2013

When she was seventeen, Chi Xiaoman came to Beijing determined to become a great actress. Only later did she learn that, not to mention being great, even actors who barely cleared the passing line had to learn how to write character profiles for their roles. She had picked up that method from Lang Lang, and she kept using it for a very long time afterward.

Chi Xiaoman had a thick yellow leather notebook. Wang Aimei had asked someone to buy it for her in the county town the year she came to Beijing. She used that notebook to write character profiles, drawing on her own limited life experience to define different kinds of roles—selfish people, kind people, harmless people, aggressive people, people who were all bark and no bite, considerate people, warm people, vicious people... For a time, she relied on this method to understand a character as quickly as possible.

But one day, the yellow leather cover had faded, the paper had yellowed, and even the words written inside had begun to look old and stained with age. When she opened it again, Chi Xiaoman found that the world’s greatest screenwriter had added one word beneath every profile she had written:

Love.

This screenwriter taught her how to act, how to read scripts, how to understand characters, how to deliver lines, and how to break down films shot by shot. Once, when she flipped through those profiles, she had asked Chi Xiaoman: when this character is being loved, when they are loving someone, are they still selfish? Are they still harmless?

Back then, Chi Xiaoman couldn’t figure it out. She was just a tiny actress in Beijing, one who could hardly land roles with real lines. She had never thought about how a character would react when faced with love.

But later she understood. No matter whether a person had once been selfish, harmless, or vicious... the moment they encountered love, crackling and popping, like some kind of explosive chemical reaction, every definition of that person had to be rewritten from the beginning.

Just like for a very long time, Chi Xiaoman had thought herself brave, someone who was never afraid of anything. But when she finally wanted to love, she realized that even that bravery no longer counted.

In the summer of 2014, Beijing was still as hot and sticky as ever; by May, the temperature was already as high as 40 degrees.

Chi Xiaoman and Chen Tong made up, and together they hauled two suitcases back to Beijing by plane. It was Chi Xiaoman’s first time ever flying. When she went to Hong Kong to look for Chen Tong, she hadn’t been willing to let herself take a plane. So after getting her permit, she had taken a long train ride alone, then transferred to a bus in Shenzhen and gone on to Hong Kong.

Coming back with Chen Tong, she flew. Everything felt fresh and strange; she stared at the clouds outside the window, and because of fear and the unknown, sweat slowly gathered in her palms.

But she could feel Chen Tong watching her.

She also felt Chen Tong trying very hard to hold her hand tightly, so she turned her head and smiled at Chen Tong with crescent-shaped eyes, squeezing back, thinking with all her strength: let this never happen again. Winter was over, summer was about to arrive, and she and Chen Tong must never be separated again.

Chi Xiaoman wanted things to go that way.

She also made more effort, urgently wanting to set every part of their life back on track.

So after returning to Beijing:

First, Chi Xiaoman asked for Chen Yue’s mother’s bank card, repaid every cent she owed, and also opened the notebook she used for keeping accounts, settling every debt listed there.

But the money in Lang Lang’s passbook wasn’t actually enough. After she repaid all the debts, there was nothing left to transfer into the account Lang Lang had left behind. So Chi Xiaoman wanted to save up some money first, then put it into that account.

Second, they moved out of the basement on Felicity Road. On moving day, they slowly peeled away the tape covering the small window, took down the curtains stitched with little goldfish, packed them into a box with Lang Lang’s belongings, then moved them along with the blue sofa to the new place, where they were placed in a corner and never touched again.

The new place didn’t have such a tiny window, and there was also a new sofa provided by the landlord. So they had no choice but to pile the goldfish curtains and the blue sofa into the corner. Much later, they still hadn’t moved them.

They moved into another residential complex far away from Felicity Road. The location was even more remote, but the rent was much more expensive.

It was a one-bedroom unit on the ground floor.

The space wasn’t large.

But it no longer failed to catch the sun, and it was cleaner and brighter than the mold-stained ceiling of the basement.

Most of the rent came from the remaining pay Chen Tong had earned from filming, and from money her cousin had repaid after going home; only a small part came from the odd jobs Chi Xiaoman had worked these past few months.

When they signed the contract, Chen Tong hesitated, as if worried Chi Xiaoman would feel burdened by this, and kept delaying her signature, but her gaze toward Chi Xiaoman stayed gentle the whole time.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t want her to think she was being petty, so she wrinkled her nose, took the pen initiative, signed her name on the contract, and smiled at Chen Tong. “I’m fine, Sister Chen Tong.”

“Good.” Chen Tong seemed to relax because of that. She patted her head and smiled.

“You’ll be able to soak up lots of sun from now on.”

The new rental was on the third floor, with a small balcony. Outside the balcony, sunlight poured in; small, but very clean, a patch of sunlight.

They sat here and signed the papers with the agent, seeing the sun shining a bright golden yellow, flowing in like water in a fish tank, almost spilling to their toes; and it seemed as though from then on, every day they had would be like that sunlight.

So Chi Xiaoman felt she ought to be filled with happiness and anticipation.

Moving was Chi Xiaoman’s own idea.

First, the lease for the Felicity Road basement was almost up. Second, after reading the documents Lang Lang had left behind, she had resolved to move forward. Going to Hong Kong in the first place had only been about seeing Chen Tong once. She hadn’t expected to make up. But since they had already made up, she was determined to move forward together with Chen Tong.

And for two people to move forward together, the simplest and most direct way was to leave Felicity Road and create new memories in this summer—memories happier than even that summer on Felicity Road.

Chi Xiaoman truly meant to do exactly that.

So she couldn’t let herself show too much concern about how the rent was divided.

She thought that wasn’t the most important thing.

She also thought that from now on she should work even harder to make money, so that next time they moved, she would have the means to contribute more rent, and Chen Tong could just make the films she wanted to make.

She also wanted Chen Tong not to have to be so careful about all this.

She hoped Chen Tong could spend her own money openly and live in a better house, and that Chen Tong wouldn’t have to keep worrying that she might overthink things, going out of her way to accommodate Chi Xiaoman’s feelings and neglect her own.

Chi Xiaoman thought that if she just worked harder.

Then they could pretend they had never broken up that winter, and quickly become the same as they had been last summer.

Third, in June, Chi Xiaoman was working at a convenience store when she passed a phone shop. Inside, there were all kinds of dazzling new models on display. She clutched her own button phone and stared at them for a while. After hearing the salesperson explain that there was a discount if you bought two, she took part of the money she had been saving for that account and bought a new smartphone for herself, and one for Chen Tong.

Because the director of the film Chen Tong had been shooting had suddenly changed her mind again, deciding that the movie needed a summer scene reshot. She called and hoped Chen Tong could cooperate by going back to Hong Kong for the reshoot, and promised the additional shooting would take no more than two months.

Once again, they were facing a long-distance relationship that might last no less than two months.

Actually, when Chen Tong received that call, her first reaction was that she didn’t want to go to Hong Kong, and she didn’t want to leave just after moving into the new place with Chi Xiaoman. Even less did she want to once again leave Chi Xiaoman alone in Beijing.

So she even grew resentful toward the director who called, feeling that they had just reconciled and were already facing the same problem again.

Her second reaction was that she knew she had to tell Chi Xiaoman. She couldn’t make the same mistake as last time; she couldn’t let Chi Xiaoman learn about this through other channels again and end up disappointed in her.

So on the night she received the second call, Chen Tong woke up because of insomnia, thought about it for a long while by the bed, and finally decided that she had to say it. She climbed back into bed, hugged Chi Xiaoman’s back, and said softly, “Xiaoman, I may have to go to Hong Kong again.”

She thought Chi Xiaoman was already asleep, so she treated it as a rehearsal.

But after those words.

Chi Xiaoman turned over, rubbed her sleepy eyes, looked at her for a moment, then grinned and said, “Okay.”

She hugged her, her voice drowsy as if she were coaxing her. “Sister Chen Tong, I’ll wait for you here.”

She didn’t give her a chance to rehearse.

“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Chen Tong touched her forehead.

“I was asleep.” Chi Xiaoman yawned, lazily leaning against her face, her voice very soft. “I’ve just been really prone to dreaming lately.”

“What kind of dreams?” Chen Tong asked.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t answer; her breathing slowly became even.

Chen Tong thought she had fallen asleep, so she patted her back.

But Chi Xiaoman suddenly shivered involuntarily.

Chen Tong stopped.

Chi Xiaoman seemed to have woken again.

Or perhaps she had never actually been asleep at all.

In her arms, she stiffened like a small wooden puppet for more than half a minute before moving again. She smiled at her and, after another yawn, said, “Are you going to Hong Kong to film a new movie?”

“No.” Chen Tong explained. “It’s the previous movie; the director wants to reshoot some new parts.”

“Okay.” Chi Xiaoman nodded.

She seemed very sleepy, so the nod was tiny and adorable. “Then I’ll wait for you to finish filming and come back.”

“But I already told her,” Chen Tong said, touching her head. “On the day of your graduation ceremony, I’ll take leave and come back.”

Chi Xiaoman didn’t nod again. She was all curled up in Chen Tong’s arms. She had lost a lot of weight that winter and still hadn’t gained it back by summer. Curled up against her, the bones along her back were clearly defined.

She wrapped her arms around Chen Tong’s neck and said very quietly, “Actually, it doesn’t matter if you don’t come back.”

“I’ll come back.” Chen Tong held her too, and said softly, “I’ve already promised her.”

Chi Xiaoman was quiet for a moment, maybe remembering how badly they had fought over this before.

So she had no intention of arguing anymore, only saying softly, “Okay.”

That night Chen Tong didn’t sleep well.

She didn’t understand why. It was the same matter, and she had clearly made a different choice from last time—from the beginning she had told Chi Xiaoman, and she hadn’t hidden any part of her decision.

But after saying it, the atmosphere between them wasn’t as relaxed as she had imagined.

She didn’t know if there was something wrong with the way she had phrased it. Maybe she should have asked—Xiaoman, on the day of your graduation ceremony, I want to take leave and come back to see you. Is that okay?

So she wanted to correct it.

But when she was about to speak again, she heard Chi Xiaoman’s small, steady breathing and realized she had missed the chance, so she didn’t make another sound.

She didn’t know whether Chi Xiaoman would feel uncomfortable because of what she had said.

But she had no better way.

So she could only look at Chi Xiaoman’s sleeping face for a long time that night, and very carefully kiss her lips, not daring to wake her.

The next day, Chi Xiaoman got up very early. These days she was working herself to the bone, even more than when they had lived in the basement.

Sometimes Chen Tong hoped she wouldn’t have to work so hard.

But most of the time Chen Tong couldn’t help wondering—

Was it because they had moved into this house that Chi Xiaoman had become so tired?

Even with that, she still had no solution. Because she understood that Chi Xiaoman was also trying hard to help her leave Felicity Road behind. She didn’t know whether refusing too firmly would also take away the love Chi Xiaoman wanted to give her.

That day Chen Tong specially returned to Felicity Road and bought a skewer of fried rice cakes, then detoured to pick Chi Xiaoman up from work.

When she got to the convenience store where Chi Xiaoman was doing odd jobs, through the glass door—

She saw Chi Xiaoman standing at the cashier, wearing a green vest, smiling with all eight teeth at every customer who came to pay.

When the checkout ended and the customer left, Chi Xiaoman put the smile away from her face.

She wasn’t smiling nearly as often as before. It was as if even smiling had become exhausting.

She lowered her eyes, rubbed her stiff face, and dropped her gaze, as if retreating into a safe nest, no longer watching the people on the road with the curiosity she used to have.

Her hand under the counter seemed to be fiddling with something.

So her gaze stayed lowered, silent.

The thing she was looking at seemed to hold novelty and anticipation, but not excitement.

“Xiaoman.” Chen Tong called her.

Chi Xiaoman had become a little slow to react and didn’t answer.

Chen Tong had no choice but to call her twice more.

Only then did Chi Xiaoman look up.

She looked around blankly for a moment.

Then, seeing Chen Tong outside the glass door, she still curved her eyes at her and smiled just like before, her eyes bright and animated, and called, “Sister Chen Tong.”

Chen Tong pushed the door open and went in.

She noticed that when Chi Xiaoman saw her approach, she hid whatever was in her hands even more carefully.

Chen Tong pretended not to notice.

She lifted the fried rice cakes she had brought and smiled at Chi Xiaoman. “I bought you fried rice cakes.”

“Really!” Chi Xiaoman’s reaction was still just as vivid as before. Smiling, she clasped her hands behind her back. “Then Sister Chen Tong, guess what I bought for you?”

“What?” Chen Tong looked into her eyes, fully cooperating.

“Fine.” Chi Xiaoman giggled.

She was still the same as always; whenever she prepared a surprise for Chen Tong, she herself couldn’t keep it in and even supplied her own sound effects—ding ding ding ding—with great mystery, finally holding out what she had just hidden to show her.

It was two brand-new smartphones, still unopened in their boxes.

Under the light, the plastic film on the phone boxes gleamed. Inside, the cardboard packaging was neat and pretty, printed with a high-definition rendering of the phones.

“Pretty, right?” Chi Xiaoman lifted her chin and asked. Then, perhaps seeing how silent Chen Tong was, she hurriedly explained, “They weren’t that expensive. The owner said there was a discount if you bought two together—

Chen Tong suddenly walked over and hugged her.

Chi Xiaoman froze.

She probably hadn’t expected her to suddenly hug her out in the open, and her whole back stiffened for quite a while before softening, letting her hold her obediently.

“Don’t be mad, Sister Chen Tong. I really didn’t spend money recklessly. It’s just that both our phones were broken, right? And everyone’s using smartphones now; I wanted one too.”

By the end of that sentence, she pressed her face against Chen Tong’s, her voice especially gentle.

“Then while you’re in Hong Kong, we can video call every day.”

“I know,” Chen Tong said.

There was actually no need to explain. The very first time she saw those two phones, Chen Tong knew Chi Xiaoman had made up her mind to change phones because of her going to Hong Kong.

Chi Xiaoman’s own phone had started cracking the screen the previous winter, and later it could basically only make calls. But she still refused to replace it.

Chen Tong had never urged her, and she didn’t dare buy her a new phone without asking; even last month on Chi Xiaoman’s birthday, she had originally planned to give her a new phone.

But after buying it, she returned it and swapped it for a not-too-expensive speaker and a thermos. She was afraid Chi Xiaoman would be angry, afraid she would overthink it, afraid that one wrong move on her part would cause problems to surface again between them.

What she hadn’t managed to do, Chi Xiaoman had done all of it.

“You’ve worked hard, Xiaoman.” After a long moment, Chen Tong patted her head.

“It wasn’t hard.” Chi Xiaoman hugged her too, not too tightly, turning the embrace into a lean. “Anyway, I’d already wanted to buy myself a birthday present. I just hadn’t thought of it before.”

Chen Tong’s breathing was light. “Then why did you buy one for me too?”

“Because buying two gets a discount,” Chi Xiaoman said simply.

And in truth.

She didn’t say that a month after her birthday, she had made up her mind to buy herself, in reverse, a twenty-first birthday present—

not this phone, but the chance to video call with Chen Tong every day.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know why she hadn’t said it.

Maybe because she didn’t want Chen Tong to know, and thus feel burdened, to think she had a responsibility to video call her every day.

But Chen Tong still called her every day.

That was strange.

Because the one who used to have the most to say on the phone had always been Chi Xiaoman.

But this time, after they were apart, the one with more to say during video calls was Chen Tong. Every night, after Chi Xiaoman finished work, she would call at exactly the same time, not missing a single day during those two months in Hong Kong.

Sometimes Chi Xiaoman found that strange too. She asked Chen Tong, “Sister Chen Tong, do your film crews always wrap up this punctually every day?”

“More or less.” Chen Tong explained it that way. “The reshoots are basically all daytime scenes, so it’s easy.”

Maybe she was afraid Chi Xiaoman wouldn’t believe her. So after answering, Chen Tong would walk her through her room and let her confirm that she really wasn’t delaying anything. She also introduced the layout of the room where she was staying, whether the phone on the bedside table could be used, what she had filmed that day, whether the weather was cold, how many layers of clothing she was wearing...

These were all things Chen Tong rarely took the initiative to mention before. But in truth, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to say them; she just hadn’t thought to. So usually, as long as Chi Xiaoman asked, she would answer.

But now.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t ask.

So Chen Tong said them first.

Actually, Chen Tong wasn’t a very talkative person.

But over those two months of video calls.

She became much more talkative, and the calls grew longer and longer.

Because when they called, Chi Xiaoman became very tired. Sometimes she could barely say anything; sometimes she would fall into a daze and drift off. So Chen Tong tried hard to become the one who kept the call going.

One day, because Chi Xiaoman was working four jobs and was too exhausted from not being able to sleep at night, she only said a few sentences after picking up, and sleepiness took over. She accidentally leaned against the headboard and fell asleep.

Half-awake, Chi Xiaoman thought she had already hung up the phone, and her consciousness began to drift upward, floating to the top of the room, to the rooftop, drifting into the heavy snowfall from the night Lang Lang fell.

She felt herself suspended there too, neither rising nor falling; wind and snow scraped into her mouth, making her feel cold and hurt, so much so that she struggled to hold herself tight, curling into a corner, tears streaming down uncontrollably.

Right at that moment—

she suddenly heard, from the phone she was about to drop from her hand.

A woman’s voice came through the radio signal, blurred, very soft, and very far away.

“Chi Xiaoman, I love you so much.”

-

In truth, although the beginning with Chen Tong had been muddled and accidental, as if nothing earth-shattering had happened. In every single moment of being with Chen Tong, Chi Xiaoman had never once doubted her love. Even during that breakup, she had never questioned it either.

Because what Chen Tong gave her had always been far more than Chi Xiaoman had believed she could ever receive.

On the day of the graduation ceremony, Chen Tong still rushed back from Hong Kong.

Chi Xiaoman had come to Beijing to study when she was seventeen, carrying her suitcase alone to find her dorm, buying quilts, washbasins, and reed mats; alone, she had been sunburned dark during military training; during the National Day holiday she went out to hand out flyers as a promotion job, and unlike many of her classmates, she never went home afterward to complain about the hardship.

She never thought there was anything wrong with that, because it was her own decision, something she herself wanted to do. She never felt wronged or ashamed by it. So when her classmates, riding in cars, saw her handing out flyers and rolled down the window with astonished expressions, she still smiled brightly.

At twenty-one, she graduated. Many of her classmates had already found jobs before graduation, signed with companies, or decided to rest at home for a while before taking exams; some intended to return to their hometowns; some of the classmates she’d once audited acting classes with had already acted in productions, had representative works they could be proud of... Every one of them wore youthful confidence and brightness on their faces.

Standing among them, Chi Xiaoman suddenly became very shy. She didn’t know if she looked the same.

She felt unfamiliar with the campus, and didn’t feel like a recent graduate at all. When she first came to Beijing at seventeen, she thought her future shone brilliantly. By twenty-one, when she graduated, she suddenly didn’t know where the future would be.

Chen Tong only arrived very, very late.

By then, the graduation ceremony had already ended, and many classmates around her were holding flowers with their parents, relatives, or close friends... a crowd of happy people clustered together, asking others to take photos for them.

Chi Xiaoman was also wearing the same graduation gown, but she wasn’t holding any flowers. Over the past four years, she had spent most of her time auditing acting classes, working long hours, and running around film crews; she wasn’t close with the students from her own department at all, so no one came looking for her to take a commemorative photo.

After the ceremony ended, Chi Xiaoman stood by the statue in her department, waiting from afternoon until evening, from blue skies and white clouds until the sunset glow, from a playground full of people milling around to the point where many had already left in their gowns.

She stood there just like the flowers abandoned on the field after they had been used up, waiting for a long time before finally seeing Chen Tong appear—

Hong Kong was far away, and Chen Tong’s leave had been very short. But she still tried very hard to show up that day, perhaps running all the way from the moment she got off the car, sweat beading across her face and neck, making them shine faintly.

She held a bouquet of flowers and squeezed out from the crowd with great difficulty, finding Chi Xiaoman in the sunset, which was the color of pumpkin juice.

Chi Xiaoman had waited for Chen Tong for a very long time, and her legs were already numb and sore, almost unable to move. So she only smiled at Chen Tong in the distance with curved eyes.

She thought Chen Tong would smile back.

But when Chen Tong saw her smile, she first froze for a few seconds. Then, as if forcing herself to relax a little, she slowly walked over; the movement was hazy.

At last.

She stopped in front of her, gently hugged her, and with her first words said to her,

“I’m sorry, Xiaoman. I’m late.”

Chi Xiaoman hugged her back and felt that Chen Tong’s apology in that moment even outweighed the joy of seeing her graduate, so she tried hard to soothe that apology away. “You’re not late. Today isn’t over yet.”

Chen Tong held her.

She said “mm” once, but didn’t seem any better for it, and explained again,

“The flight was delayed. I should have bought an earlier one.”

“It’s okay,” Chi Xiaoman said to her. “Really, it’s okay, Sister Chen Tong.”

“I’m already very happy you came.” She emphasized it too. “And this doesn’t even count as being late.”

Chen Tong probably sensed how hard she was trying, and after a moment of silence, didn’t bring it up again, only changing to the soft and gentle tone she used before. “Xiaoman, happy graduation.”

That was their last hug in Beijing in 2014.

At the time, Chi Xiaoman had no premonition of it at all. After getting through that winter, she became less sensitive to many things, and so she didn’t manage to hold on to the embrace any longer before she and Chen Tong separated again.

That very night, Chen Tong boarded a red-eye flight and flew back to Hong Kong.

It was the first time Chi Xiaoman had ever seen her off at the airport. She didn’t have time to say much, and didn’t have time to hug her again. She could only watch Chen Tong wave to her through the crowd, then turn after security and slowly disappear from view.

Probably from this separation onward.

Chi Xiaoman realized that Chen Tong was doing everything she could to maintain their relationship, flying back from a place as far away as Hong Kong simply to give her an embrace. She had hardly hidden anything from her either, saying every decision, every sentence, to her word for word.

After they got back together, Chen Tong changed so much of herself, doing everything in her power to accommodate Chi Xiaoman.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t know whether that was right.

But because of that, she also came to understand—she didn’t seem nearly as noble, righteous, or brave as she had imagined.

Seeing Chen Tong work so hard, she still longed for embraces like that to last a little longer next time, and she felt deeply unsatisfied, even disappointed and discouraged, over this brief meeting.

In truth.

She wasn’t as okay with it as she’d thought.

She wanted Chen Tong to take part in her entire graduation ceremony; she wanted Chen Tong to witness the way she sparkled in the sunlight when she was awarded her certificate; she wanted, when she turned around, that among all the figures waiting there, one of them would be Chen Tong, smiling at her.

Actually, Chi Xiaoman was far greedier than she had believed.

Of course.

That was entirely her own problem.

Because after they got back together, Chen Tong had already done enough, and tried hard enough.

What remained, what needed to catch up with Chen Tong’s pace, was Chi Xiaoman herself. If she wanted to keep their embrace a little longer, if she wanted to smell Chen Tong’s scent in the middle of the night after waking from sleep, then she needed to work hard, earn more money, go see Chen Tong, and create the chance to meet her.

Not demand, in an unreasonable way, that Chen Tong come back to keep her company.

If she wanted to keep up with Chen Tong’s pace.

Then she had to work for it herself.

Not make Chen Tong turn back again and again to look for her.

Chi Xiaoman believed this, and tried to work hard.

If she wanted to go to Hong Kong.

She could still buy a train ticket like before, then transfer to a bus in Shenzhen.

If she wanted to come back from Hong Kong with Chen Tong.

She needed two plane tickets.

The cost of both trips, plus food and lodging there, plus the rent in Beijing that she’d still have to pay even though she couldn’t work there... all combined, it might use up everything she earned in a month of work in Beijing.

She also wanted to buy Chen Tong a very beautiful bouquet when she saw her.

So on top of that, she’d have to spend one more day’s wages.

One month and one day.

Was that enough?

Not enough.

Maybe she also needed to add in the courage necessary to make herself spend that time.

Because after spending all that time to see Chen Tong once and get a hug, she would have to start over again after one month and one day.

Chi Xiaoman suddenly no longer had the courage to do it.

She didn’t have the courage to spend so much time just to get a single hug.

If Lang Lang had no money, she would die. If Chi Xiaoman had no money, she would only be unable to see Chen Tong.

She didn’t know whether spending one month and one day to meet once would be better, or whether she should save that month and one day and use it toward a rarer, more worthwhile chance to meet later.

After all, two months didn’t seem that long either.

Maybe by the time that month and one day had passed, Chen Tong would already have finished filming and flown back from Hong Kong.

But the next time Chen Tong went off to film, the next time they were separated, if Chi Xiaoman wanted to see Chen Tong again, it might take more than one month and one day.

So most of the time, Chi Xiaoman made herself wait.

After Lang Lang left.

She became even more careful with how she used money, understanding that without money, she couldn’t even buy Lang Lang a better urn for her ashes; and understanding that without money, it would become harder and harder for her to keep up with Chen Tong’s pace.

So she had no choice but to wait.

She waited until she had saved enough money, waited until Chen Tong’s film shoot was over, or waited until she had saved enough courage to spend all that money on an embrace with Chen Tong.

She thought one of those two things would surely arrive by the end of July. But in fact, neither did.

The shooting schedule for the film was extended once again. Fortunately, Chen Tong picked up a new commercial over there, and through the director’s compensation, also received a very short short film, allowing her to gain more filming experience and some pay during the wasted time.

Chi Xiaoman no longer dared to waste time running around film crews. One day spent doing that might not earn her a single tiny role, but one day spent working could save her two hundred yuan and bring her a little closer to Chen Tong.

Maybe her math had never been very good since childhood, and she didn’t understand that this wasn’t how the world calculated things at all.

Or maybe she simply didn’t want to calculate carefully.

Because the more clearly she calculated, the farther Chen Tong would seem from her.

Chen Tong probably sensed that ever since winter, Chi Xiaoman hadn’t brought up acting again, so one day during a video call, she hesitantly asked, “Xiaoman, aren’t you auditioning for film crews anymore?”

“Not really.” These days Chi Xiaoman was suffering from terrible insomnia; almost the moment she closed her eyes, she’d see Lang Lang’s photograph.

She hadn’t thought that she would never go to film crews again. She only felt she could set it aside for now. She didn’t know that she simply lacked the courage to pick it up again, because acting made her think of Lang Lang, and also made her feel as though time was being wasted.

In the video call, Chi Xiaoman curved her eyes and smiled at Chen Tong. “I just think the weather’s been a little too hot lately. Running around film crews every day would make me get tanned a lot, so I want to wait a bit longer.”

Chen Tong didn’t speak.

Maybe these two phones weren’t very good after all; the video quality was blurry and fuzzy.

Chi Xiaoman couldn’t make out her expression, but felt that Chen Tong might be worrying about it.

So she propped her chin up again and emphasized, “I’ll definitely go once summer is over.”

“Chen Tong,” she said to Chen Tong, “you should never worry that I won’t go into acting.”

Because if Chi Xiaoman didn’t want to act, then she could do nothing at all.

Chi Xiaoman didn’t put it that seriously.

But Chen Tong felt better after her reassurance, and didn’t press further, only nodding gently as she said,

“Okay.”

-

That call ended at midnight.

Chi Xiaoman dreamed again, then woke from the dream again.

At that time, she sat against the bed for a very long time, lost in thought.

Then she suddenly put on her clothes.

She ran out of the house, riding her electric scooter alone back to Felicity Road. Late at night, Beijing was bright with lights, full of cars, but she still felt her scooter was lonely, just one lonely vehicle driving through that very long tunnel, lonely as it emerged to look at the moon in the sky.

Then she sang The Moon Reflects My Heart all by herself. At first her voice was very loud, as if something in her chest needed to be shouted out. Later, she sang more and more softly, as if that thing had been extinguished again.

On the way back, facing Beijing’s hot, stifling night wind, Chi Xiaoman suddenly felt the air was damp and thought that was strange. It wasn’t until she got home and opened the door that she realized she had been crying a great deal.

The next day.

She woke up and received a phone call.

It was the assistant director from the production she had previously given up.

Half a year had passed; this assistant director had joined a new crew and was now choosing a fresh batch of actors. On the phone, the assistant director said to Chi Xiaoman, “Chi Xiaoman, are you still in Beijing?”

Last time, Chi Xiaoman missed her chance.

This time, even if she felt she still wasn’t prepared, she couldn’t really give up the opportunity that had been placed right in front of her.

Besides, there wasn’t much to prepare at all.

Chi Xiaoman took the bus, put on her faded T-shirt, and went to audition.

Afterward, the assistant director secretly told her that every member of the casting team had praised her endlessly, convinced she had delivered the best performance there. She thumped her chest and assured her with complete confidence—the role was hers, and there was no one more suitable than she was.

Opportunity fell from the sky, like a sweet cake offered to her mouth after the bitterest snowfall.

Chi Xiaoman felt dazed.

After the audition ended, she didn’t take the bus home. She walked along the roadside for a long time instead.

Maybe things had come too quickly.

So she couldn’t tell whether what she felt more was happiness and joy, or surprise.

Before she realized it.

She had walked to Felicity Road.

Felicity Noodle Shop was open. It was summer, with several tables set up at the entrance, the lights still dim and yellow. But the girl named Zheng Kexin wasn’t there; when Chi Xiaoman asked about her, the owner said Zheng Kexin had gone to her grandmother’s place for summer vacation.

So Chi Xiaoman ordered a bowl of noodles the way she always did.

The owner brought it over and smiled at her. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Why is that?”

Chi Xiaoman nodded woodenly. “We moved.”

The owner nodded too and said nothing.

In the evening, the lights at Felicity Noodle Shop were warm. Flying insects hovered beneath the lights, and the air was hot. Chi Xiaoman sat alone at a table. Just as the owner was about to walk away, she suddenly said, “I might... have a role to film.”

Her voice was very small, even uncertain.

But the owner turned back because of it.

She looked at her and smiled. “Congratulations. Have you told your friends and everyone yet?”

Chi Xiaoman froze.

The owner didn’t say anything more and was called away by a customer at the next table.

The egg noodle soup sat steaming on the table, white vapor rising up. Chi Xiaoman felt her eyes hurt, felt them sting, and tears that made her feel miserable and constricted spilled out all the same.

She actually wasn’t the sort of person who cried easily. But recently she kept bursting into tears for no reason, as if she were a container packed full of liquid; with just a little bit added, it would overflow.

The egg noodles were about to go cold.

She tried hard to wipe away the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, and tried hard to finish the noodles.

But after one bite, she put down her chopsticks, painfully fished the phone out of her pocket, and wanted to call Chen Tong to tell her this huge piece of good news.

Chi Xiaoman had gotten a role.

Chen Tong no longer needed to keep worrying every time she had work, and she no longer needed to be so careful around her every time.

Chi Xiaoman struggled to find Chen Tong’s number and was about to dial it, when the second before she pressed call, she suddenly stood up from the table, paid, and ran out of Felicity Noodle Shop.

One month and one day had already passed.

She used the balance in her bank card for this trip, even spending a bit extravagantly on a short taxi ride.

Later, the taxi drove through that long tunnel on Felicity Road; looking at the scenery outside the window, Chi Xiaoman quickly came to her senses and realized she couldn’t take a taxi all the way to the airport.

So once they were out of the tunnel, she hurriedly apologized to the driver and got out of the car in a rush.

In some ways, Chi Xiaoman had always been cautious. And in this industry, everything changed in the blink of an eye. So she couldn’t be certain the ending would be exactly as the assistant director said, that the role would definitely be hers.

But she truly wanted Chen Tong’s embrace too much. So even knowing she was being reckless, she still wanted very badly to make herself happier.

That night, after stepping out of the taxi, she found that one side was the dark, long tunnel, and the other was the road leading to the airport.

As if standing at a fork in life, she stood by the roadside for a very long time in the night wind, eyes red as she looked at the moon and thought for a long time. In the end, she was glad her smartphone could buy plane tickets directly.

So on top of one month and one day, she added a few more days and bought herself a red-eye flight.

She made up her mind to fly to Hong Kong and find Chen Tong.

Later, after Chi Xiaoman and Chen Tong truly separated in Hong Kong, when she thought back on this decision, she still didn’t regret it. Because by then, she had gone too long without receiving any good news, so when it suddenly came, she was caught off guard and couldn’t think too much about it; that was probably understandable.

She just wanted to be a little extravagant.

Only, what had been extravagant was never the ticket that hadn’t been part of the plan; it was spending, without regard for the consequences, the courage she had saved up for chasing love.

[Author’s Note]

The sixty-ninth day of serialization for Little Neon. (I was originally going to wear sunglasses; no idea why there aren’t any little emojis in the JJ backend anymore.)

TL Note:

National Day holiday (国庆假期) = China's October 1 holiday break, often a week long.