2023

It was as if, in response to Chen Yue’s words, the hanging lamp overhead flickered once, slowly.

Like a faint breath; like a cry for help from the real world.

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t have described what she was feeling at that moment.

She wished Chen Yue weren’t so good.

She wished Chen Yue would be a little meaner to her instead.

Or she wished she could become better herself; become a Chi Xiaoman who was more open, more passionate, more generous, more cheerful, someone worthy of Chen Yue’s help and support, someone worthy of being treated with such patience.

She didn’t want to feel lost, uneasy, and frightened when she was treated kindly.

She didn’t want to be unable to respond properly.

She wanted to give Chen Yue the reaction Chen Yue wanted to see; one that belonged to Chi Xiaoman herself.

The light flickered again.

Chi Xiaoman felt as if she had become a puppet whose spring had stopped turning, her limbs stiff and her expression blank. She looked at Chen Yue, and tears fell again from the corners of her eyes.

They slowly turned cold.

She couldn’t even remember to wipe them away.

Then Chen Yue moved a little closer.

Just as before, she curled her fingers and gently brushed away the fresh tears for her.

Her touch was tender.

Her face was very close. Under the warm yellow light, she looked especially soft.

Her eyes wrapped around Chi Xiaoman like a cloud of cotton.

“Xiaoman.” Chen Yue called her name. When she felt Chi Xiaoman’s lashes tremble, she bent her knuckles slightly and soothed her,

“Don’t overthink it.”

“As she comforted her, she added, ‘After all, making this scene work is something I want to accomplish too.’”

The woman’s warm fingertips touched her, then moved away.

The spring inside Puppet Chi Xiaoman started turning again, though very slowly.

Chi Xiaoman lifted her eyes and looked at Chen Yue from beneath the shadow of her cap brim. “I know, but—”

“But I’m not going to say—” Chen Yue cut her off. “If it were another actor on the crew, I’d have come specially to say the same thing tonight.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

“Xiaoman, I wouldn’t say this.”

The set was quiet. Chen Yue slowly lowered her hand to her knee and smiled at her in profile. “Because I believe that if it were you, you’d be just as patient with me.”

“Really?” Chi Xiaoman looked into her eyes and asked.

That left Chi Xiaoman unable to deny it. She could only clamp down on her fingers, force herself to gather her emotions, and wipe her eyes again. Her thoughts were sluggish; all she could do was nod and say,

“Thank you.”

She hadn’t admitted it.

Which meant she hadn’t denied it either.

“You’re welcome.” Chen Yue smiled. “Then starting tomorrow, believe me.”

Under the brim of her cap, the woman met her eyes again. “Okay?”

Perhaps she was worried Chi Xiaoman might reflexively become defensive, or perhaps she wanted to make it clear these words were meant only for her. After that, Chen Yue called her again,

“Xiaoman.”

“...Mm—” Chi Xiaoman forced out a response. “Mm—”

She realized she could barely form complete words. She couldn’t turn her face away and stop Chen Yue from looking at her, but in doing so she also saw their shadows cast together on the wall beside them, as if they were once again standing shoulder to shoulder in battle. She sniffed and said very slowly,

“Okay, I will.”

-

In a certain sense, every word Chen Yue said carried a persuasive power unique to her.

Chi Xiaoman wasn’t sure whether she herself could ever be as good as Chen Yue.

But Chen Yue said that if it were her, she would do her best too.

That was right.

Though it wasn’t entirely because of that old romance either.

In truth, if ten years ago Chen Tong and Chi Xiaoman had never fallen in love, and had only spent that year together like any ordinary pair of people before going their separate ways because they chose different paths.

Then ten years later, Chi Xiaoman would still spare no effort to help Chen Tong. If Chen Tong needed her help.

She believed Chen Yue would be the same.

She had never doubted that.

That night, with Chen Yue keeping her company, Chi Xiaoman went through every scene they had shot on the day of the opening, one by one, very carefully. She also laid bare to Chen Yue her own thoughts about the scene.

It was almost twelve when it happened.

Chen Yue suggested heading back to the hotel.

Chi Xiaoman glanced at the time.

Only then did she realize she had kept Chen Yue there for so long, and hurriedly closed the laptop.

“Sorry, you should hurry back and rest.”

“You’re the one who should be apologizing,” Chen Yue suddenly said.

Chi Xiaoman blinked. “Huh?”

With the crying scene added in, she had shed far too many tears today; by now her eyes were badly swollen, and blinking hurt a little.

“You should be apologizing.” Chen Yue probably noticed her eyes and let a smile spill into the corners of hers. “Actors coming to their scene partner to study a role so they can make the scene work better is never something to be embarrassed about.”

She wasn’t wrong. Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together. “Okay.”

“But it’s time to go back and rest,” Chen Yue said.

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman nodded.

“You’re coming with me,” Chen Yue said.

Chi Xiaoman blinked at her in a daze.

Chen Yue looked into her eyes, her gaze carefully sweeping over her face. “If you keep going, your eyes will be miserable tomorrow.”

“I...” Chi Xiaoman was still a little hesitant. In truth, she felt that going back too early wouldn’t help her sleep anyway. Better to stay on set a little longer, get used to the environment, immerse herself more in Xiaoyu’s life; in a way, that might help her get into character faster during filming.

But Chen Yue said, “It’ll also affect the shoot.”

Chi Xiaoman immediately gave in. “Fine.”

Chen Yue laughed, probably because she thought Chi Xiaoman had changed her mind a little too quickly.

Chi Xiaoman also felt a little embarrassed and pressed her lips together.

But she also didn’t want to affect Chen Yue’s rest.

She picked up the big canvas bag and packed away the little things she had brought: wet wipes, notebook, script, highlighter, computer...

She stuffed them all in together.

Chen Yue watched her from the side, as if something had just occurred to her. “You’re not bringing an assistant with you on set?”

Chi Xiaoman’s movements visibly paused for a few seconds.

She put the highlighters into the pencil case one by one.

“Her health isn’t good,” she said. “I was afraid something might happen if she came with the production, so I was planning to bring her over in a few days to have a look.”

That explanation was a little odd for an assistant. But Chen Yue didn’t ask further, only nodded.

Chi Xiaoman added, “And I’m pretty busy on set too. I don’t really like having other people taking care of me.”

“Okay,” Chen Yue said.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t say anything else.

She hastily finished packing the canvas bag, getting everything inside. The bag was already very large; hugged in her arms, it looked bigger than her upper body, like a rabbit straining to carry a small mountain.

“Let’s go.” Hugging the bulging canvas bag, Chi Xiaoman lifted her chin with great effort and said to Chen Yue, “Let’s hurry back.”

Then Chen Yue suddenly smiled again.

Chi Xiaoman blinked.

But Chen Yue didn’t explain.

She opened the garage door, waited for Chi Xiaoman to carry the bag out, then pulled the garage door down and locked it.

When she turned around—

She saw Chi Xiaoman waiting under the light, still puffed up with the bag in her arms, her eyes red and swollen too.

Chen Yue walked over with a smile.

“Chen Yue,” Chi Xiaoman gathered her courage to ask, “why do you keep laughing at me?”

“It’s nothing.” Chen Yue still said that.

After a pause, perhaps seeing her confusion, she explained patiently, “I just think you’re different from the big star I imagined before.”

“What do you mean?” Chi Xiaoman had spent too much emotion today; her thoughts were a little slow.

She walked while struggling to hold the canvas bag.

Chen Yue seemed like she wanted to help, but because the whole bag was in her arms, there was nowhere to put her hands, and her expression looked a little troubled too.

Chi Xiaoman took the initiative to explain, “It’s fine. I usually carry it like this when I walk. I’m used to this much weight. It’s not heavy.”

“Okay,” Chen Yue said, glancing at her in profile. “I thought there would be a lot of people taking care of you.”

“A-Yun Auntie does take pretty good care of me,” Chi Xiaoman said. “Whenever I go back, she makes me lots of good food. If anything comes up in Beijing with daily life or errands, I have her help me handle it.”

At that, she explained to Chen Yue, “A-Yun Auntie is my assistant; that’s what I usually call her.”

Chen Yue nodded.

“And I don’t really like having that many people around me either,” Chi Xiaoman said.

“Why not?”

“Going everywhere with a whole crowd, even for the smallest thing, and having a bunch of people all rushing around...” Chi Xiaoman shook her head. “I don’t like that feeling.”

“Mm, that’s fine too,” Chen Yue said. She walked quietly for a while, then brought up something else. “I heard something in Hong Kong before: there was an artist whose staff would secretly take her personal belongings and sell them.”

Her tone was tactful; she stopped at that point.

Chi Xiaoman more or less understood what she meant and shook her head. “That hasn’t happened to me. Before A-Yun Auntie, I only had one assistant, and she was pretty good too. She just later got into graduate school and went abroad to study.”

“I even went to see her off that day,” she added. “I ran over and gave her a bouquet of flowers.”

She wasn’t even sure why she added that.

Probably because she didn’t want Chen Yue to think she got along badly with everyone; in a childish way, she hoped Chen Yue would take the fact that she had “given flowers to someone she’d known for a long time” as proof that she still lived with optimism.

“She must have treated you very well too,” Chen Yue said.

The road back to the hotel wasn’t very long. In the deep night, the streetlights flickered slowly, and the wind softened Chen Yue’s voice a great deal.

“Mm, she was very good,” Chi Xiaoman said, feeling relaxed that she could finally talk to Chen Yue about something good. “A little girl who cried very easily, and was especially adorable.”

“Especially adorable?” Chen Yue suddenly asked.

Chi Xiaoman felt Chen Yue’s steps slow and got a little confused, but still cooperated as best she could, carrying the canvas bag and walking slowly. “Pretty adorable.”

Chen Yue stopped talking.

Chi Xiaoman walked on slowly for a bit.

Then Chen Yue asked, “Younger than you?”

“About the same age,” Chi Xiaoman said. “But back then she was still in a relationship, so I actually felt pretty sorry toward her. I kept making her run around with me on set.”

Chen Yue was quiet for a moment, then nodded and said, “Okay,” and didn’t ask anything else.

The two of them kept walking slowly, their shadows swaying under the streetlights.

Chi Xiaoman walked for a while.

She felt she should make things clear to Chen Yue, so she said,

“My manager isn’t that bad, actually. She’s very careful about who she hires, and she didn’t let anyone bad stay by my side.”

“That’s good,” Chen Yue said.

Chi Xiaoman answered with a soft “Mm” and said nothing more.

In the autumn night, they slowly reached the hotel and had no further conversation.

It was only when they got into the elevator—

Chi Xiaoman was hugging the canvas bag, which made things inconvenient and also blocked part of her view. The bag accidentally bumped against the elevator door.

Something from the side pocket of the bag fell out.

With a soft thud.

It rolled to a place Chi Xiaoman couldn’t see.

She looked around blankly while still hugging the bag.

“Don’t move. I’ll pick it up for you,” Chen Yue said.

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman stood still.

Chen Yue helped her pick up the fallen item, but after that there was still no next move for quite a while.

“Chen Yue?” Chi Xiaoman found it odd.

“Mm.” Chen Yue responded normally.

She helped stuff the picked-up item into the side pocket of Chi Xiaoman’s canvas bag.

A long while passed.

Then Chen Yue suddenly asked, “Chi Xiaoman, what medicine are you taking?”

Chi Xiaoman froze. The fingers hidden behind the edge of the bag unconsciously curled in.

Chen Yue seemed to think she had been too direct. After a pause, she continued, “The name on the bottle is very long, and it doesn’t look like a common medicine.”

Chi Xiaoman fell silent.

Perhaps thinking of her feelings, Chen Yue softened her tone. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

“Actually, it’s nothing much.”

The elevator’s ascent seemed slower than usual. Chi Xiaoman said softly,

“Just some sedative medication.”

Chen Yue said nothing. She didn’t ask what reason Chi Xiaoman had for taking sedatives.

In the late-night elevator, there were only the two of them.

Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes, staring at the overstuffed canvas bag, picking at her fingers as she slowly said,

“It’s just that sometimes I get a little anxious facing the camera. When I can’t calm down on set, I’ll take a little medicine.”

“That makes me a little better.”

“The doctor prescribed it. I didn’t take it randomly.”

Chi Xiaoman hugged the canvas bag.

Standing quietly in the corner of the elevator, she added for Chen Yue’s sake, her tone exceptionally obedient,

“I’m not abusing it, and I’m not taking too much. Because it just fell out, I didn’t even remember there was medicine in my bag.”

At that point,

Chi Xiaoman felt regret. She regretted not taking the medicine out earlier, which had led to Chen Yue discovering it now. Then she realized Chen Yue still hadn’t spoken and felt confused, so she had no choice but to explain more clearly,

“Chen Yue, I’m not sick.”

-

The elevator rose to the seventeenth floor. From the ninth floor to the fifteenth, Chen Yue never spoke.

At the sixteenth floor, she finally opened her mouth. “I never thought you were sick.”

“It’s just that—”

Rarely, Chen Yue actually fell into a state where she couldn’t organize her words well. That seldom happened to her, because she prided herself on being highly socialized, someone who knew how to use any number of ways to express what she was thinking.

But on this day,

she found her words were so barren,

“You’re amazing.”

Ding—the elevator arrived.

Chi Xiaoman blinked in great confusion. She didn’t understand why Chen Yue was telling her she was amazing when she had hidden something bad about herself and it had still been discovered.

“Chen Yue,” she wanted to remind her that the elevator had arrived.

But Chen Yue didn’t seem to have finished speaking.

So instead, Chi Xiaoman became flustered herself and couldn’t get the words out properly either.

Inside the elevator, Chen Yue lowered her eyes.

Rarely, she didn’t look at Chi Xiaoman’s eyes when she spoke. Instead, she seemed to drift into a long daze, staring at the reflection of Chi Xiaoman’s shadow on the floor, and said very slowly,

“It’s amazing that you’ve held on until now.”

Perhaps because the elevator kept opening and closing, the rhythm made her words seem hard to form,

“It’s amazing that, even now, you’re still insisting on filming Neon.”

“Because of my persuasion, you agreed to me. Afterward you gave me such a good screen test, and from the moment you agreed until now, even after encountering so many difficulties, you never showed a trace of retreat or regret...”

The elevator closed again; the space became enclosed once more. She finally lifted her eyes to look at Chi Xiaoman and said to her very softly,

“All of that is amazing.”

-

Chi Xiaoman had never thought—

that she would still get a “You’re amazing” from Chen Yue.

She felt dazed.

And uneasy.

But more than that, she felt relieved.

Because from the moment she met Chen Yue again,

all these days, the “growing up” and “getting better” she had wanted to show Chen Yue had finally been realized.

She hadn’t expected it to happen so easily.

But she didn’t want the atmosphere to grow heavy, so afterward she curved her swollen red eyes into a smile at Chen Yue and tried to make a slightly lighter joke,

“Teacher Chen Yue, how are you so good at praising people?”

Yet because Chen Yue’s gaze had always been so accepting, her nose felt blocked, and her voice had become much more nasal too,

“I should’ve shown you the medicine earlier.”

“Is there more?” Chen Yue asked.

It was strange; no one had pressed the elevator button for such a long time, so it just kept descending with them. It was as if someone had pressed pause on the elevator, isolating a private conversational space for them.

“No more.” Chi Xiaoman shook her head and also emphasized to Chen Yue, “Don’t overthink it.”

“Actually, a little anxiety is pretty common these days. It’s not a big deal.” She said that, then remembered her own feelings didn’t represent everyone’s, and she also didn’t want to look down on anyone else’s anxiety besides her own.

Chi Xiaoman added, “I mean, my doctor said the same thing. My anxiety really isn’t a big deal.”

Fearing Chen Yue might not believe her, she brought out her doctor too. “She told me not to worry too much either.”

Chen Yue looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.”

Chi Xiaoman let out a breath. “Then let’s get out of here quickly.”

“The elevator’s been waiting here for us for a long time.”

When she said this, her voice was a little nasal, and her tone sounded like it had long ago when she used to say: the signal followed us from Beijing all the way to Hong Kong.

She still seemed equally cute and strong; only the way and the moment of showing it were different.

Tonight there had been many tears, much unease, and a great deal of worry. But it had also given Chen Yue the chance to come closer and understand Chi Xiaoman more.

Chen Yue felt fortunate.

Fortunate that the one who got this singular, precious chance was herself.

And after they reached the room door,

Chi Xiaoman also seemed very grateful for her patience tonight, so before opening the door, she deliberately stopped and said to her,

“Chen Yue, thank you for today.”

Chen Yue knew she meant it sincerely. Even though she didn’t want Chi Xiaoman to be so polite with her, and wanted Chi Xiaoman to replace thanks with a bouquet of flowers or an embrace, just as she had done for the assistant who went abroad, and do the same for her too.

But Chen Yue still wanted to accept every sincere emotion from her.

“Mm, you’re welcome.”

As she expected, Chi Xiaoman’s expression brightened a little at those words. Then Chen Yue couldn’t help thinking that maybe if she said “you’re welcome” a hundred times, a thousand times more, Chi Xiaoman would hand over all her trust to her completely.

“Then go to sleep early,” Chi Xiaoman said. “Sleep well.”

Chen Yue smiled softly. “Okay. You too.”

But she didn’t leave right away.

Chi Xiaoman thought she might still be worried because of what had just happened with the candid photo and wanted to make sure she got into the room, so she pressed her lips together and used her key card to open the door.

Just as she was about to step inside,

Chen Yue called her, “Xiaoman.”

“Mm?” Chi Xiaoman turned back.

The corridor lights were warm yellow, and Chen Yue’s face looked warm too. She looked at her for a moment, then stepped closer. “After you get back to the room, don’t think about anything.”

“Wash your eyes, put on a steam eye mask, don’t look at the script anymore, and don’t think about Xiaoyu or Liu Shu anymore. Empty yourself out, or just space out for a while; that’s okay too.”

It sounded like a list of orders. But her tone wasn’t harsh at all; instead, it seemed to carry some kind of magic that made people want to obey.

In the end, Chen Yue repeated gently,

“Sleep well.”

It made it impossible not to listen.

And perhaps because she didn’t want to waste any more time, Chen Yue said nothing else after that, nor did she insist on waiting for a response.

She stood in the dim light and smiled at her.

Then she left the doorway to Chi Xiaoman’s room.

By the time Chi Xiaoman came back to her senses and ran out to look, Chen Yue’s door was already shut too. So she also closed her own door, went inside, and sat by the entrance, blankly hugging the canvas bag.

She had originally wanted to look over the script again.

But she didn’t.

She sat for a while.

Very obediently put down the canvas bag.

Went to shower.

Washed up.

And washed her eyes clean too.

She lay down on the bed, put on a steam eye mask, and after fifteen minutes took it off, placing both hands carefully and meekly on her lower abdomen.

She slept a completely blank sleep.

She didn’t remember whether she dreamed.

But she remembered that as she was drifting off, she thought in a completely unrelated way—

If she were a puppet, then Chen Yue would be some especially patient puppet restorer.

Maybe every puppet had a fixed lifespan and needed to be stopped from time to time.

But one year, in order to realize her dream, Puppet Chi Xiaoman made a bold choice, replacing her spring with one that would never stop and placing herself beneath a dazzling spotlight.

Until, from the joy and excitement at the beginning, she slowly became numb and hollow.

She didn’t want to be like that, and she didn’t want to disappoint the gazes fixed on her either, so she could only work hard to perform happiness and excitement, still stubbornly refusing to regret it, endlessly spinning round and round without ever growing tired.

Until one day.

The puppet restorer, Chen Yue, walked over and told her no, and blew a very gentle breath over her head.

Then magic descended.

The spinning spring came to rest for a moment.

Perhaps not for very long.

But it really did let her sleep a long-lost good night’s sleep.

-

Of course, reality might differ from the fairy tale in her head.

After the opening night, Chi Xiaoman did not magically figure everything out in a single night.

But from that day on,

she decided to believe what Chen Yue said.

Every time she put herself into the frame, she would try hard to treat the other person as Neon’s anchor, pinning all the weight of her existence in the world of Neon onto Liu Shu.

She didn’t instantly pull off some trick and completely become Xiaoyu, but she was improving slowly because of it, getting better with each take.

It was the seventh day of filming this major scene.

After three straight all-nighters.

After they finished the first take of that night, many people on set were yawning, their dark circles almost falling to the floor.

At that point, Chi Xiaoman still hadn’t fully come out of the scene. Tears hung on the verge of falling at the corners of her eyes; her eyes were red as she stared at the monitor, reviewing the clip they had just shot.

Shen Baozhi had also stayed up with them for many days, and at the moment she and the assistant director in charge of controlling the set during Chi Xiaoman’s scenes were both beside her, holding their breath and nervously leaning in to watch.

Maybe it wasn’t just the three of them.

There was also the cinematographer for this setup, the lighting tech, several props crew members, Xiaoqi, Chen Yue’s assistant... altogether seven or eight people clustered behind them in a second ring, trying hard to lift their chins and watch.

Chen Yue herself hadn’t come over; she didn’t seem to like watching the monitor immediately after a scene.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t force it either.

Under the bright lights of the set, inside the small square monitor,

the scene played to its ending—

The lights were dim, and the summer night was stifling. Xiaoyu reached out and wrapped her arms around Liu Shu from behind.

She tried hard to press her face against Liu Shu’s hair and said to her,

“Liu Shu, don’t go, okay?”

Clear tears fell from Xiaoyu’s reddened eyes.

Like drops of rain falling from a cloud.

They landed on Liu Shu’s chin; drip, drip, slowly mingling with another tear track.

As if two tiny rivers had merged from then on.

“Cut—”

The scene inside the story ended.

But perhaps because the cinematographer had been a little slow just then, the video on the monitor didn’t stop immediately.

The image inside the frame grew noisy.

It was still the narrow single bed, the old wall paint, the streetlight outside the window.

In the commotion, Chi Xiaoman sat up blankly and wiped her tears.

Chen Yue also sat up. She lowered her eyes; there were still tears left unwashed on her chin, which looked as if they were glowing under the lights.

Neither of them had managed to calm their emotions much, and both had slightly messy hair. They didn’t look at each other, because if they did, they might start crying even more.

“Xiaoman! Teacher Chen!” Shen Baozhi’s voice came from outside the camera.

So the two people inside the shot

both turned toward the camera at the same time—

probably also seeing Shen Baozhi outside the frame, wiping away tears.

Then, both with red eyes, they smiled toward the camera.

“I’m keeping that smile,” Shen Baozhi said, sniffing. “It’s going into the behind-the-scenes footage.”

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman saw that her eyes were still red too, so she handed her some tissues. “Baozhi, stop crying.”

“I don’t want to either.” Shen Baozhi’s Cantonese slipped out. She took the tissue, wiped the corners of her eyes, and then said with a somewhat unnatural pout, “From now on, every time I see your two smiling faces, I’m going to feel sad.”

Chi Xiaoman laughed. “Then how was today’s take?”

“Actually, I thought yesterday’s take was already fine,” Shen Baozhi said. “But you insisted on keeping one, so I can only listen to the director.”

“Then what about today?” Chi Xiaoman asked.

Shen Baozhi and the assistant director exchanged a look in front of her.

Shen Baozhi was cautious. “Still listen to the director.”

But the assistant director immediately said, “It’s really already very good.”

“And if you keep crying for a few more days, your eyes might stop working,” Shen Baozhi added while the iron was hot.

“Then...”

Chi Xiaoman was a little hesitant. She subconsciously turned back, only to see several rows of people looking at her eagerly, one pair of eyes after another, some of them red too. For some reason, everyone on her crew was very emotional.

Then she saw Chen Yue.

Behind so many gazes fixed on her.

Only Chen Yue wasn’t looking at her.

The woman was sitting by the bed, still wearing Liu Shu’s costume. Her back looked very slender, and her face was still pale.

She hadn’t tidied the hair that had been messed up by the pillow, but instead kept her head down, slowly wiping the tears from her chin. The motion was very slow; perhaps that was how she handled the leftover emotions.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know why Chen Yue happened to be refusing to look at her right now. She felt puzzled, and also uneasy.

But because many people besides Chen Yue were already waiting for her to decide, she thought about it for a while and finally made up her mind,

“Then let’s keep this one for now.”

As soon as she said it,

the whole set erupted into cheers and commotion.

It was just like the opening ceremony that day.

Chi Xiaoman still hadn’t fully come back to herself; her eyes still carried tear tracks from not completely leaving the scene.

She looked blankly at the happy expressions on everyone’s faces, froze for a moment, and then couldn’t help laughing along with everyone else.

At some point Shen Baozhi suddenly ran off; then, without a word, she came back carrying the confetti cannon that had been sitting in the corner all along.

Before Chi Xiaoman could say anything,

Shen Baozhi was already standing in front of the clapperboard, holding up the confetti cannon, and with a sudden pop—

confetti floated down, lit by the lights above as if it were glowing. Everyone was startled and subconsciously looked up.

Shadows blurred; light drifted.

Chi Xiaoman looked at Chen Yue.

Chen Yue looked at her too.

Across the falling confetti and the many swaying shoulders.

Their eyes met like two seas colliding.

Both were quiet; both were gentle.

Chen Yue smiled at her.

Chi Xiaoman also smiled.

Between their eyes were the swaying yellow lights, the still-falling confetti, and the clapperboard that had been set aside for the moment.

Every word on the board seemed to be lit gold by the reflected confetti light—

Neon, Scene 1, Take 1.

Starring: Chen Yue, Chi Xiaoman.

Screenwriter: Lang Lang.

The halo flowed into the space between their gazes, like shaking neon, turning into blurred blocks of color and softening the two faces.

The crowd was lively, and everyone was feeling joy over the first scene being done. Chi Xiaoman suddenly wanted to walk over and ask Chen Yue if it was good, whether Chen Yue felt her decision had been too casual.

But she had only taken one step.

Shen Baozhi’s face suddenly blocked her line of sight, cutting off her view of Chen Yue.

“Xiaoman, you’re amazing!” Shen Baozhi gave her a thumbs-up, then enthusiastically raised her palm—

as if she wanted to high-five her.

Chi Xiaoman instinctively glanced first toward Chen Yue, but her view was narrow and she could only see the woman’s slightly lowered chin, so she withdrew her gaze and high-fived Shen Baozhi, curving her eyes. “Don’t praise me by myself.”

“Right.”

Shen Baozhi turned back to Chen Yue, and then cheerfully said to her,

“Teacher Chen, you’re amazing too!”

She ran over and raised her hand without any hesitation. Chen Yue also smiled and high-fived her.

That gave Chi Xiaoman the chance to follow behind Shen Baozhi and walk over, tucking both hands awkwardly behind her back.

The set was overflowing with excitement and noise.

It seemed no one could settle down to film the next scene for the time being.

Chi Xiaoman wasn’t the kind of director who would press everyone down and keep shooting in a moment like this.

She stood quietly with her hands behind her back and couldn’t quite hear what Chen Yue and Shen Baozhi were saying.

It was only when Shen Baozhi and Chen Yue both looked at her that she felt confused and wrinkled her nose. “What?”

“Xiaoman, there’s a piece of confetti on your nose,” Shen Baozhi said, laughing so hard she was nearly bent over.

“Where?”

She hadn’t expected to make a fool of herself in front of Chen Yue again.

In a panic, Chi Xiaoman reached up to take it off, but because she had lifted her head, she realized there was confetti caught in her hair, brushing against the corner of her eye, cool and prickly, making her even more flustered.

She had barely gotten a few pieces off when Chen Yue circled around Shen Baozhi and, without Chi Xiaoman noticing when, walked over to her. Carrying that faint fragrance with her, she came close and surrounded her, very considerately helping remove the confetti caught in her hair.

“Thanks, thanks,” Chi Xiaoman said.

“Xiaoman.” Chen Yue’s fingers moved through her hair. Her voice was especially clear amid the noise.

“Mm?” Chi Xiaoman looked up awkwardly. “What is it?”

But Chen Yue didn’t answer right away. She helped remove a green strip of confetti from behind Chi Xiaoman’s ear; her finger brushed faintly past Chi Xiaoman’s ear, and when Chi Xiaoman’s fingers clenched in response, Chen Yue lowered her eyes and curved the corners of them at her.

Her tone was soft, almost coaxing,

“Aren’t you going to high-five me?”

[Author’s Note]

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