2023

The noise on the autumn-night set hadn’t died down yet.

After saying that, Chen Yue didn’t deliberately wait for Chi Xiaoman’s reaction. She only smiled and went on picking the ribbons from Chi Xiaoman’s hair and shoulders.

“I...” Chi Xiaoman’s fingers, tucked behind her waist, tightened.

Shen Baozhi leaned in and added, “Exactly. Why are the two of you so calm?”

“Shouldn’t this be the moment you high-five?”

Chen Yue gave a faint smile and didn’t answer.

Chi Xiaoman glanced at her and said hesitantly, “We should.”

Chen Yue’s hand stilled. She looked at her; the corners of her eyes seemed to be smiling, and yet somehow not.

“We should,” Chi Xiaoman repeated softly.

They were standing very close.

Chi Xiaoman could smell the fragrance on her and see the few strands of hair that had been blown loose by the wind.

“Chen Yue... teacher.”

For some reason, she added “teacher.”

Chi Xiaoman felt her tongue knot up. The fingers behind her back tried hard to uncurl, while she secretly twisted the hem of her T-shirt.

Then she held it out.

Like an elementary schooler raising her hand at a desk, honest and earnest, she lifted her left hand beside her face.

“Thank you for these past few days,” she said to Chen Yue.

Shen Baozhi let out a surprised sound. “Xiaoman, you sound so formal.”

Chen Yue didn’t seem to mind her stiffness, nor did she mind the strange addition of “teacher.”

She smiled at her. The curve of her eyes looked especially beautiful in the shifting light.

Then.

She and Chi Xiaoman high-fived.

A simple motion.

It left Chi Xiaoman’s palm tingling, and she couldn’t help curling her fingers in slightly.

Chen Yue slowly withdrew her hand and looked at her, saying softly, “You’re welcome.”

“You worked hard too.”

She said to Chi Xiaoman,

“You cried for so many days and still managed to finish shooting today’s scene. That’s impressive.”

“It’s nothing.” Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together. “Everyone’s been working hard.”

The next second, after a gust of wind hit Chen Yue and she coughed, and seeing her face turn even paler, Chi Xiaoman couldn’t help adding, “You too.”

Chen Yue smiled and didn’t deny it.

“We’re all working hard, all of us,” Shen Baozhi chimed in. “No need to compete over it.”

Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together and tucked the numb hand behind her back, quietly rubbing her fingertips together.

Even though the first scene had been shot, they couldn’t waste the night. After the excitement, the exhilaration, the rush... soon the set regained its solemn atmosphere and went on to shoot the scattered transitional shots for the scene, as well as the same passage from Liu Shu’s point of view in the script. For that, both beds were moved to the center so they could capture Chen Yue’s expressions from that side.

This time, the focus was on Chen Yue. The camera needed to show Liu Shu’s loneliness, numbness, and sorrow behind the embrace. So many emotions had to shift, yet in this scene Liu Shu had no lines at all.

By rights, with the positions switched, Chi Xiaoman should have been able to relax a little. She only needed to cooperate with Chen Yue and make sure her own lines, movements, and emotions were all in place.

But she remembered what Chen Yue had said:

In the camera’s eyes, you and I are the only real world.

And because of that, she didn’t dare slack off.

She couldn’t be the one holding Chen Yue back in this scene, and she also longed to be like Chen Yue—to be able to give the other person the help and support they needed at any time.

So before this official take.

She sat on the edge of the bed and, after some hesitation, still asked Chen Yue, “Chen Yue, how do you want me to cooperate with you?”

Originally, it was the same scene.

Her movements and emotions should have stayed in the same rhythm.

That was already an actor’s duty.

By rights, Chen Yue shouldn’t have needed much extra help from her.

But after thinking carefully, Chen Yue smiled and said to her, “Xiaoman, when you’re holding me, could you pat my back when the camera can’t see you? It might not matter for the shot, but it could help my emotions.”

A very detailed request for coordination.

Chi Xiaoman nodded. “Okay, I will.”

“Mm, I believe you.” Chen Yue looked at her and said.

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Why do you believe me so easily?

She almost asked it out loud.

But the set was already preparing to roll.

So Chen Yue just smiled at her, climbed onto the bed, and curled into the corner.

In the end, Chi Xiaoman never got the question out.

Instead, she stared blankly at Chen Yue’s back, curled up at the edge of the bed.

“Okay, everyone, get ready,” the assistant director called out. “Keep quiet.”

Chi Xiaoman held her breath.

“Three—”

“Two—”

“Neon, Scene One, Shot Thirteen.”

“Action—”

Chi Xiaoman was sobbing.

With her breathing tight and obstructed, she slowly walked over.

She climbed onto the bed and, from behind, very carefully wrapped her arms around Chen Yue.

Chen Yue’s shoulders gave a tiny tremor, like the faintest shiver of a leaf slipping off a branch.

Compared with Xiaoyu’s emotions laid bare, Liu Shu’s every reaction had to be much more restrained. Because she was someone absolutely proud, someone whose self-esteem remained fiercely intact under any conditions.

Her vulnerability, fear, and sorrow all had to be conveyed to the audience with precision and intensity, even though the expressions and movements themselves could not be large.

The hardest part of this scene was that the two of them couldn’t see each other’s expressions while filming. They could only rely on each other’s breathing, the rise and fall of movement, and the sounds around them to coordinate.

And Chi Xiaoman couldn’t imagine how Chen Yue had used nothing but a back view to drag her completely into this world.

So when she shot this scene, she could only keep her mind as focused as possible, as though she herself were filming her own part and crying just as hard.

And after she said,

“Liu Shu, please don’t go, okay?”

then, according to their agreement, after the camera moved away, while listening to Chen Yue’s breathing that sounded faint yet tightly restrained, she patted Chen Yue’s extremely thin back.

Only then did she feel it:

Hot tears dropped onto the back of her hand, rolling down through the gaps between her fingers and seeping into every pore of her skin.

It stung, making the pain worse.

And making it even harder for her to stop crying.

But she still didn’t dare let the reaction spill out too fully; she clenched her palm and warned herself again and again not to steal the scene.

Until a clear voice came from the side:

“Cut—”

Only then did she break into a wrenching sob.

At that moment—

Chen Yue, who had been held in her arms, instantly relaxed as well. As if she had sensed that faint sob from Chi Xiaoman, she turned slightly back and lightly, lightly patted the back of Chi Xiaoman’s hand, as though soothing her.

A very quiet touch.

That let Chi Xiaoman calm herself at last. She sniffled and let go.

But Chen Yue paused for a moment before slowly sitting up.

After getting up, she didn’t look at Chi Xiaoman right away. She only lowered her eyes and silently took the tissues handed over by the crew member, wiping away her own tears.

She looked completely out of the scene already.

Chi Xiaoman was a little reassured. In a hurry, she looked at the monitor to check the footage—unsurprisingly, Chen Yue had done very well. It was only her first take, and Chi Xiaoman already felt it could pass.

Seven days and one take.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t compare the two too much. In fact, after watching that segment, she suddenly let out a breath—because during this period, Chen Yue’s emotional consumption for this scene had been huge, only Chen Yue never said a word, never made a sound, and always digested it quietly on her own beside her.

Which probably made it easy for many people to misunderstand that switching in and out of character was easy for her, as if acting a scene like this were no different from flipping a switch.

“No wonder she’s Chen-laoshi.” Shen Baozhi stared at the monitor. “Her control over her expressions is so good; not a single useless detail.”

Then, noticing Chi Xiaoman’s slightly grave expression, Shen Baozhi hurriedly explained, “I’m not saying you’re bad, Xiaoman-laoshi.”

“It’s fine.”

Chi Xiaoman smiled at her. Honestly, she really didn’t mind. She looked toward Chen Yue—

The other woman was still maintaining the posture of sitting at the edge of the bed.

Almost exactly the same as when they’d called cut these past few days: eyes lowered, sitting in the corner like a shadow, silently wiping away the tears belonging to Liu Shu on her face, occasionally absent-minded, yet whenever anyone mentioned her, she could respond accurately and gently.

After watching the clip on the monitor.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t answer Shen Baozhi or the assistant director about whether it had passed.

She walked over to Chen Yue.

And sat down quietly opposite her, pressing both hands beneath the edge of the bed.

Chen Yue noticed her approach.

She raised her face, smiled slightly at her, and suddenly called, “Director Xiaoman.”

Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together.

So Chen Yue smiled again. “How was that take just now?”

“Very good,” Chi Xiaoman said.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Chen Yue tilted her head and asked.

“How could I possibly lie to you?”

Chi Xiaoman looked at her expression; her mouth stayed straight, and she tried hard to make it into a small joke.

“Doesn’t Chen-laoshi know how good your performance was?”

Chen Yue looked at her.

A long while passed.

Then she said slowly, “I think it was all right.”

“Then do you want to keep it as a backup take?” Chi Xiaoman asked.

“Yes.” Chen Yue nodded.

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman let out a breath. “Then rest a little first; we can start again whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Chen Yue said.

“Mm, don’t rush,” Chi Xiaoman said. “Taking it a little slower is fine too.”

“Mm, I’m not rushing.”

Chen Yue had originally been looking down, her lashes lowered.

But after saying that, she lifted her eyes and smiled at her. “Because I have a good partner.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

So Chen Yue smiled again, as if she had completely handled the absentmindedness caused by emotional strain and once again become the steady actor Chen Yue, gently telling her,

“I’m ready, Director Xiaoman.”

“Do you really not want to rest a little longer?” Chi Xiaoman couldn’t help saying. “You’ve been tired these past few days too. If you need to, we can pause a bit.”

Chen Yue shook her head.

“I want to get this scene done today while we’re at it.”

She didn’t say why.

Then she lay back down again.

To some extent, Chi Xiaoman actually felt that between the two of them, Chen Yue was the more stubborn one—

This stubbornness wasn’t toward other people, only toward herself. Because when it came to her own matters, Chi Xiaoman could still be persuaded.

But Chen Yue...

No one could talk her around.

It was also at that moment that Chi Xiaoman realized: every time they discussed something, it was always about Chi Xiaoman herself; it always seemed to be about how hard it was for Chi Xiaoman to become a big star, Chi Xiaoman’s unease, Chi Xiaoman’s anxiety, Chi Xiaoman’s fear.

But didn’t Chen Yue work hard too?

Hadn’t Chen Yue truly never had any of those things?

How much suffering had she had to endure?

How much of it had she had to hide and digest all by herself?

Only then could she go from that Chen Tong who frowned even when facing the camera to the Chen Yue she was now?

Chi Xiaoman suddenly wanted to know.

But the set, already reset and ready, gave her no chance.

So she looked at Chen Yue’s back, thin as a sheet of paper, and could only force herself to calm down the worry and confusion that had come so late, after realizing all this.

She nodded to the assistant director.

Took her place again.

Neon, Scene One, Shot Thirteen, Take Two.

action.

-

Chen Yue’s performance was dazzling enough to leave people stunned.

Even though she had been typecast as a “literary-film actress,” her portrayal of Liu Shu was excellent. In the very first crucial shot, she had already shown powerful acting ability, and every detail she presented to the camera bore no trace of her previous roles.

Scene Thirteen passed after only three takes.

Considering that the crew had been grinding nonstop for several days, when Chi Xiaoman finished work she sat in front of the monitor for a long time. Then suddenly she picked up the loudhailer and told everyone that tomorrow’s call time would be pushed back, and ordered them all to get a good night’s sleep.

Everyone raised their hands and cheered.

“Director Xiaoman is so thoughtful!”

Director Xiaoman.

Who knew who had started calling her that.

Chi Xiaoman slowly packed her things away, also feeling that she had been delaying everyone’s time these past few days, so after wrapping up she stayed behind on her own to tidy up and lock the door. After that, she hugged her bag, found the crew roster from before, and paid out of pocket to order late-night food for every person on the crew and have it sent to their rooms.

Ordering each portion one by one took a lot of time.

By the time she finished, the set had already gone very quiet.

Chi Xiaoman walked out with her canvas bag in her arms and saw Chen Yue waiting for her outside.

Maybe she still hadn’t fully stepped out of the scene, or maybe Liu Shu’s shadow on her hadn’t faded all that much. Every time Chi Xiaoman saw Chen Yue, a faint sadness would rise in her heart.

In October, as the temperature dropped, the road from the set back to the hotel became especially chilly in the wind.

She snuffed out that firefly-like sadness and walked over to Chen Yue. “Chen Yue, why aren’t you going back with everyone to rest?”

“I was going back, but I felt a little tired,” Chen Yue said, looking at her.

“So I came out to get some wind, and also sort through today’s details.”

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman nodded.

On the autumn night, the two of them walked side by side, slowly making their way from the set back to the hotel. The “sorting through details” Chen Yue mentioned probably meant reviewing the day’s acting beats and emotions in her mind. Chi Xiaoman originally shouldn’t have disturbed her too much.

But after walking quietly for a while, she still couldn’t help asking, “Chen Yue, do you always act like this now?”

“Hm?” Chen Yue seemed to be thinking about something, slightly absent-minded. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Chi Xiaoman slowed her steps. “In every scene, do you have to make yourself get into character in one second and get out in one second, without leaving yourself any room for error?”

“Like what I’ve been seeing these past few days.”

By rights, as an actor, it’s common to have trouble getting into a role or getting out of it. No one can guarantee they’ll be able to become someone else completely, any time, anywhere; and in theory, that doesn’t mean the actor’s skill is poor.

It’s just that actors are living, breathing people too. Acting is an extremely consuming form of creation; it’s inevitable that sometimes things won’t be handled well.

For example, Chi Xiaoman’s own method was to use every means possible before filming to immerse herself as much as she could. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, and usually when she used that method, it also left her unable to get out of the scene afterward, with emotions that couldn’t settle.

But Chen Yue didn’t seem to have those wandering moments. Exact, exquisite, complete... she could switch instantly between the role and herself.

Of course that would make her partner, and the director filming her, feel relaxed; it would make them think she was an easy and gifted actor to work with.

But...

How was that done?

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t understand.

And even if it could be done, wouldn’t it hurt her a great deal?

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t help thinking all this.

But she was also worried Chen Yue might misunderstand her, so she took the initiative to explain,

“I’m not questioning you. It’s just...”

She paused for a few seconds, pressed her lips together, and lowered her voice a lot. “I’m a little worried about you.”

“What are you worried about?” Chen Yue’s voice didn’t sound angry; it even sounded a bit amused, but she seemed to have completely misunderstood the point.

Chi Xiaoman stared at their reflections beneath the streetlight. After struggling for a long time, she felt that, as an old friend, as the director of this film, as her... partner, it wasn’t unreasonable to worry about her.

So she chose a lighter tone and said, “I’m worried you’re too hard on yourself. Sometimes you’re obviously already exhausted, but you still don’t take it seriously.”

After that, wanting to present her concern as sufficiently open and without any selfish motive, Chi Xiaoman forced herself to look into Chen Yue’s eyes.

“I just don’t want you to be too harsh on yourself.”

Honestly, every time Chi Xiaoman glimpsed little scraps of Chen Yue’s life, she felt that Chen Yue had lived these nine years very empty, with the center of her life perhaps all on acting, while paying far too little attention to herself.

“I’m not harsh on myself.”

Not unexpectedly, Chen Yue denied her suspicion in a calm and tender way.

And after that, she smiled at her. “If I’m hungry, I eat. If I’m thirsty, I drink water. If I’m cold, I put on more clothes; isn’t that good enough?”

She was joking.

But Chi Xiaoman didn’t laugh.

“Does that count as good enough?” Chi Xiaoman asked.

Chen Yue stopped walking. In the wind and the night, her gaze looked very gentle, yet impossible to read.

“And today is so cold, but you’re not wearing much either,” Chi Xiaoman said softly.

The temperature in Beijing had already dropped very low for the season, and the difference between day and night was huge.

The feels-like temperature might already have been under ten degrees.

But Chen Yue was still only wearing a very thin blue knitted cardigan.

Hearing that, Chen Yue seemed to realize it for the first time and froze for a moment.

Chi Xiaoman began rummaging through her canvas bag, found a thick hoodie, and maybe because the bag was stuffed too full, when she took it out it looked crumpled into a ball and rather ugly. But after hesitating for a moment, she still chose to hand it over. “I only wore it when I came today; it’s clean.”

She held the hoodie out a little farther. “Chen Yue, don’t mind it.”

Chen Yue lowered her eyes and took it. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s good.” Chi Xiaoman kept hugging her bag.

After that, she didn’t look at Chen Yue.

She didn’t want to be one of those people who hands something to someone and then demands they use it immediately.

But Chen Yue still put it on.

In the past few years, Chi Xiaoman had liked buying clothes a size larger, because that made her feel safer when she wore them.

So this hoodie was also very big on Chen Yue now, making her look even more hollow and spare.

Only after Chen Yue had finished putting it on did Chi Xiaoman steal another glance, and then saw that her hair had been trapped under the clothing, so she couldn’t help reminding her, “Your hair.”

“Hm? Where?” Chen Yue looked a little lost.

Then Chi Xiaoman suddenly understood—

Acting was also very consuming for Chen Yue.

These days of nonstop work.

Could also make the formidable Chen Yue feel tired, so much so that her thoughts turned sluggish.

She pressed her lips together. “Here.”

But when Chen Yue slowly reached up, Chi Xiaoman couldn’t help herself and reached out first—

to help Chen Yue pull the hair out from under the collar.

Her movement was very careful.

Not too intimate.

Just friendly mutual help between a female director and a female actress.

Chi Xiaoman withdrew her hand, tucked it behind her waist, and absently rubbed the fingertips that had brushed against Chen Yue’s hair. The next second, she heard Chen Yue say softly,

“Then I won’t thank you.”

“Hm?” Chi Xiaoman looked up in confusion and saw the side of Chen Yue’s face half-buried under the hoodie collar. “Okay.”

After thinking for a while, she felt the other woman probably didn’t want to talk too much with her, so she took the initiative and said,

“Chen Yue, I don’t know how things are in other crews. But in my crew, you can absolutely leave yourself room for error. It’s fine if you can’t get into character once or twice; it’s fine if you can’t get out of it either.”

“You don’t have to be so strict with yourself.”

Chen Yue stopped, looking at her through the autumn night and the light of the streetlamp. She was silent for two seconds, then suddenly smiled.

She didn’t say yes, and she didn’t say no.

Chi Xiaoman pressed her lips together. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.” Chen Yue shook her head.

The wind swept over.

It made her face look even paler. “I just think you’ve grown up a lot.”

Chi Xiaoman’s throat moved.

“Not compared to ten years ago,” Chen Yue said again, smiling.

Her voice was made very soft by the wind. “I mean, actually, you do a very good job as a director too.”

“You’re even more impressive than I imagined,” she told her.

Chi Xiaoman lowered her eyes, thinking that after so many years, Chen Yue’s skill at changing the subject had only grown stronger. “Why has it suddenly turned into praising me again?”

Chen Yue laughed at that. “Because seeing you doing well makes me very happy.”

Sometimes, Chi Xiaoman would have the illusion in her heart that Chen Yue was the most flawless person in the world; she probably wouldn’t have enemies, and no one would hate her.

But no one would get too close to her either. Because closeness always brings hurt.

“Mm, me too.”

After a long while.

Chi Xiaoman brushed her chin against her collar and spoke slowly, though she immediately changed the subject,

“But you also need to be better to yourself.”

She didn’t know whether Chen Yue could really be persuaded by her, so she could only repeat it again and again.

“If you feel unhappy or tired during filming, you have to say it anytime. You can tell Baozhi, or your assistant, or your manager. You can tell any assistant director on set.”

Chen Yue said nothing.

Chi Xiaoman tightened her fingers and looked straight ahead at the not-too-long stretch of night road, then said softly, “You can tell me too.”

After she spoke, she didn’t get a response right away.

Chi Xiaoman thought Chen Yue hadn’t listened and wanted to add more.

But Chen Yue suddenly said, “Xiaoman, can I wear this coat for a few more days?”

Chi Xiaoman blinked.

Chen Yue raised her eyes to look at her and smiled. “That’s what I want to say to you right now.”

She didn’t explain why.

Chi Xiaoman finally reacted and instinctively answered, “Mm, okay.”

Chen Yue also said “Mm,” walked a few steps, and her laughter in the wind was soft and gentle. “It just feels very warm to wear.”

“It is pretty warm. I bought the thickened one on purpose,” Chi Xiaoman said, nodding. “If it feels comfortable, then keep wearing it; you don’t need to rush giving it back.”

“I have plenty more,” she explained.

Chen Yue paused for a moment. “Okay.”

Seeing Chen Yue look less frail after putting on the thick hoodie, Chi Xiaoman also let out a long breath. “But I have one more thing I want to ask you.”

“What is it?” Chen Yue was very patient.

“It’s just...” Chi Xiaoman gathered the corners of her mouth. “Why don’t you ever come look at the monitor?”

“Is that also part of your filming habit?” she asked.

“This...” Chen Yue thought for a moment. “Actually, I do look in other crews.”

“Then why not in our crew?” Chi Xiaoman asked, puzzled.

Chen Yue quieted down.

Chi Xiaoman thought she might not find it convenient to answer, and another thought surfaced in her mind—maybe every time she got close to Chen Yue, Chen Yue would also feel inconvenienced—so she was about to change the subject.

But Chen Yue said it first: “Because I don’t want to interfere with you too much.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

The autumn wind was bleak. Chen Yue smiled.

“Xiaoman, actually I’ve been thinking, from the moment Neon was pitched until now, a lot of things have been me pushing you to do them. I pushed you to choose the cast; I was also the one pushing you to make the decision to play Xiaoyu...”

“Of course, I don’t regret any of that. If I went back a few months, I’d still fight for this opportunity for myself, and I’d still use that same method to persuade you to play Xiaoyu.”

“But I also thought, because of those two things before, would you also feel that I interfere too much with you...” She paused there, then continued,

“I don’t want you to feel too much pressure because of me.”

“And I also don’t want you to be so nervous while filming Neon that you have to read my face every time.”

“You’re the director. I should respect every decision you make.”

“And I should also believe that every decision you make will respect me, and respect this crew.”

I’ve never felt pressure because of you—Chi Xiaoman wanted to say that, but then felt that in reality, her actions couldn’t prove it. Because she really had cried too many times in front of Chen Yue, and resisted too many times.

There was no way to argue that point away.

She fell silent and asked with some difficulty, “Is it just because of this?”

“No.” Chen Yue denied it.

Chi Xiaoman found it hard to understand.

Chen Yue smiled under the streetlight. Maybe because of several consecutive overnight shoots, she already looked very tired, but she was still patient with her.

“Also because I think I should trust you more.”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

Chen Yue went on, “I should believe that you can do very well on your own.”

“Believe that even without me, you can finish this very well.”

“Even including my part.”

“I also believe you’ll definitely check for me, go through every detail, and then tell me what to do to make it better.”

Late autumn had deepened. Vehicles rolled slowly along the road; the woman’s hair was blown up by the wind.

She stood in front of her, as if truly looking straight at the current Chi Xiaoman, yet the way she smiled at her seemed to carry a great deal of loneliness. Her voice was very light,

“Because it seems like you’ve already grown up.”

[Author’s Note]

The forty-first day of Little Neon on time [sunglasses]