How can you do great things and be low-key!”

Without giving Chi Xiaoman time to react, they hoisted up another banner together and shouted loudly,

“Brave Xiaoman! Not afraid of difficulty!”

Chi Xiaoman covered her face with both hands.

And covered her eyes too.

But she also felt that this wasn’t right; after all, every one of them might have come a very long way just to see her.

So she lowered her hands again, stood before them, and carefully listened to every line they shouted in perfect unison. After that, she bent her eyes in a smile and listened as they chattered among themselves for a while.

She asked one girl whether the last cold she’d had was better, asked another whether the exam she’d mentioned last time had passed in the end, then worried that she sounded too much like a boring adult and immediately said it was fine if it hadn’t; she also asked the shy girl standing in the back whether she felt cold and needed something to cover herself with…

Only when someone called from behind her, “Teacher Chi Xiaoman!”

did Chi Xiaoman turn to answer.

Then she turned back again.

Looking at all those pairs of eyes fixed straight on her, she smiled softly.

“Okay, I know. We won’t be afraid of difficulty.”

She had already left her agency and was now independent, with almost no team around her, and she hadn’t asked Fang A-Yun to join the crew either.

This time, she had come onto the project alone.

There was no way to trouble anyone else.

But she had also considered that there would always be a lot of people coming to every opening day.

So this time, she had prepared three thousand gift packages in advance, packed with mosquito repellent for autumn, warmers for cold hands at night, hot drinks, sandwiches, cut fruit, and the necklace from the brand she had endorsed before… She had specially hired a few part-time college students to hand them out to the crew, as well as to the girls who had come from far away outside to see her.

After discussing the details with production, and using the lunch break, Chi Xiaoman and the part-time students carried the packages over together. She handed them out quietly to everyone, and left the remainder in the car for now, to be distributed later when more people arrived.

By the time she had finished, she was exhausted.

She hadn’t even had time to eat. Only when she finally had a little free time did she pick up a sandwich and a drink, then hide in a chair in a corner of the set and eat in small bites.

After one bite, she hesitated.

She wrapped the half-eaten sandwich up neatly.

She wanted to stand up.

Because she didn’t know whether Chen Yue had eaten.

But in the end, she didn’t get up.

Chen Yue wasn’t the kind of person who didn’t know how to take care of herself; and just now, she had also heard Shen Baozhi say that Chen Yue’s assistant had rushed over today too, and had been arranged by her to stay in the room one floor below them.

The paper around the sandwich rustled in the wind.

Chi Xiaoman sat quietly for a while.

In the end, she still decided to stand up.

But before she could, a pair of ordinary dark green sneakers stopped in front of her.

The woman blocked the somewhat glaring sunlight above her head and asked softly, “Why are you hiding here eating alone?”

It was Chen Yue.

Chi Xiaoman hurriedly straightened herself up, afraid there might still be something at the corner of her mouth. She turned her face aside and checked carefully; only after confirming did she turn back and subconsciously say, “No, I wasn’t hiding.”

Chen Yue looked at her for a moment, then sat down beside her.

She was also carrying one of the gift packages Chi Xiaoman had prepared.

Chi Xiaoman looked at her for a while. Seeing that her state seemed fully adjusted, not as downcast as she had looked that morning, she finally let out a slight breath of relief. “Why didn’t you rest a little longer?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Chen Yue said. She opened the package, took out the sandwich, unwrapped it, took a bite, and after a pause said, “It’s very good. Thank you.”

“Is it still warm?” Chi Xiaoman asked. “I put it in a thermal box, but I wasn’t sure if that would work.”

“It’s warm,” Chen Yue said concisely.

“Mm.” Chi Xiaoman didn’t say more. “That’s good.”

The Neon crew was bustling with traffic and noise as everyone prepared for the opening day. The two of them hid in the corner, less than ten centimeters between their shoulders, quietly eating sandwiches together.

Both of them ate very slowly.

When they were done, Chen Yue said again, “Thank you, Xiaoman.”

“For what?” Chi Xiaoman didn’t understand.

Chen Yue paused for a long moment.

Then she held up the gift bag in her hand to show it to her. “I didn’t know you had prepared so much.”

“Everyone came from all over to support me,” Chi Xiaoman said. “For Neon to even get started is already not easy. The head of the art department had actually planned to start maternity leave early, and I still asked her to come back.”

As she said this, she felt a little worried about it, and also guilty, as though she thought she was too much of a bad person.

“In any case, everyone’s been helping me and supporting me during this time. Baozhi has helped me a lot, and you’ve helped me a lot too…”

She pressed her lips together.

“Preparing a little gift like this is only proper.”

“Is it only proper?” Chen Yue asked suddenly.

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Chen Yue finished dealing with the sandwich wrapper.

Head lowered, she said, “If you do something that deserves thanks, then it deserves thanks, doesn’t it?”

Even though it sounded like a rhetorical question.

She still didn’t give Chi Xiaoman time to answer.

After a few seconds, she smiled and said to her in a gentle voice, “Xiaoman, just say ‘you’re welcome’ to me.”

Thank you should be followed by you’re welcome.

A phrase everyone learned when they were little.

It took Chi Xiaoman quite a while to truly understand it.

Maybe it was also because she had waited for today for too long, because she had dreamed countless times of this day, and because so many times she had thought—if she was only a little bit closer, if she waited a little longer, she could become someone capable, someone who could film Neon, then even that little bit of grievance, bitterness, and fear didn’t seem like much.

Nine years, after all, wasn’t actually that long.

Chi Xiaoman’s eyes slowly reddened.

She didn’t want Chen Yue to see, so she tilted her face up slightly and didn’t let the tears fall. She also used her hand to shield her eyes. After a while, she finally said,

“Mm. You’re welcome.”

Chen Yue looked at her without speaking.

Chi Xiaoman was again embarrassed by how intense her emotions were, and forced herself to swallow the tears back down before saying, “And thank you too.”

“For what?”

“Just because I feel like…”

At this moment, at the exact moment Neon was about to start filming, Chi Xiaoman finally realized that from the very beginning, even the name of Neon had been given by Chen Yue.

And as for her wanting to make it, she had never once said to Chen Yue that when the news first broke, she hadn’t asked; up until now, when the two of them had become the two female leads, she still hadn’t told Chen Yue any of this.

“I was actually worried for a long time that making this decision would make Lang Lang angry. I kept wondering whether maybe it would be better if Neon never got filmed at all, if I just treated it as a beautiful thing and never touched it, never turned it into reality. I also didn’t know whether everything I was doing was actually the right thing…”

“But Chen Yue.”

At this point she looked at her, wanting her sincerity to show in her eyes as well. “Thank you.”

She tried hard to smile at Chen Yue.

“Because you made me feel that this was the right decision.”

Because Chi Xiaoman understood that the smile she gave her wouldn’t always be real.

But every time she thanked her, it was real.

There had never been any false sentiment in it.

The autumn sunlight over Beijing spread warmly through the air, and the two sandwiches were slowly finished. Chen Yue looked at her, her tone full of tolerance and gentleness.

“Mm, you’re welcome.”

-

The opening ceremony drew even more people than expected.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know what kind of interpretation those media outlets would give Neon, and she didn’t know how many misunderstandings the photos they took back would create about her relationship with Chen Yue; she didn’t even know how many people would end up saying ugly, cruel things to Chen Yue because of it.

But she understood that what she could do now was not think about those things, and to do her best to shoot every shot well.

At the very least, she couldn’t let people think Chen Yue had truly made the wrong, blind choice.

At the ceremony, she didn’t know what anyone else was thinking.

But when offering incense to the four directions, Chi Xiaoman held the joss sticks in her hands and bowed devoutly, while quietly making many selfish requests in her heart—

She prayed that the filming of Neon would go smoothly, that everyone on the crew would be free from illness and pain throughout the shoot, that Lang Lang up in heaven would also have everything go her way, and that Chen Yue would be happy every day, without suffering.

If this decision really was a bad one, not correct enough, and would bring many bad things, and require some price to be paid.

Then those bad things, those bad outcomes, that price… Chi Xiaoman prayed that they would all be borne by her alone.

The red cloth was pulled away; Neon officially began filming.

The whole set erupted in cheers, applause rising and falling.

Ribbons fluttered down.

Chi Xiaoman slowly opened her eyes, and at the first glance, she saw Chen Yue’s eyes in the crowd.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

Maybe Chen Yue, like her, couldn’t help but come looking for her eyes after the opening ceremony ended.

Because she couldn’t help but think of the same person.

At that moment, the ribbons drifted down slowly.

The two of them stood across the crowd, staring at each other from far away, neither of them speaking.

It looked like silent remembrance.

And also like distant longing.

Until Shen Baozhi came over.

She wrapped an arm around both of their shoulders cheerfully and looked up at the falling ribbons with obvious delight.

“At last we’ve waited for this day. I’m really happy.”

Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes and brushed the moisture from the corners of them with her fingers.

Chen Yue looked at her, but not for long.

The set was crowded, the media was crowded, and naturally the gazes fixed on the two of them were crowded too. If one looked a little too long, it could easily draw attention and even lead to misinterpretation.

So Chen Yue didn’t look at Chi Xiaoman anymore; instead, she smiled at Shen Baozhi and said, “Yeah. At last we’ve waited for this day.”

“Even the opening day feels so moving,” Shen Baozhi said, her own eyes probably a little wet too as she wiped them. “I don’t know how much I’m going to cry when we wrap.”

Chi Xiaoman had known her for so long, yet she had never seen her look sentimental. So at this moment, she was a little surprised, and carefully looked at her while joking to ease the atmosphere.

“Baozhi, haven’t you already made a lot of films? Do you cry like this for every one?”

“No.” Shen Baozhi shook her head. In truth, she was younger than both of them, but in front of them she always acted quite mature. Now that her eyes had reddened a little, she finally looked like a girl in her twenties. “Actually, I really do like making films.”

“Maybe I just like Neon a little more.”

That was how she put it.

But she didn’t keep that mood for long; soon she had composed herself and smiled.

“Anyway, let’s take the big group photo for opening day first.”

Hearing that, Chi Xiaoman finally noticed.

The equipment was already set up in front of them, and the photographer was preparing to shoot the full crew photo.

After saying that, Shen Baozhi seemed to remember something else and looked around. “Why am I standing between you two?”

Chi Xiaoman froze and glanced at Chen Yue.

Chen Yue also looked at her.

Shen Baozhi moved to stand on Chi Xiaoman’s other side on her own. “Of course the two of you should stand together.”

Maybe there were too many people, or maybe there were too many eyes.

Watching Shen Baozhi’s dramatic movement, Chi Xiaoman instinctively blurted out, “No need, right?”

Shen Baozhi stopped and looked a little puzzled.

Chen Yue said nothing.

Their gazes collided.

The first to look away was Chen Yue.

She didn’t seem angry over Chi Xiaoman’s different treatment of her; she simply lowered her eyes quietly.

Chi Xiaoman lowered her face too. Actually, there was nothing wrong with standing beside Chen Yue; after all, this was just the crew’s opening ceremony.

She just didn’t know what had happened in that instant; without thinking, she’d tensed her jaw and said it. Now it was too late to regret it.

And Shen Baozhi didn’t ask directly either. She simply stood there in the middle between them, not moving for the moment. Only before the photo started, she suddenly said a few words to the assistant director beside her, then naturally walked out from between them to talk to him instead.

Leaving the space between the two of them open.

Chi Xiaoman secretly glanced at Chen Yue.

Chen Yue was talking to an actor beside her, as if she hadn’t noticed.

Chi Xiaoman hesitated.

The next second—

She met the eyes of a reporter holding up a camera and preparing to take photos.

So she quickly stepped over.

Her steps were small.

But hurried.

She almost collided with Chen Yue.

But Chen Yue seemed to notice, reacting swiftly and turning to steady her—

Wrist against palm.

Chi Xiaoman barely managed to stand still. In her haste, she kept her eyes lowered and said softly, “Thank you.”

Chen Yue waited until she was steady before slowly letting go. She said in a low voice, “You’re welcome.”

She didn’t seem angry about the “no need” from earlier.

If she deliberately explained now, it might instead make it seem like she had meant it on purpose just now.

Chi Xiaoman had no choice but to fall silent.

Chen Yue had never liked perfume. She hadn’t liked it in the past, and she probably still didn’t.

There was only a very faint scent on her, likely the smell of some laundry detergent.

Chi Xiaoman thought quietly.

Fortunately, the silence didn’t last too long.

The photographer outside the equipment shouted through a megaphone, “Okay, everyone get ready.”

Shen Baozhi was talking with the assistant director about the scene they’d be shooting later, apparently a little excited, and nudged her shoulder toward Chi Xiaoman’s side.

Chi Xiaoman was pushed so she had no choice but to move a little closer to Chen Yue again. The faint scent on her nose also drew nearer.

Her shoulder nearly touched Chen Yue’s.

Subconsciously, she said, “Sorry.”

Chen Yue told her, “It’s fine.”

But she didn’t make any extra room for her.

So in this opening-day group photo, Chi Xiaoman ended up standing awkwardly squeezed between Chen Yue and Shen Baozhi, her shoulders slightly hunched.

And when the photographer was about to start counting down, she suddenly heard Chen Yue softly say, “Chi Xiaoman, say sorry to me again.”

“Three—”

Chi Xiaoman froze and didn’t react in time, but she was very honest and immediately followed her lead. “Sorry.”

“Two—”

Chen Yue seemed to smile.

Her voice carried a soft, drifting amusement as she said, “Mm, it’s fine.”

“One—”

Chi Xiaoman hurriedly looked toward the camera.

Click.

The photo was frozen at that moment.

It wasn’t until that evening, when the photographer posted it in the big group chat, that she discovered out of the group photo with several hundred people, she was the only one not smiling.

Shen Baozhi beside her was smiling happily; Chen Yue was smiling too, her eyes narrowed in the sunlight.

Only Chi Xiaoman was facing the camera with a rare, blank expression of confusion.

The art department head commented on it:

[This photo turned out especially well / thumbs up]

[Especially our Xiaoman]

Chi Xiaoman initially thought she was being blamed for repeatedly going to Hong Kong to ask her for help, and was about to apologize.

But soon, many others chimed in:

[Support]

[I think so too]

[hahahaha it’s like one of those prank photos, everyone secretly dressed up while Teacher Xiaoman was left in the dark]

[Thumbs up]

…

So Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together and couldn’t send the very proper, very out-of-place apology she’d been about to type.

She was about to leave WeChat.

But the next second, amid all those messages, she saw one short line float past her eyes:

[Like a cat.]

-

Two words.

Probably just a brief statement of fact.

It didn’t seem to carry any particular emotional slant.

But it was clear Chen Yue wasn’t angry anymore about what had happened before the group photo.

Chen Yue had never been someone who cared too much about little things. Most of the time, she was also very good at giving others a way down.

The reason she had deliberately made Chi Xiaoman say “sorry” before the photo, almost like a prank, was probably because she didn’t want Chi Xiaoman to stay tense over it for too long, to the point where even her smile in the photo would be insincere.

Looking at it now.

It seemed the effect Chen Yue wanted had been achieved.

Chi Xiaoman hadn’t smiled in the photo.

But at least her expression was vivid.

That made Chi Xiaoman want to thank her again.

But as she watched the crew chat scroll by, she saw the topic had already shifted elsewhere, and Chen Yue hadn’t appeared again; she was probably also getting ready for the day’s shoot.

So Chi Xiaoman didn’t get another chance to say it.

She could only turn all her attention to the first scene of the day.

Neon was a typical art film.

Although Chi Xiaoman had already worked with many co-writers to make numerous detailed changes to the script, after discussion, the final script still retained many long takes, and there wasn’t much dialogue.

That meant the actors had to use their expressions, body language, and every rise and fall of their breathing to let the audience understand their emotions.

That was very difficult for Chi Xiaoman.

Because she hadn’t shot a long take in a long time.

And she also hadn’t shot such a long scene with almost no dialogue, only emotional shifts.

As for the rehearsal that morning, because it had been a wide shot, the changes in emotion weren’t obvious enough.

She didn’t know how to adjust.

So she could only keep watching the trial footage over and over.

The first scene started shooting at night.

She had already prepared herself for an all-nighter.

But no matter how much preparation she made, it still couldn’t guarantee a hundred percent performance on set.

When she lay back down on that narrow little bed, with her makeup and styling done and many cameras surrounding her while many eyes watched, Chi Xiaoman told herself she had to do well; she couldn’t let so many people down on the very first day of filming.

In truth, there had always been plenty of doubts about her acting from the outside.

After so many years, Chi Xiaoman had to admit that she wasn’t particularly gifted when it came to acting.

On top of that, after signing with Song Yingying, compared to truly settling down and honing her acting, she had to spend much more time on other things.

A lot of scenes hadn’t had time to be carefully polished. In fact, many times when she felt dissatisfied and asked to reshoot, the director would wave a hand and say there was no need.

Because they felt it would be a waste of time.

Because they had already decided she couldn’t do any better.

It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for the bridge after crossing the river; it wasn’t that she thought nine years of working with Song Yingying had delayed her. After all, without those nine years, she still wouldn’t have been able to film Neon by now.

She was just nervous.

Panicked.

And not relaxed enough about acting.

It was only natural.

For the first scene of the opening day, she didn’t do very well.

From the way Shen Baozhi looked at the monitor,

Chi Xiaoman could roughly tell that the actual take might not have been as good as the rehearsal scene she’d shot that morning.

This wasn’t unusual for her—

Many times, the clips she acted out in front of the camera by herself would clearly be better than her actual live performance on set.

And for an actor, that was a major taboo. If you were afraid of the camera, how could you act well?

Besides, she wasn’t just an actress now; she was also the director, responsible for making decisions on every shot.

So.

Chi Xiaoman quietly watched the footage they had captured, then looked at the several pairs of eyes still fixed on her on set, and could only smile a little. “It’s too late today. Why don’t we stop here for now and continue tomorrow?”

The eyes around her relaxed.

And Shen Baozhi seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as well. “Then let’s do that for now.”

She called for the others to wrap. Then she turned back to look at Chi Xiaoman. “I was worried you’d overthink it.”

Her tone was comforting. “Teacher Xiaoman, don’t worry. It’s only the first day. We’ll take it slowly.”

Chi Xiaoman was still looking at the footage on the monitor. Hearing that Shen Baozhi was worried about her, she looked up and smiled. “I won’t.”

“After wrap, you should go back and rest properly too,” Chi Xiaoman said. “Don’t overwork yourself. It’s only the first day, isn’t it?”

“Okay.”

Shen Baozhi agreed.

The wrap-up at the set was too chaotic, so she didn’t talk much more with her. She ran off to say a few words to the assistant director.

Everyone on the crew was professional.

Wrap-up and setup both happened quickly.

By the time Chi Xiaoman had copied the footage from the monitor,

and the camera crew had carried the equipment away, when she looked up, there were already only a few people left on set.

And Chen Yue was still sitting by the bed, looking at her.

She hadn’t said anything from earlier either, nor had she come over to watch the monitor.

She had simply sat quietly on the prop bed.

Her tied-up hair had gotten a little messy from sleeping on it, and she was still wearing the plaid shirt her character Liu Shu often wore in the drama. The wrist she’d reached out with rested on the edge of the bed, looking thin and pale; she really did look like someone who was ill.

“Chen Yue, you should go back and rest early too,” Chi Xiaoman said to her. Seeing that Chen Yue’s assistant was still waiting nearby, she promptly reminded her, “Your assistant has been waiting for you.”

At her words, Chen Yue’s assistant, who had been standing outside the shooting area, walked over very naturally, touched the bridge of her nose, and said to Chi Xiaoman, “Teacher Xiaoman, my name is Xiao Qi. You can just call me by my name.”

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman smiled at her. “Xiao Qi, you worked hard today too.”

“It wasn’t hard at all.” Xiao Qi waved her hands, then made a lifting gesture.

“You two are the ones who worked the hardest.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t chat with her for too long. “Wrap is done, hurry and take Chen-laoshi to eat something, then get her back to rest early tonight.”

“Okay.” Xiao Qi agreed, then looked at Chen Yue again. Perhaps worried that she still hadn’t fully come out of the role, she didn’t step forward rashly.

Chen Yue didn’t keep her waiting for long either.

She got off the bed and walked over.

Taking her glasses from Xiao Qi’s hand, she put them on and said “thank you” to Xiao Qi; then she immediately became Chen Yue again, no longer the Liu Shu from the role.

After saying that, she lowered her eyes to look at Chi Xiaoman, as if considering what she could say that might make her feel better at this moment.

But perhaps she didn’t want Chi Xiaoman to think she was too useless, and didn’t want her to keep spending time and energy calming and guiding her. Chi Xiaoman spoke first,

“Chen-laoshi, you should go back and rest first. Don’t worry too much.”

She said it with her habitual smile.

Chi Xiaoman thought she still hadn’t broken that habit; forcing herself, being fragile, sensitive…

She might be making Chen Yue disappointed again.

And Chen Yue looked at her, ultimately saying nothing more.

“Okay.”

Chi Xiaoman’s thoughts were sluggish as she nodded.

But she still didn’t give Chen Yue much of a response.

Because Xiao Qi had handed Chen Yue her coat, and was also continuing to discuss a few of the coming days’ publicity arrangements with her.

The two of them slowly walked out of the set.

Chi Xiaoman listened to their footsteps recede, and only then did she finally lift her head a little and look toward Chen Yue’s back—

She was listening to Xiao Qi speak, her expression very focused.

She probably didn’t have time to worry about Chi Xiaoman’s matters anymore.

Chi Xiaoman watched for a while. When Chen Yue’s back was finally no longer visible, she slowly withdrew her gaze.

Lowering her eyes, she stared at the tips of her shoes.

For a long time.

Feeling the temperature drop, she sniffed, then took out her computer, opened the footage she had just copied over, put on her glasses, hugged her knees, and slowly started watching.

To be honest.

The Chen Yue in the footage felt strange to her; she had neither the sorrow from the rehearsal that morning, nor any trace of Chen Yue’s own aura. Only then did Chi Xiaoman remember—

Even though Chen Yue had been in poor condition that morning, that tear that seemed to have fallen had only dropped after Shen Baozhi called cut.

Chen Yue’s professionalism, her grasp of the role, the way she moved in and out of character… none of it could fail to make one feel that she was an extremely professional actress.

Chi Xiaoman ought to be happy for her.

And she really did feel relieved as she watched, relieved again that Chen Tong had become Chen Yue, the outstanding, shining Chen Yue.

But she also couldn’t help comparing herself.

Because she leaned against the wall and slowly looked at the footage she had just watched.

Watching it once, then again, and each time thinking— the person in the footage was Chi Xiaoman herself, not Li Xiaoyu.

Why couldn’t she get into the role?

Why was her formal performance always worse than her rehearsal performance?

Chi Xiaoman felt anxious, but she also understood very clearly that this anxiety was not only useless, it would only make her tighten up even more.

But she couldn’t control it.

At thirty, she was just like this.

She didn’t have the courage she had at twenty, to fall once and immediately get back up and keep going.

She only worried, felt uneasy, and believed that once she made a mistake, she had to chew over it again and again. Even though she knew that process was painfully miserable, she still refused to change.

Because pain had already become the only way she could force herself to feel things, to push herself to correct herself.

She didn’t know how long she sat there.

She didn’t know how many times she watched it.

In a daze, Chi Xiaoman realized that tears had silently slipped down her face, and she had already been spacing out for a long time.

Click.

A flash went off from outside the room. She didn’t know who was looking, who was taking pictures.

Someone also seemed to have gotten bold enough to come closer.

With a flash in hand, they wanted to seize the chance to catch her with a bad expression.

Click.

It was probably a paparazzo.

The flash stung Chi Xiaoman’s eyes.

Coming back to herself, she lowered her head sluggishly to find her baseball cap.

And pulled it down to cover her whole face.

Her chin buried in her collar.

Click.

She hid in the corner.

Avoiding the camera lens outside, which was pointed at her in the harsh, suffocating flash.

There might not have been only one.

And she couldn’t tell whether it came from good intentions or bad.

Click.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t look.

She kept her eyes lowered.

Silently wiped away the tears that had gone cold on her face.

When all these gazes, flashes, and cameras didn’t exist.

That was normal.

It was also the norm these past few years.

Sadness, happiness, embarrassment, worry, humiliation, fear, discouragement… every emotion belonging to Chi Xiaoman had to pass through a layer of scrutiny before it could be delivered.

Her happiness had to be judged for whether it was sincere enough, weighed for whether it adequately repaid the praise and recognition she received.

Her fear, discouragement, and unease might be processed, then turned into the fuel for other people’s revelry.

She didn’t resent it either. After all, if you wanted to get something, you had to pay the price.

Besides, she had already gotten what she wanted.

She shouldn’t keep feeling sorry for herself.

In a daze,

Chi Xiaoman curled her stiff fingers and lowered her head to drag the progress bar of each clip along.

Kept watching.

No one knew how long had passed.

The flash was gone.

It seemed security nearby had come over, shouted a few times, and chased after them while demanding they hand over their cameras, so the people outside had run off.

Chi Xiaoman still kept her head down and didn’t look.

She focused only on the footage of herself.

But not long after.

Someone walked in and approached her; their steps were very light, carrying a familiar presence that made her feel safe.

In silence, that person sat down beside her, didn’t look into her eyes, and didn’t force her to meet her gaze at a time like this.

They didn’t become one of the people watching or scrutinizing her.

And they didn’t mind that she might not be able to look at her right now.

The woman sat there for a long while, setting out the packed dishes one by one in front of her.

After that, she opened the chopsticks.

She waited several more seconds, seeming to have many things she wanted to ask, many things she wanted to say, but in the end she still didn’t look at her.

“I originally wanted to buy you fried sticky rice cakes.”

After a long silence, she chose only to say one very ordinary thing.

“But they were sold out.”

[Author’s Note]

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