Starlight 68 across from Beicheng Tianjie was a strange place, where extravagance and the hustle of the streets were separated by just one road. Guanyinqiao never lacked for food or entertainment, and this spot belonged to one of Chongqing’s saturated commercial districts.
Jian Shichu didn’t take her into the hotpot restaurant. Instead, she led her into a small bar tucked deeper into the alley. The area outside the shop was packed with people, noisy as could be.
The server led them to the innermost seat. Dim blue light beams fell on the tabletop, oppressive yet tinged with mystery—like that unfinished dream from that night, where the hazy Fog City took on the flavor of Beihai.
Jian Shichu lowered her head to look at her phone screen, casually pulling open a drink and pushing it in front of her. The motion was so natural, like a habit ingrained over many years that she couldn’t shake.
“Thank you.” Wen Zhixu glanced around and murmured her thanks in a low voice. The person across from her didn’t notice. The signal was poor in this inner spot, so she awkwardly checked her own phone too.
Even though there was nothing on the screen, she still tried swiping open Moments, giving it a quick scan.
Jian Shichu pressed the voice key: “Send me some photos later. There’s no way to do a one-to-one restoration with the script they gave over there.” She pulled out chopsticks and handed them to Wen Zhixu.
Though her movements were like this, her mind clearly wasn’t on the meal at all. Wen Zhixu didn’t disturb her. The food on the table was all riverside cuisine, with the tiger skin chicken feet as the shop’s signature dish. Wen Zhixu took a bite, and spiciness immediately raced up her tongue.
Jian Shichu put away her phone, propping her left elbow on the edge of the table, then said, “I thought you could handle spicy food now.” She grabbed a fresh bowl for Wen Zhixu. Fine beads of sweat lingered on her forehead, barely noticeable under the dim blue glow.
Wen Zhixu released the straw from her mouth and said, “The taste is good. It’s a shame, I can’t eat it.” After setting the drink on the table, she asked for a cup of warm water.
Jian Shichu ladled soup into the bowl. Her shirtsleeve was rolled up to her forearm, and the warmth climbed along it, finally branching out at her wrist.
Jian Shichu placed the bowl in front of her and said, “Try it.” There was a hint of a smile on Jian Shichu’s face, but just a hint.
This left Wen Zhixu unable to read her. The other woman’s carefree boldness was completely different from back then. It was as if nothing had happened between them, nothing at all—as if they were just old classmates.
The air conditioning drilled down her neck along with the light. Wen Zhixu quickly withdrew her gaze, lowering her head to look at the soup in the bowl. It was this unspoken propriety that allowed them to sit at the same table once more.
Wen Zhixu stirred the bowl and took a sip, praising, “Pretty good.” She couldn’t taste anything special about it, just like the joy that landed in her heart—it was only for a moment, and then it was nothing.
Back then, she thought she was something special. When she approached Jian Shichu in the library, the other woman showed no hint of disgust. That not-too-hot summer always stirred up wild, unrealistic dreams.
A midsummer without scorching sun wasn’t perfect—it lacked the burn—but it still made her, encountering Jian Shichu for the first time, look disheveled. Sweat on her forehead stuck to her hair strands. The path chasing her out from the library wasn’t long, but maybe because she was so nervous, even her attempt at small talk was full of flaws.
Wen Zhixu clutched her book tightly as she caught up to her, stumbling through her self-introduction—a regret that lingered for a long time afterward.
“I know you,” Jian Shichu said faintly, looking at her. “Wen Zhixu, something up?” Jian Shichu’s black T-shirt radiated heat under the blazing sun, a layer of fine, shimmering sweat covering her fair neck.
“Hm? You know me?” Wen Zhixu felt surprised. The other woman just smiled lightly and nodded in response.
Wen Zhixu took a breath and looked at her. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
Jian Shichu turned toward her, raising a brow in a flat tone. “Sure, go ahead.”
“It might be a bit forward, and you can choose not to answer. I’m preparing a book lately and want to write a protagonist similar to you.” Wen Zhixu had no intention of hiding it. As she spoke, she pulled out her notebook, propping it open under her elbow for her to see.
Wen Zhixu’s tone was serious and quick: “What kind of person would you like? I mean… if it were for dating.” Her question was bold, but it was the key point. She’d observed Jian Shichu for a long time.
Jian Shichu stared at her. The furrow between her brows slowly relaxed, and she smiled as she asked, “What kind of story are you writing?”
Wen Zhixu answered, “A story from school uniform to wedding dress.” She hadn’t even settled on the basic framework yet, but from this angle, Jian Shichu didn’t seem as unapproachable as everyone said.
“Have you ever dated?”
Wen Zhixu was completely stunned by her counter-question. Her mouth formed the shape of her inner surprise: “Ah? No.”
Jian Shichu’s gaze slowly shifted to the notebook in her hand, landing on the last line of the title page. She paused for two or three seconds before saying, “How can you write if you’ve never dated?”
She would remember that sentence for a very, very long time. It even ended up in her book later on. Wen Zhixu’s expression dimmed as she looked at the soup in her bowl. She lifted her eyes once more to Jian Shichu.
Jian Shichu showed no abnormality, quietly eating her food without speaking or making any other moves. Some romances were only suited for one person alone.
She didn’t dare touch the food on the table. She silently drank her soup, and after a few more sips, she felt it cutting at her throat.
Jian Shichu stood up. “Eat first. I need to take a call.” She’d been holding her phone the whole time. She stepped aside to let a girl pass through the aisle. That girl wore a black mask, led by a server up front.
The person stopped right in front of her. Wen Zhixu had just lowered her head when she heard her name called and looked up again.
Tang Qin leaned down in front of her, her voice soft with surprise: “Teacher Wen, you’re here too.” As she spoke, she pulled down her sunglasses.
Wen Zhixu recognized the person from those eyes. She set down her spoon, took two tissues, folded them, and pressed them to her mouth. She nodded in greeting, wiped her mouth, and then said, “What a coincidence.”
Tang Qin smiled, raising her hand to wave her companions ahead. She smoothly slid into the seat Jian Shichu had just vacated, pulling out her phone from her pocket, swiping twice, and tapping it on the table.
“Teacher Wen, I heard the food here is pretty good—I saw it online. I didn’t expect to run into you like this.” Tang Qin’s face lit up with a smile. “I just got to Chongqing today. I was planning to call you tonight and invite you to dinner tomorrow. But here we are—I’ll ask you right now, in person.”
Wen Zhixu tossed the tissue aside. “No need to stand on ceremony.” The young starlet Tang Qin wasn’t that old. She’d signed with a good company in university, gotten solid resources, blown up a bit, but she wasn’t exactly a big star.
When the script was first finalized, the producer and director sent her actor photos for review during casting. Initially, Tang Qin was set for the female lead. Wen Zhixu didn’t know acting, so she left professional decisions to the crew.
But she knew her own character best. Tang Qin was the pure, ethereal type—like an epiphyllum flower, full of spirit. But not suited for the lead. Because of her one comment of “not suitable,” Tang Qin went from female lead to female supporting role.
This crew wasn’t some ragtag group. The director had a reputation in the industry for being rigorous and serious, so he’d consult Wen Zhixu on lines and plot.
Tang Qin smiled and said, “Teacher Wen, I read your books back in high school. I remember your first one, Ru Shi, was written when you were in university. I loved the female lead so much. I dreamed back then of one day acting a role you created. No chance with the first book, but I got another one. I read the original recently and it really touched me. I was hoping to discuss the character’s lines with you more.”
Wen Zhixu had started writing in university. After her debut exploded, every book she produced became a bestseller. The adaptation of her first book also launched several newcomers to fame.
From then on, she’d become a controversial figure. After missing out on the lead role, Tang Qin had added her contact. She didn’t usually message, but never missed a single Moment.
Wen Zhixu understood Tang Qin’s implication. Her hand rested on her neck; the soup had made her throat ache and start to itch. She cleared her throat and said, “You should discuss that with the screenwriter. I don’t touch the script once I’m off-set.”
She’d met plenty of actors before. She’d even personally revised the first script herself back then, when the crew hired her as screenwriter. In the messy world of crews, actors competed fiercely, and adding scenes was common.
“Teacher Wen, I’m not saying I want to add scenes,” Tang Qin said. Young as she was, she spoke without much filter. Once called out, she’d scramble for a loophole to save face.
Tang Qin continued, “You’re a senior; you can’t just say that carelessly. If it gets out, it’s bad for both of us—not to mention in public. The work is great; I don’t want it changed. I get how you feel.”
Tang Qin wanted to say more, but perhaps she sensed a chill down her spine. Following Wen Zhixu’s gaze, she turned her head. Jian Shichu was back, standing right beside her.
“Need an extra set of bowl and chopsticks? It’s all leftovers now.” Jian Shichu braced her hand on the table corner, effectively blocking Tang Qin. She looked down at her.
“Sorry.” Tang Qin smiled as she stood to give Jian Shichu space, but Jian Shichu didn’t budge an inch, staying planted beside her.
Tang Qin’s momentum was crushed; she could only give an awkward laugh. Her right hand reached for the phone on the table, but Jian Shichu snatched it first.
Jian Shichu flipped it over for a look. Tang Qin reached to grab it back, but missed as Jian Shichu twisted away. The recording on the phone was still running. Jian Shichu swiped the screen twice and deleted it.
“Childish.” She muttered under her breath, tossing the phone back. Tang Qin, masked up, showed no change in expression.
Wen Zhixu’s brows furrowed. Her throat felt like it was smoking, leaving her speechless, but she got the gist. The online controversy over Tang Qin dropping from lead to supporting role had been huge.
Tang Qin hid her phone behind her back, no longer daring to look at Jian Shichu. She said in a panic, “Then, Teacher Wen, I’ll treat you to dinner another day. I’m heading in first.”
Wen Zhixu’s throat wasn’t feeling great. She wanted to respond but saw Tang Qin walking further inside. The words were right on the tip of her tongue, but she hadn’t said them yet and could only watch the other leave a dark silhouette behind.
Jian Shichu stopped using her chopsticks. She had just overheard two sentences and was now gazing intently at Wen Zhixu. Leaning back on the sofa with her arms crossed, she casually asked, “Is she a good person?”
Wen Zhixu tried clearing her throat again, covering her mouth with a cough. Jian Shichu’s mom was a director—she had known that since university. When it came to the entertainment industry’s dirty secrets, Jian Shichu knew far more than she did.
“I don’t know.” She coughed twice more.
Jian Shichu noticed something was off and asked, “Where does it hurt?” She tilted her head and smoothly stood up to move beside Wen Zhixu, her hand lightly brushing Wen Zhixu’s arm.
Wen Zhixu answered, “This soup hurts my throat when I drink it.” She felt it was strange and could only swallow some saliva to ease it.
Jian Shichu shifted her gaze to the table. She used the ceramic spoon to stir all the way to the bottom of the bowl, draining off the excess soup. In the spoon, she spotted peanut, and it clicked instantly. It was also right then that she remembered Wen Zhixu had always been allergic to peanuts.
