Then she gazed out the window at the night, blue-black and deep. “Winter nights fall so fast here.”
“Your phone was vibrating nonstop earlier,” Kong Liyuan reminded her, her voice and breath drifting right by Fu Tingli’s ear, teasing.
Like a warm, enticing puff of fluff slowly unfurling.
“Let me check.”
Fu Tingli swiped open WeChat, and sure enough, a bunch of unread messages.
Qiao Lipan was checking if she’d found a place to stay, asking if she was cold in the heavy snow, then sending back the several thousand yuan Fu Tingli had wired her last time.
Li Weili asked how she was doing, if there were any issues with food or lodging, saying she should’ve packed more stuff in her suitcase.
Xia Yue, who wasn’t involved in this shoot, had heard from the crew and sent some cute emojis along with a message wondering how Fu Tingli had suddenly ended up stranded in a village.
There were also a ton of @mentions in the crew group chats, checking on her and Kong Liyuan. Mostly asking if Kong Liyuan was okay, if her fever had broken.
Fu Tingli replied to them one by one. The contrast was clear in the subtext—genuine concern from friends and family versus something else.
The care she received was real worry for her well-being. She could act cute with Qiao Lipan, briefly lament to Li Weili about not bringing more heating patches, tell Xia Yue the snow in the Northern Border was gorgeous and it was a shame she wasn’t here.
But the messages about Kong Liyuan were laced with self-interest and anxious fretting.
They cared less about her actual condition than whether it would delay filming and the schedule. They were waiting for the person trapped in the blizzard to fix their problems.
The crew had a tight schedule—everything interconnected. Prioritizing the shoot was understandable; it didn’t make them bad people.
Just like the guide calling Kong Liyuan “big star”—it was an ordinary term, no malice intended.
Yet Fu Tingli inexplicably felt a sour ache in her chest, like orange peel left shriveling in the sun, curling up under the barrage of messages.
She recalled Kong Liyuan’s first words from her sickbed to the outside world: “Crew and schedule.” While she and Qiao Lipan had sent, “The snow in the Northern Border is so pretty.”
She remembered Kong Liyuan saying there was nothing important on her phone.
She couldn’t help wondering: if she were Kong Liyuan…
After a fever that drained all her strength and a blizzard that nearly trapped her for good, all the messages were like this—some even openly asking in the group about “Ayang’s” condition instead of Kong Liyuan’s…
All that concern tangled with ulterior motives came crashing down. Amid the onslaught, not one was truly caring.
If it were her, how awful would the world seem?
“Lots of messages for you?” Kong Liyuan suddenly spoke up, noticing her pause.
“Not really, just a few friends and my mom.” Fu Tingli answered on reflex, then felt her nose stuff up a little.
She added, “Oh, and some crew colleagues. They’re all worried about you—told me to take good care of you so nothing else happens.”
Kong Liyuan smiled faintly, as if seeing through the deliberate cover-up. “What’d you tell them?”
“Haven’t replied yet.” Fu Tingli turned to look at her. “What should I say?”
The faint glow from the phone screen lit up both their faces.
Fu Tingli suddenly remembered Kong Liyuan didn’t have her phone now—no way to kill time like she was.
So while she’d been showering, washing and blow-drying her hair, replying to all those WeChats…
What had Kong Liyuan been doing? What was she thinking?
She hadn’t smoked—had she just sat there?
“Just say I’m fine. Once the roads clear, I’ll be at the set.”
Kong Liyuan put it simply. “As long as we can get out, there won’t be any more issues.”
This woman was eerily calm about it all, effortlessly distancing herself from the chaos.
She seemed utterly accustomed to it.
Fu Tingli replied as instructed. After finishing the messages, she checked the time again.
Still early, so she asked, “Are you sleepy?”
Kong Liyuan shook her head. “No, it’s barely past nine.”
“Me neither.” Fu Tingli fiddled with the quilt, hesitating before suggesting,
“It’s still early. Want to watch a movie?”
“On your phone?” Kong Liyuan sounded surprised. “Is there WiFi here?”
“My data’s plenty, and the signal was decent while I was messaging. We can just download one.”
Fu Tingli perked up and started browsing video apps for something good.
“Sure.” Kong Liyuan didn’t object—she never really voiced preferences. “What do you want to watch?”
“What about you?”
The video app happened to pop up its recommendation page. Fu Tingli swiped through it idly until the screen settled on a movie poster—Kong Liyuan, leaning against the inside of a narrow phone booth and peering out toward the damp, fogged-up glass, lighting a cigarette with a faint, sputtering spark.
Her long black hair was tousled and wild from the wind, and those deep, defiant eyes drew in every gaze that lingered on the poster, holding it fast.
It was a still from the film Winter Storm, one of the movie’s most striking closing shots.
At its core, the film was absurd and dreamlike, not some big-budget blockbuster, but the script was unique enough to stand out. Kong Liyuan played a villainess who seemed frivolous on the surface but burned with fierce, courageous passion underneath.
The director and screenwriter were both women, and their ideal collaboration gave the movie its distinctive visual style, a tightly woven plotline rich in theme and depth, and a lead performance that brought the complex character to vivid life. It made Winter Storm something rare among domestic films even to this day.
It was Kong Liyuan’s first starring role.
And at just twenty-four, when she formally debuted, she clinched the Best Newcomer award thanks to Winter Storm.
After returning home, Fu Tingli had spent many sleepless nights in her gloomy, chilly rental apartment, scouring old news reports and press releases from back then.
She knew that Kong Liyuan’s 2018 debut hadn’t been smooth sailing—not like it was now. Those deep eyes had weathered endless skepticism, speculation, and rumors. There had been plenty of voices calling her a resource-dependent celeb, claiming her Newcomer award was handed to her on a platter by her father Kong Yan, despite the Winter Storm director posting on Weibo to declare that Kong Liyuan was “the most spiritually gifted actress she’d ever worked with.”
She also knew that in 2022, with public opinion even more vicious than in 2018, Kong Liyuan hadn’t starred in a single commercial flick tied to Kong Yan—the kind that raked in the cash hand over fist.
That was exactly why Fu Tingli had been convinced from the start: Kong Liyuan’s path to where she was now had nothing to do with Kong Yan.
Otherwise, why hadn’t he come to check on her? Why hadn’t he helped her out? Why hadn’t he even asked after her like Rong Wu had, once he knew she was with someone?
No cameras around anymore. No industry folks watching. So there was no need to put on that show of paternal affection with nowhere to land.
“You want to watch this one?”
Kong Liyuan’s voice drifted down from above, popping the bubble of Fu Tingli’s thoughts.
“Huh?” Fu Tingli snapped back to the present and tilted her head up toward Kong Liyuan in the dim, cramped room.
After a moment’s thought, she asked, “Doesn’t it feel weird watching your own movies?”
Kong Liyuan bent her head slightly to meet her gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “What, you think I haven’t watched my own work after all this time in the industry?”
“Fair point. You’ve definitely seen it.” Fu Tingli said it half-jokingly. “Someone as dedicated as Teacher Kong has probably watched it a hundred, hundred-and-eighty times by now.”
She was calling her Teacher Kong again—not out of awkwardness, but because it felt right when they were talking shop.
Kong Liyuan didn’t pursue the thread. “Never watched one with someone else, though.”
She lowered her eyes lazily for a beat, then asked, “What about you? Have you seen any of my films?”
Fu Tingli’s face was half-buried in the blanket now, leaving only those gentle, hazel-tinged eyes visible.
At the question, she rubbed her chin haphazardly against the fabric and swiped aimlessly at her phone screen. Instead of answering, she asked,
“Do you like this movie?”
Kong Liyuan leaned back against the edge of the bed and gave a small lift of her chin.
“How could I not like a movie I starred in?”
“I figured as much. You always pick great scripts. I like the themes in every one of your films—they’re all so distinctive, nothing repetitive.”
That was probably a big part of why so many people adored Kong Liyuan these days.
She brought such alive, breathing characters to life, flaws and all, rendering even their shortcomings in ways that struck a chord with audiences everywhere.
“Wait, does that mean you’ve seen all my movies?” Kong Liyuan pounced on the slip in her words.
Fu Tingli neither confirmed nor denied it. “A huge star like Teacher Kong—your news is everywhere on the street. Even if I haven’t seen them, I’ve heard about them.”
Kong Liyuan nodded once, then pressed, “So which one’s your favorite?”
“Winter Storm.”
Before Kong Liyuan could follow up, Fu Tingli rushed on. “Don’t ask why. I just like it.”
The tone seemed to amuse Kong Liyuan; her lowered lashes fluttered lightly.
But mercifully, she didn’t pry further.
Fu Tingli let out a quiet breath of relief, only to realize she’d hit the download button at some point without noticing. By now, after their little back-and-forth, the film had finished loading.
“This one it is, then.”
She tapped play with decisive flair, then burrowed deeper into the blankets. There was no air conditioning in the room, and the temperature was biting; she had no intention of sitting up, just stretching her arm out.
The little screen lit up with the green-and-yellow dragon mark intro.
“I’ll hold it. It’s awkward for you like that,” said Kong Liyuan, who was propped up against the headboard.
“Then I’ll sit up too. It’ll be easier for both of us to watch.”
Instead of shrinking farther under the covers, Fu Tingli handed over the phone and sat up alongside her, the two of them shoulder to shoulder against the headboard.
Moving around under the thick winter quilt kicked up quite the fuss. As soon as she straightened, a faint scent wafted over—osmanthus from the guesthouse bath gel, mingled with the musty aroma of well-worn clothes.
And it was all coming from Kong Liyuan right beside her.
The same smells drifting from different people carried a whole new layer of meaning.
That was what Fu Tingli found herself thinking.
Then a bit of weight settled on her shoulder, carrying the fresh, damp scent of a woman’s hair.
She glanced down. It was the fuzzy blanket that had been spread between them; now it draped over her shoulders alone.
“Put this on for now. You’re always so cold.”
Kong Liyuan said it offhand, then held the phone up between them, as if she planned to keep it raised the whole time.
“Better not hold it like that the whole movie—it’ll tire you out.” Fu Tingli glanced around the room as she spoke.
“There probably isn’t a phone stand here,” Kong Liyuan said, already knowing what she was after.
In the end, Fu Tingli spotted an embroidered throw pillow. She wedged it between them and propped the phone upright against it.
With their legs forming a bridge beneath the thick mattress layer, they steadied the phone’s faint white glow.
Propped on legs and pillow beat holding it by hand the whole time.
“Is this okay? If your legs go numb, just say so—we can shift.”
Fu Tingli spoke, then unfurled the blanket over herself, finding it plenty wide to wrap around multiple times.
She glanced at Kong Liyuan beside her, clad in just a sweater, then dipped her head toward the narrow screen and the opening credits playing there.
After several rounds of internal debate,
She figured that if she claimed not to be cold and offered the blanket now, Kong Liyuan wouldn’t accept it.
So in the end, she lifted the edge of it.
“Why don’t we just share it?”
She said it without looking over. If Kong Liyuan insisted she wasn’t cold, Fu Tingli would simply toss the whole thing her way and be done with the back-and-forth.
Just then, the opening credits wrapped up, the shot freezing on a thick blanket of winter snow.
A pair of battered canvas shoes with loose laces trudged forward, crunching through the drifts step by step.
The narrow screen’s camera tilted straight upward, finally framing a face full of hard-edged story and stubborn defiance—the protagonist of Winter Storm, Li Yi.
A gust of wind swept across the frame onscreen, tousling Li Yi’s dark hair.
She flashed an eerie, otherworldly smile.
In that single shot, it pulled you right into the film, right before she delivered the line:
“Li Yi is dead.”
Fu Tingli tumbled headlong into the story with those words. But the hand lifting the blanket stayed outstretched, unwavering.
The next second,
A familiar, faint scent drifted close, and the blanket settled back down—like a warm bonfire carved out amid the icy wastes.
Kong Liyuan’s soft, slender shoulder finally pressed once more against her own.
Onscreen, the characters began to shuffle slowly forward, the camera sweeping past unfamiliar crowds and noisy streets.
Fu Tingli felt their body heat melding almost as one and couldn’t help curling her fingers.
Then she heard Kong Liyuan call her name.
“Fu Tingli.”
“Huh? What’s up?” She responded on reflex. She started to turn and look, but her shoulder dipped under new weight.
The soft, meandering osmanthus scent of damp hair floated over, followed by a sleepy murmur.
“Let me lean on you a bit.”
