2023

After wrap, most of the props on set were still where they’d been, but the place looked oddly empty, probably because only two people were left. The room was large, and so were the windows; outside, the streetlights cast a dim yellow glow.

Warm light filled the room. The food sat on top of a clutter box on set, still steaming. Two boxed meals, two pairs of chopsticks, neatly arranged in front of them.

Chi Xiaoman stayed silent for a long time.

Then she reached for one of the meals.

She also took the chopsticks Chen Yue had already opened for her.

She picked up a bite of braised tofu.

Right before it reached her mouth.

She stopped again.

Her movements were a little stiff.

Her fingers curled inward, the skin turning white; it looked like she was using an extraordinary amount of force just to keep up such an ordinary action.

She tried very hard to hide that awkwardness, then said softly, “Thank you.”

Chen Yue looked at her and said, “You’re welcome.”

Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes, using the brim of her baseball cap to block her view, and ate one bite in quiet silence.

She paused.

Wiped at her chin.

It stung a little where her collar had rubbed against it.

Then she lowered her eyes again and kept eating.

Chen Yue watched her eat a few bites.

She didn’t ask anything, and picked up the other meal and the other pair of chopsticks herself, eating slowly.

There were three dishes and one soup, all still hot.

The set had been stripped of the various lighting rigs, and now only the swaying hanging lamp that had originally been in the room remained. The light wasn’t very bright; warm air drifted up beneath it, making one’s eyes ache.

Chi Xiaoman’s appetite was still as small as ever, but considering that she had to maintain Xiaoyu’s figure, she forced herself to eat a few more bites.

Chen Yue said, “If you can’t finish, then don’t force it. It’s just one day; it’s fine.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Stopped.

Put down her chopsticks.

“Okay.”

Chen Yue also stopped eating; perhaps thinking that since she was playing a patient with little time left to live, she might not have allowed herself a single proper meal for more than two months.

“Aren’t you going to eat a little more?” Chi Xiaoman thought she really was eating very little.

“It’s okay.” Chen Yue wiped her mouth and said, “If I eat too much, my condition will be different. Once it’s on camera, if I look too healthy, the effect won’t be good.”

Chi Xiaoman nodded, then smiled. “I’d actually like to look a little healthier.”

Chen Yue’s movements paused.

Chi Xiaoman added, “Chen Yue, I’m not unhealthy.”

She explained,

“I also want to look more like Xiaoyu when I’m on camera.”

“I know.”

“That’s good.”

Chi Xiaoman nodded a little slowly, then lowered her head to clean up the leftovers.

Three dishes and one soup; the two of them hadn’t actually eaten much, and more than half was left.

As she gathered it up, she felt a little sorry; out of habit, she rubbed her chin against her collar and said, “I bought too much. What a waste.”

Chen Yue laughed, tilting her head to look at her under the light. “Chi Xiaoman, why are you still so stingy?”

Like she was making a very ordinary joke with her: “Aren’t you already a big star?”

Hearing that phrase again, the atmosphere seemed lighter than before. Chi Xiaoman laughed.

“Big stars can’t waste food either.”

“Mm, fair enough.” Chen Yue didn’t deny it, but bundled up the remaining dishes and put them into a bag. “I’ll take them back and eat them.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

“No need.” She reached out to stop Chen Yue and said, “Chen Yue, don’t eat leftovers. It’s bad for your health.”

After saying that, she realized she’d spoken too quickly and sounded pushy, so she softened her tone again. “And it’s even worse once it’s left overnight.”

Chen Yue stopped and looked at her.

Said nothing.

So Chi Xiaoman also felt she was being wordy, contradictory; one moment she wanted this, the next she wanted that.

She fell silent, then smiled and said, “I should’ve eaten more earlier.”

“Can you still eat more?” Chen Yue asked, as though if Chi Xiaoman said she wanted to, she would open the packed-up food and hand it back to her.

“I can’t.” Chi Xiaoman shook her head.

“Mm.” Chen Yue tied up the bag. “Then I’ll take it back first; if it spoils tomorrow, I won’t eat it.”

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman nodded.

Since they’d eaten together, she couldn’t let Chen Yue clean up alone.

So Chi Xiaoman went to pack away the used bowls and chopsticks.

She even found a huge pack of wet wipes in the oversized canvas bag she carried with her, and slowly pulled them out one by one.

Chen Yue suddenly laughed beside her.

“What are you laughing at?” Chi Xiaoman wrinkled her nose.

Maybe she was embarrassed.

She put the huge pack of wet wipes back into the big bag, then clutched it awkwardly in both arms and forgot to set it down.

“Nothing.” Chen Yue shook her head.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know what was wrong with Chen Yue, so she just blinked in confusion, then set the bag aside on her own and used the wipes she’d pulled out to carefully wipe down the top of the clutter box.

Then she remembered something and said, “Chen Yue, I wasn’t saying you were wasting food just now.”

Chen Yue stopped. “Why would you say that?”

Chi Xiaoman paused.

Chen Yue looked at her.

With the brim of her cap shading her face, Chi Xiaoman lowered her head. After a long while, she slowly shook it and said, “I’m not really sure.”

“But you can do whatever you want.” She explained to Chen Yue, “Don’t worry too much about what I say.”

After that, Chi Xiaoman didn’t say much else; she just wiped the clutter box over and over again.

Her movements were a little repetitive.

Chi Xiaoman noticed that, and also noticed that Chen Yue had been watching her the whole time, so she stopped and put away the used wipes.

She lowered her head, and the blankness felt unbearable, so she hugged her knees and prepared to keep watching today’s footage.

Chen Yue was silent for a long time.

Then she suddenly called her, “Chi Xiaoman.”

She used her full name. Chi Xiaoman stopped moving, but still didn’t look at Chen Yue.

“Mm?”

“Does this happen often?”

“What happens?” Chi Xiaoman was baffled.

“Just now…” Chen Yue seemed reluctant to bring it up, but probably still wanted to ask clearly, so she did. “When I came in, I saw several people outside.”

She didn’t finish the sentence completely, probably because she didn’t want to mention it.

“Those paparazzi?” Chi Xiaoman asked back, then smiled. “In our line of work, how could there not be a few paparazzi around?”

“Does something like that happen a lot?” Chen Yue asked the same question again.

Chi Xiaoman found it hard to understand.

She looked up.

Under the brim of the baseball cap, warm yellow light flowed over them; through the hazy glow, the woman looked at her.

“The kind of situation where, when you’re already in a bad state, they keep pointing cameras at you and filming, trying to force you into even worse expressions.”

“The kind where they want to capture your worst expression more clearly, so they use flash, follow you around, and then take it out to make up stories with, or use it as leverage in exchange for something.”

The kind where your feelings are treated like merchandise; good or bad, everything measured by price.

Chen Yue couldn’t say that sentence directly.

Because she saw Chi Xiaoman smile a little, and the way her eyes curved was still beautiful, still lovely; inside them seemed to be many full things, and yet maybe nothing at all.

“Chen Yue.” She looked at her beneath the brim of her cap, her gaze steady, and perhaps because she thought Chen Yue was taking this too seriously, she said in a soft voice, “This is my job.”

Chen Yue also turned her face slightly to look at her.

To look at the woman whose eyes, beneath the cap’s shadow, seemed bright and glimmering with moisture.

“If none of this existed, then I wouldn’t have been able to film Neon at thirty.”

The set lights were boxed in, and Chi Xiaoman’s face was reflected in their brightness.

“To get something done, people have to pay a price.”

Her voice was very light. “Besides, the price I’ve paid is actually already very small.”

Chen Yue couldn’t speak. She just kept looking at her.

But Chi Xiaoman didn’t keep eye contact for long. She smiled, lowered her head, and the brim of her cap almost covered most of her thin, sharp face. “Actually, this kind of situation is already pretty good. I’m used to it.”

“Most of the time, I don’t get photographed doing anything too bad.”

As if she wanted to joke and ease Chen Yue’s concern, she added, “I’m very obedient, after all.”

Chen Yue didn’t laugh.

Chi Xiaoman stopped, drawing in the corners of her smile. “It’s just that sometimes if they capture a bad expression, or anything that might cause controversy once it’s edited, the company will buy back everything they photographed.”

“What kind of thing would cause controversy once it’s edited?” Chen Yue asked.

Chi Xiaoman was silent for a moment.

Then she smiled. “Nothing much.”

Chen Yue watched her quietly. After a few seconds, she asked softly, “Can you tell me?”

Her tone held no aggression at all.

As though if Chi Xiaoman said no, she would gently and comfortably let the subject go.

“Actually, there’s nothing I can’t say.” Chi Xiaoman thought back with some difficulty, and in the end chose one thing that sounded the smallest to talk about.

“Once, I went to a night market with a female actress, and she thought a hair tie looked really good on me, so she bought it for me. Later we worked together, and I posted a photo of us on Weibo.”

“Then someone posted a video from that day. It was so strange; I remember that night I was clearly very happy myself.”

“But for some reason, in the angle of that video—”

“it looked like I hadn’t said a single word to her.”

“So then people said she only got into the cast by trying to curry favor with me and giving me gifts.”

As she said this, Chi Xiaoman noticed Chen Yue’s silence and drew in the corners of her mouth.

In a certain sense, she also felt that starting from the year she turned twenty, many things had been arranged in a way and sequence she herself couldn’t understand. Maybe this was just one tiny, tiny thing among them.

“In truth, what ability could I possibly have? And I always thought it was just a very small thing. I even clarified it on Weibo afterward, and it never really caused a stir. I thought that was the end of it.”

“But…” Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes. “When filming started again, she’d been replaced.”

Chen Yue said nothing.

Maybe out of pity.

Or maybe because she understood all too well that this kind of thing wasn’t rare in this circle.

Even though by this point, the reasons behind it might already be clear to both of them, Chi Xiaoman still insisted on telling the rest.

“The production said she’d requested the replacement herself from the company.”

“Because she didn’t want to shoulder that much public pressure and then get judged all over again after the drama aired.”

“I didn’t really believe it, so I went to ask around.”

“I called her a lot too. She never answered. Later I went to the company and asked, and the agent told me—”

“No matter whether it made sense, no matter whether there was a better way, no matter what the truth behind it was.”

“No matter whether it would really have any impact in the end, none of that mattered. Because as far as public opinion was concerned, the truth didn’t matter. And as far as the production was concerned, they only needed everyone to forget about it, so nothing would break out when the show aired; that was the cheapest, least effortful, and least troublesome way to deal with it.”

“A minor actress like that could be replaced anytime.”

As she reached that line, Chi Xiaoman’s voice grew lighter and lighter. Then she paused for a long time before smiling at Chen Yue.

“Later, she seemed to really hate me.”

“I went to find her myself. But by then a long time had already passed.”

“I wanted to say sorry, that it was my fault, and I also hoped I could at least help her get another opportunity.”

“She didn’t pay attention to me either.”

It had been too long.

In fact, Chi Xiaoman herself could barely remember whether the things that actress said to her back then were good or bad.

But she still had a vague memory.

The expression on the other woman’s face when she saw her was very bad; like annoyance, like disgust, and like a faint pity for her.

“She probably thought I was the one who’d had her replaced, then pretended to be a good person by running over afterward.” Chi Xiaoman said.

“But I guess that’s about right.” She wrinkled her nose and said softly, “After all, it really was because of me.”

She hugged her knees, no longer smiling, no longer showing much sadness, as if she were only stating the most ordinary fact in the world.

“So I always hoped I could be a little more capable. That way, back then, I really could have kept her.”

On the October set, late at night, the temperature slowly dropped. Chen Yue listened quietly all the way through, and only then began to understand why Chi Xiaoman was always so cautious now, why she didn’t dare get too close to people—

not because she was afraid of being hurt herself, but because she didn’t like the version of herself that brought pain to others.

“So that’s why you feel so guilty toward me?”

Chen Yue asked softly,

“Because you think that after becoming more capable, you instead became the kind of person who wouldn’t give an actress a chance for some private reason?”

Chi Xiaoman probably hadn’t expected Chen Yue to ask it that way. She froze for a moment; as if struck right in the center, she instinctively wanted to smile, but in the end she couldn’t. Her lips only moved very slowly before she chose silence.

That was already tacit agreement.

Chen Yue didn’t press further.

But because of that, she also realized that this might be a precious night—one where Chi Xiaoman was willing to expose her inner self to her, a night when Chi Xiaoman was willing to admit her unease, her fragility, and her self-disgust in front of her.

There might not be another chance for a long, long time.

And even so.

Chen Yue didn’t want the questions she asked out of a desire to get closer to turn into repeated dissection and hurt for Chi Xiaoman.

Even though Chi Xiaoman hadn’t said much.

She could still predict it.

Perhaps things like this had happened to Chi Xiaoman more than once.

The thirty-year-old Chi Xiaoman had lost more freedom than Chen Yue had imagined, convinced that her closeness would bring pain to innocent people.

So she had no choice but to lock herself inside a glass jar, willingly displaying smiles and optimism through that layer of glass, hoping she could still bring warmth to others, while being miserly only with herself.

“What happened after the company bought back those clips?” Chen Yue couldn’t help asking.

Chi Xiaoman lowered her face; her chin lay open under the light and shadow.

And so Chen Yue got her answer—an entertainment company and an artist sounded like a relationship of mutual protection. But in truth, the bond between them was fragile, held together by nothing but the word interest.

Just like what Xiao Qi had said before, the reason the company publicly announced Chi Xiaoman wanted to make films in the first place was to suppress the news. Because at the time, that male star was still a rising presence they could control. And Chi Xiaoman, if she didn’t renew her contract, was a piece on the board about to be discarded.

For a long time.

Chi Xiaoman gave no answer.

Instead, she asked, “Chen Yue, do you think I’m really pathetic?”

“Why would you ask that?” Chen Yue said.

“Because just now,” Chi Xiaoman’s toes curled back slightly, “I didn’t even go out right away to stop those cameras filming me.”

“I don’t think that.” Chen Yue said.

“That’s good.” Chi Xiaoman nodded.

Chen Yue looked at her.

Chi Xiaoman kept her head down the whole time, but perhaps because she sensed Chen Yue’s gaze, she lifted the corners of her mouth a little. “I thought you were going to ask me why again.”

“Then do you want me to ask?” Chen Yue said. Her voice was still very gentle.

Chi Xiaoman paused, realizing that whether she asked or not probably made no difference. She also wanted to explain herself in front of Chen Yue, wanted Chen Yue not to think she had become awful, that she’d grown so timid she didn’t even dare resist that subtle kind of violence.

So she could only try hard to find reasons for herself. “Actually, at the beginning I did go tell them not to film. But later I found out it didn’t work, because there were too many of them.”

“If I cared every time, it would exhaust me, and waste a lot of time too.”

But after saying it, Chi Xiaoman felt that her reasons didn’t seem very convincing after all; they sounded more like excuses. So she tucked her feet back in again and smiled at Chen Yue. “Chen Yue, am I really this bad?”

Chen Yue looked at her. She had been looking at her for a long time, yet there was no scrutiny, no appraisal, no judgment in her eyes.

Neither good nor bad.

She only waited for her to ask.

“It’s not that you’re bad.” She was silent for a long while before saying the first evaluative sentence of the night to her, “It’s that there are too many awful people around you.”

Her tone was natural, almost without the slightest trace of emotion.

As if she were simply stating the most obvious fact.

Instead, it made Chi Xiaoman sad. She realized she couldn’t keep her head down anymore, because tears might fall.

So she lifted her chin slightly.

Yet she also avoided Chen Yue’s gaze, covering her eyes with her palm, trying to hold the tears back; but for some reason, they only came more and more.

Chen Yue seemed to notice.

But she still didn’t speak.

She only handed over the tissues in quiet silence.

She didn’t comfort her much.

Probably because she knew comfort wasn’t what she needed right now, and would only make her cry more.

So she simply stayed beside her.

Waited for her to take the tissues, and for those overflowing tears to slowly be wiped away.

Only then did Chen Yue say softly, “Xiaoman, you’ve already done really well.”

Just like before.

Chi Xiaoman froze, finding that the tears only came more because of that sentence.

Soaking the tissues.

She couldn’t help it; with red-rimmed eyes, she looked at Chen Yue.

Chen Yue looked into her eyes without flinching or avoiding her, her gaze full of tolerance and patience. Maybe because she had no more tissues in hand, she hesitated; then, tentatively, she reached out.

The woman curled her fingers.

Her knuckles brushed the tears at the corner of Chi Xiaoman’s eyes.

Chi Xiaoman’s eyes were red.

Maybe Chen Yue’s eyes looked too warm, too accepting; something she couldn’t help but be greedy for.

She didn’t dodge.

So Chen Yue wiped her tears away for her. Her fingers were soft; touched by Chi Xiaoman’s tears, they grew warm, then cool again. For a long time, she kept gazing at her very gently and said,

“That wasn’t your fault.”

When Chi Xiaoman’s lashes trembled because of it.

The woman seemed to have no choice but to curl her fingers back, yet she still tried to steer her gaze around the brim of Chi Xiaoman’s cap to look at her, to watch her, still patient with her.

“Don’t blame yourself too much, okay?”

-

On the first day of filming, she cried, and she also said everything she shouldn’t have said.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know if it was because this day was too special, making her let out too much emotion.

When Chen Yue spoke to her in such a tolerant tone—don’t blame yourself too much—

even though she knew her personality was like this, that she brooded over many things, and might never truly be able to do it later either,

she still couldn’t refuse to say “okay.”

But thinking about it carefully.

After they met.

She had cried too many times in front of Chen Yue. She didn’t know whether that would make Chen Yue grow tired of her tears.

Even though Chen Yue was an exceptionally patient person.

Chi Xiaoman also knew that most people preferred warm, smiling types, and kept their distance from those sunk in self-disgust and decay. Maybe the first time they’d wipe away your tears, the second time they’d feel sorry for you, the third time they’d patiently comfort you, the fourth time they’d say it was fine… but in the end, there would always be one time when they lost patience and grew annoyed with you.

She didn’t want Chen Yue to become someone who hated her too, or someone who would draw in a sharp breath every time she saw her, afraid she might cry.

So Chi Xiaoman chose to wipe away those cooled tears, clenching her hands and telling Chen Yue, “You should go back first. I want to stay here by myself and watch a little longer.”

“Really.” She sorted out her emotions, wiped at her eyes, and before Chen Yue could even answer, said firmly, “I won’t cry anymore. I just want to get used to this environment a little more.”

“Okay.” Chen Yue said.

Chi Xiaoman let out a breath.

She thought Chen Yue would leave.

But Chen Yue didn’t leave. She said, “I’ll stay with you.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Chen Yue said, “At times like this, having your partner by your side is better.”

A very fitting reason; she didn’t use the excuse that she also needed to watch the footage.

Chi Xiaoman fell silent, not indulging herself at a time like this. She nodded a little stiffly and said,

“Okay.”

Once she’d said it, she opened the laptop again and clicked on a few of the scenes they’d shot today.

The screen on the laptop was fairly small.

Chen Yue moved a little closer, nearly pressing her shoulder against Chi Xiaoman’s.

Wind came in from outside.

Her hair was almost about to fall onto Chi Xiaoman’s shoulder.

Carrying a faint fragrance.

Chi Xiaoman held her breath, a little constrained as she hugged the laptop.

Chen Yue probably sensed it and shifted slightly left. “Am I crowding you?”

“No.” Chi Xiaoman denied it quickly.

Then Chen Yue’s movement stopped.

Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together and slid the computer a little closer to Chen Yue.

“If you can’t see, tell me.”

“Okay.” Chen Yue agreed.

The next second.

She shifted back.

Back to where she’d been just now.

Her shoulder rested against Chi Xiaoman’s shoulder.

Soft, like being wrapped around.

Yet also steady, like support.

She gave no further explanation.

Chi Xiaoman was a little unaccustomed to it.

But thinking that the way she’d dodged earlier had already made Chen Yue angry, she didn’t move away again.

Besides…

When was the last time they’d sat like this, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a small patch of laptop screen?

Chi Xiaoman was still afraid of crowding Chen Yue, still afraid her emotions might break loose at any moment, afraid she might infect Chen Yue with the bad things inside her…

and yet she still couldn’t stop missing the version of herself that hadn’t been this pessimistic.

Compared with Chi Xiaoman, Chen Yue, however, seemed to be taking all of this in stride.

She didn’t dwell too much on the changes in her, nor did she show much frustration or blame toward the present her.

Nine years.

Chen Yue had grown into someone more perfect, more thorough than before, with an even better temperament.

Chi Xiaoman longed to keep up with her.

But the clips on the computer screen showed that she apparently hadn’t managed it. She hadn’t managed it nine years ago, and she still hadn’t managed it nine years later.

After watching several clips.

Chi Xiaoman fell silent.

She didn’t ask Chen Yue for her opinion, because she herself hadn’t even really passed this threshold.

Chen Yue also didn’t offer an opinion.

Both of them were quiet.

That silence made Chi Xiaoman feel humiliated.

It also made her defensive mechanisms flare back up, wanting to preemptively put herself down so she could avoid Chen Yue’s sugarcoated comfort.

So she parted her lips, wanting to joke that “I told you long ago, I’m not really suited to this.”

But before she could make a sound, Chen Yue called her softly, “Xiaoman.”

“Mm?” Chi Xiaoman picked at her fingers, suddenly unable to say any more.

The light was warm yellow. Chen Yue looked at her from the side and asked hesitantly, “Are you a little afraid of formal shots?”

Chi Xiaoman’s finger-picking stopped. She hadn’t expected Chen Yue to notice this so quickly; her face turned pale at once, but she still couldn’t deny it. When she spoke, her voice felt hollow. “A little.”

“When did it start?” Chen Yue asked softly.

“I don’t remember.” Chi Xiaoman shook her head; she wasn’t trying to make excuses for herself.

But for someone who still wanted to think of herself as an actress rather than an entertainer, this was indeed hard to say aloud. “Probably sometime in the past few years. I noticed that a lot of the time, even though I’d practiced many times privately, once I was actually in the set environment, I couldn’t get into character.”

As she said this, she was gripping the back of her hand hard.

She herself seemed barely aware of this small gesture; several patches of skin on the back of her hand had already been pinched bright red.

Chen Yue looked at her hands and said nothing.

She suddenly wanted to ask—was it because the cameras everywhere in your daily life made you afraid of cameras, until now you can no longer tell reality from fiction?

But looking at the way Chi Xiaoman pinched her own hand red, she felt there was no need to ask.

Chi Xiaoman noticed Chen Yue’s gaze.

So she stopped pinching, covered the back of her hand with one palm, and said rather reservedly,

“I’ve already been an actress for so long; I shouldn’t be having this problem.”

“You will.” Chen Yue said.

Chi Xiaoman felt confused by the answer, thinking Chen Yue was just trying to comfort her, and said, “Chen Yue, don’t just agree with everything I say.”

Her speech still had a little nasal tone, so the sentence didn’t come out very clearly.

But Chen Yue laughed a little instead. “This time I’m not just agreeing with you.”

“Sometimes I have this problem too.” She told Chi Xiaoman, “I’m not lying.”

“Even Best Actress can’t get into character sometimes?” Chi Xiaoman found that interesting.

“Chi Xiaoman.” Chen Yue looked at her. “It’s not like I was born a Best Actress.”

She sounded a little helpless.

“And besides, don’t you know? I used to like facing cameras even less than you do.”

That was true too.

Chi Xiaoman sat there stiffly, not knowing whether hearing Chen Yue say this in such a tone should make her feel relieved or sad.

She rubbed her knees. “Then what should we do?”

Like an actor sincerely asking another actor for advice.

Chen Yue looked at her. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Chi Xiaoman found that hard to understand. “What do you mean?”

The clips on the screen kept playing. Blue light flickered faintly over their faces.

Chen Yue pressed pause, as if wanting to make sure she heard clearly, then said word by word, “Generally speaking, your partner is the most important thing at a time like this.”

Chi Xiaoman felt she was trying every possible way to relieve her pressure, comforting her with what was clearly an excuse on her behalf, so she pressed her lips together. “Chen Yue—”

“I’m being serious.” Chen Yue cut her off.

Maybe seeing Chi Xiaoman’s puzzled expression, she smiled, her face looking especially warm and tender in the light.

“Because outside the camera, every single person, every pair of eyes watching you, even every beam of light shining in, actually belongs to another world. And at times like this, only your partner is in the same world as you.”

“If you’re still aware of the camera while you’re acting, then at a time like this, the most crucial person, the one who needs to take action, is her.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

“Because at a time like this, she needs to make you treat her as your anchor in this world. She needs to make you believe that you are Xiaoyu, and that the world you and she are in is the real one.”

“No lines, no camera, no other world outside the camera.”

At some point, the set light suddenly flickered, illuminating Chen Yue’s face; tired from her role, yet tonight especially accepting, supple, and uniquely her own.

“Xiaoman.”

She called her name, and slowly said to her, “From the next scene on, treat me as your anchor.”

As she said this, Chen Yue kept looking at her. Even though there was shock, confusion, and unease in Chi Xiaoman’s eyes, she kept looking at her; in the corners of her eyes, many calm emotions were spreading, like acceptance, like patient guidance.

“I’ll make you believe it.”

Wind blew outside the window; her voice was pressed very light by it, like a wisp of smoke drifting up, or a cloud that a weary traveler would willingly follow after seeing it,

“Inside the frame, you and I are the only truly real world.”

[Author’s Note]

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

(Today is also a day that made me cry a lot)