Xie Yingnian returned to the set and stuck to the original schedule.
A few days later, Nong Siqing shot the remaining scenes that followed the bed scene.
The director had laid out Yuan Yuan’s performance in clear detail. She had no idea what her mother and Sister Kong Can had been up to in the room, but the atmosphere alone was enough to make even an innocent child sense that something wasn’t right.
Ai Yilan nailed it—the sheer panic and helplessness of jolting awake from a nightmare, unable to find her mother, tears streaming as she stumbled toward Ruan Ting’s bedroom. The door swung open, and she instinctively looked first toward her mom.
Ruan Ting didn’t rush over to comfort her timid daughter like she usually would. Instead, she stood by the bed with her back turned to the child, her voice unsteady when she responded, laced with obvious panic.
Sister Kong Can looked even stranger. Her hair was a tangled mess, the ends sticking up in wild curls, just like Yuan Yuan’s braids after waking from an afternoon nap. But why had she been sleeping in Mom’s room?
Yuan Yuan’s gaze drifted to the bed behind them. The quilt was bunched up at the foot, and the sheets were a crumpled disaster.
Her little lips pouted in grievance, a flicker of resentment that Mom hadn’t shown up when she needed her most. She rubbed at her eyes with more force, the unfamiliar and eerie scene before her making her wonder if she was still trapped in her dream.
“Sweetie, another nightmare?” Ruan Ting turned around, her palm clutching a wad of crumpled tissues already soaked through and now growing damp again from the sweat seeping from her skin. She gave a soft smile and opened her arms, walking toward her daughter, who stood frozen by the door.
That gentle voice stirred Yuan Yuan’s memories. She took a few tentative steps forward until Ruan Ting scooped her up into an embrace. The familiar scent washed away her fears at last, and her rigid little body finally began to relax. She buried her face in her mother’s soft shoulder and sobbed quietly.
Kong Can watched the whole exchange unfold. She’d spent nearly the entire day in this room, and only now did the stifling thickness of the air hit her. The sight of Ruan Ting gently stroking Yuan Yuan’s back twisted her conscience all the more—the warmer the scene, the sharper the guilt.
“Ruan Ting, I’m heading out. Get some rest.” Kong Can bolted like she was fleeing for her life. Ruan Ting didn’t even have time to get a word out before the door clicked shut in hasty retreat.
Yuan Yuan had calmed down considerably by then. In her childish treble, she asked, “Mommy, what’s wrong with Sister Kong Can?”
Why wasn’t she ruffling Yuan Yuan’s hair and playing with her like she always did when she visited?
Ruan Ting stared at the door that now separated the room from the outside world. This was her home, yet it felt like a prison trapping her inside.
How she longed to chase after her, to catch up with the flustered Kong Can and seize her wrist… And then what? What could come next?
It was impossible to say who had been more impulsive. Ruan Ting couldn’t shake Kong Can’s words—”Fine, you’ll be leaving Chongxiang sooner or later anyway, and then we’ll be strangers”—which had felt like some intoxicating elixir, clouding both their judgments.
Didn’t Kong Can know exactly why Ruan Ting had never left Chongxiang all this time?
After years of drifting through life, she’d finally found someone who fit her perfectly amid the vast sea of humanity. Even if it was a woman—something she’d never imagined—she couldn’t bear to let it slip away. It was pure instinct to try to land there.
But she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. There was the marriage she couldn’t escape, the life of hiding under a false name, the child she couldn’t bear to abandon. A ferry weighed down too heavily would eventually come apart, reduced to a skiff, then driftwood, easily overturned by the rising waves.
Could their two solitary acts of courage really carve out a space for mutual understanding and companionship amid the swirling red dust of the world?
Zhong Jia reached the doorway, but the camera stayed inside—the setups were all indoors, and her scene was wrapped.
The director favored ambiguity, never spelling out every character’s inner turmoil with heavy-handed shots. That’s why her films always left audiences wanting more, prompting rewatches and a willing surrender to the repeated emotional gut punches.
Being off-camera changed nothing; Zhong Jia remained immersed in the role. She burst out of the room but quickly slowed her steps, each one heavy as if her legs were filled with lead. The pain, discomfort, and hesitation that belonged to Kong Can lingered plainly on her face.
She had no natural talent for acting, but her sincerity was enough to overcome most hurdles. The performance teacher back in Yanjing had fielded her endless questions without complaint and even offered to drop by the set sometime.
Xie Yingnian offered pointers too and was always game for a rehearsal run-through, but Zhong Jia had held back. She could tell lately that the other woman wasn’t quite herself—her energy and mood seemed off. On reflection, it probably stemmed from whatever was going on back home; she’d been like this ever since returning.
“Cut!” The director’s call unleashed a chorus of relieved cheers signaling wrap. Xie Yingnian threw a coat over her costume and strolled out chatting with the crew. In the night shadows, glimpses of her straight, elegant legs flashed beneath the swaying fabric, pale as jade.
As she passed a dark clump by the windowsill, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind. Xie Yingnian had been expecting it and stayed perfectly composed, merely flashing a smile at the props master. “You go on ahead.”
“What’s going on?” The props master blinked in confusion.
Xie Yingnian glanced down at the familiar hands clasped around her legs and let out a sigh that sounded almost exasperated. Her two assistants exchanged looks nearby, reading the delight she was clearly hiding. “I’ve been latched onto by a little critter.”
The props master let out a puzzled “Oh?” From behind Xie Yingnian’s back, a head poked out. Zhong Jia was squatting there, tilting her own head with a grin. “Hello, ma’am.”
Her eyes sparkled brightly, her smile a touch bashful. A few more people wandered by, tossing good-natured jabs. Ai Yilan hopped down from the arms of one of the production assistants and scurried over to squat behind Zhong Jia like the caboose of a train. Nong Siqing laughed and snapped a photo of the trio.
Everyone but the interns was a set veteran; they didn’t linger and soon cleared out, tactfully leaving space for a private word or two. It didn’t matter if it was opposite-sex or same-sex—spending months immersed in a role where someone was irreplaceable often blurred the lines between acting and reality.
This pair was showing some of those signs, though no one called it out. It could only help the film, after all.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Xie Yingnian said, shooting Jujiu a look to head back with A Cha first.
Zhong Jia buried her face in the plaid wool of Xie Yingnian’s coat. “It’s all covered up. No face left to lose anyway.”
“But you’re still losing it right in front of me.”
“That’s fine. I already lost it that night in front of you.”
Xie Yingnian arched a brow. “Which night?”
Laughter tugged at her lips. All Zhong Jia could see was the muted black-and-white check pattern up close, plain as could be, but it sent her heart into a jumble. She blurted out whatever came to mind. “Stop teasing me. You know—the night I was crying.”
Something about the word “teasing” inexplicably delighted Xie Yingnian, drawing her smile even wider.
“Not just that once. Lots of times. I lose face in front of you all the time.” Zhong Jia slowed her words, anxious to make herself clear but terrified of wearing out her patience—even though Xie Yingnian had never shown a hint of it. Shackled inside the shell of her affection, she felt clumsy and restrained.
She paused, then added in the softest whisper, “Just you.”
Those four simple words, and Xie Yingnian understood completely. Zhong Jia only ever let her guard down like this with her—and no one else.
The set was still a ways from the city proper. Car engines rumbled to life one after another, until only a lone vehicle remained at the entrance, its headlights cutting twin beams through the dark. Xie Yingnian stared at that glow and felt a kinship with Ruan Ting’s bewilderment. It wasn’t a question of wanting to—it was whether she could.
“Good thing we weren’t like this as kids.”
Zhong Jia replied, “We were. You just forgot.”
Xie Yingnian hesitated for a few seconds. “Were we?”
The words left her lips, and she recognized her own evasion, which only made it funnier. Zhong Jia had a real knack for wielding her voice to play the victim—a slight drop in tone was enough to make anyone feel like they’d wronged her terribly.
“Our first meeting. The day of my mom’s funeral. There was that tree where you could tie prayer ribbons.” Zhong Jia trailed off for a beat. Xie Yingnian stayed quiet, drawing a blank, so she pressed on. “I wasn’t tall enough, so you picked me up to tie the red strip on the branch. I was already eleven, and you said I looked like I was just starting elementary school.”
The lingering effects of her childhood fever had left Zhong Jia frail for the first few years living with her grandmother in Qingyuan County. She’d lagged behind her peers in growth.
“…What I meant was, eat well and you’ll shoot up fast.” Xie Yingnian grumbled inwardly about her impossibly sharp memory, forgetting that she herself held grudges like nobody’s business.
Zhong Jia wasn’t buying it. She huffed softly. “Is that really what you meant?”
Xie Yingnian laughed. She did have a habit of running her mouth—always had, ever since they were kids. She loved tossing out harmless little jabs, and it was always reserved for other girls. Some habits were too ingrained to shake.
“Little Cat gets snippy when she’s unhappy.” Xie Yingnian neatly categorized all of Zhong Jia’s antics since the leg-hugging episode. She turned slightly and rested her palm on the other woman’s tousled head, giving it a gentle rub. “Sorry. I should remember that.”
It wasn’t some grand moment, but Zhong Jia had committed every scrap of Xie Yingnian-related memory to heart. Hearing such a sincere apology now elevated it to something priceless, worth treasuring forever. A contented smile bloomed on her face.
Xie Yingnian asked, “How long are you planning to squat there? You really think you’re a cat? Aren’t your legs sore?”
A pear-shaped bulb dangled from the ceiling overhead, casting a warm orange glow over the dated surroundings. Still in their costumes, the two of them could almost believe they were characters suspended in the story.
As long as you’re here, I could squat forever.
Zhong Jia wanted to hold on even tighter. Her arms stayed locked around Xie Yingnian’s legs without pulling away, their hands simply clasping each other in a simulation of the embrace.
She said, “Liking someone is so hard.”
Xie Yingnian withdrew her hand, letting it fall naturally by her side. But that wasn’t enough. As if terrified that she might uncontrollably touch the person she shouldn’t, she shoved both hands into her pockets.
Was Zhong Jia talking about herself or Kong Can?
Deep down, they both knew the answer. Until they could summon the resolve to confront it, pretending ignorance was their only choice. The moonlight was hazy, after all, and once they stepped out of this brightly lit area, any presumptuous advances or wild fantasies could easily hide in the darkness.
“You have to head back to school for finals tomorrow, right?” Xie Yingnian said, as if she hadn’t heard the earlier words at all. “Do your best.”
Zhong Jia released her hand and nodded obediently. “Okay.”
Xie Yingnian was just starting to catch her breath when Zhong Jia added, “I’ll bring the pipa this time and sing that song you wanted to hear.”
The breath caught halfway in her chest, neither able to rise nor fall. Zhong Jia was far too carefree—being ignored or brushed off didn’t faze her in the slightest. Xie Yingnian could only laugh wryly, even as a long-forgotten joy welled up inside her, one she couldn’t help but acknowledge.
When was the last time someone had cared for her like this? It felt so distant that she couldn’t even remember.
