Chapter 46: Looking Forward to Your Arrival

Zhong Jia actually hadn’t imagined that her wrap day would fall on this scene.

The crew’s schedule came out once a week, and her final shot was originally supposed to be at the train station.

Ruan Ting was returning from a business trip to Beihai. On the day of her arrival, Kong Can waited at the crowded exit with Yuan Yuan. The departure board scrolled with arriving train times, but the big and the little one had both been lured away by the roasted chestnuts sold on the roadside.

The woman stepping down from the old green train wore a red scarf wrapped around her neck, her long hair tucked inside it too. Gazing across the sea of people at the two figures with their backs turned to her, her face broke into a helpless smile.

It was a bleak late autumn evening. Silver maple leaves blanketed the station square. Ruan Ting walked out unhurriedly from behind, the scent of roasted sweet potatoes growing stronger. The sugar-coated chestnuts popped crisply in the iron wok as the vendor flipped them with his shovel…

The vendor hawked his wares, calling out, “Beauties, wanna try some?” His hands never stopped as he made change from a biscuit tin. Kong Can turned back in a daze, clutching her kraft paper bag of chestnuts, a dark smudge of burnt shell on her lip from nibbling one. She blinked, suddenly remembering why she’d come there in the first place.

“You greedy cat. I used to lose out to braised duck, and now it’s chestnuts.” Ruan Ting answered Yuan Yuan’s call of “Mommy,” letting her daughter cling to her all sticky and gooey.

She reached out and gently wiped it away from the girl’s face. As she withdrew her hand, she deliberately brushed Kong Can’s lip corner. Their gazes met in that instant of contact, full of lingering affection. They both smiled.

The dilapidated clock tower’s hands ticked slowly onward. Since fleeing the home filled with lies and violence, Ruan Ting had passed through countless train stations, big and small—always rushing in and rushing out, tireless, never lingering.

That day in Chongxiang, under the streetlights, a fine drizzle wove into threads. She and Kong Can walked on either side of the bouncing, skipping Yuan Yuan, their shadows on the ground giving off a real family vibe.

What Ruan Ting hadn’t expected was how quickly things would change.

She fell into deep pain and regret because of it, spending the rest of her life hating herself.

Why had she glossed over it back then—feeling guilty toward Yuan Yuan, thinking the child was too young to understand? Why hide the cracks in the marriage, the husband’s infidelity, the late-blooming mutual devotion?

Gou Jiaxun learned of Ruan Ting’s whereabouts because one night Yuan Yuan missed her dad too much. While her mom was at Sister Kong Can’s place, the little girl sneaked off to the corner store, which had a phone.

The shopkeeping couple could play mahjong all night. The girl often tagged along with the pretty shampoo girl from the hair salon to buy snacks; the call wouldn’t cost much. Old Man Chen, the owner, generously let her use it whenever he won a hand.

The obvious third party in the main storyline was Kong Can. It was right there in the film’s filing summary: she had inserted herself into a marriage on the brink of collapse.

As for the true “third party” that Director Nong Siqing really wanted to convey…

“It’s Yuan Yuan,” Nong Siqing said. “Pretty obvious, right? You just didn’t dare to guess it.”

It was during the third script seminar. She took a sip of strong tea to perk herself up. As she looked down, her eyelids drooped, half-hiding her eyes, her emotions growing inscrutable.

Screenwriter Huo Gaoyuan was a longtime collaborator. In fact, the final script credit went to someone else; naming the film The Third Party had been Nong Siqing’s call.

“Though Yuan Yuan is an innocent, clueless child, you can’t deny that her existence upset the balance between Ruan Ting and Kong Can. It even led to their relationship ending in tragic separation.”

Nong Siqing’s gaze fixed ahead, but it didn’t seem focused. “Without her, would Ruan Ting’s divorce have gone more smoothly? Without her, would Ruan Ting have been bolder? Back in that era—the one even earlier than in the story…”

She paused, then chuckled wryly at how little things had changed. “It’s the same now. Women get more tied down by family and kids than men do. ‘So-and-so’s wife,’ ‘so-and-so’s mother’—society loves labeling married women that way, forgetting they have their own names too.”

“Back to the movie.” The mood had grown heavy; more than a few men looked unconvinced. Nong Siqing laughed lightly and didn’t press further. “This isn’t my first time directing queer themes. My first and last works both end here.”

A stenographer recorded the remarks from the seating area, and a camera focused on Nong Siqing.

The fortysomething female director gazed out calmly and amiably. She clasped her hands and let out a long breath. “Legalizing same-sex marriage doesn’t erase prejudice. I want this film to speak up again for all same-sex couples—especially the female ones who so often go unheard in society.”

“Have you ever thought that from the day we’re born, our sexual orientations are constantly being shaped? Boys should be brave adventurers, bold and daring. Girls should be gentle, attentive homemakers. Boys and girls complement each other perfectly, so they should attract, marry, have kids—it’s only natural.”

“If we strip away all the ‘shoulds’ and go back to the essence, maybe the person we want to spend our life with is simply one person. Gender irrelevant.”

The main creatives sat casually along both sides of the long conference table—not too formal. Some had bangs clipped back with curlers, and Xie Yingnian had treated everyone to milk tea on the table.

The previous two seminars hadn’t had this vibe. Maybe it was the wrap-up phase, but Nong Siqing’s words carried real depth, genuinely thought-provoking. Even those who disagreed wouldn’t rebut her to her face out of respect.

Zhong Jia sat with Xie Yingnian but barely exchanged a word the whole time.

So when the coordinator handed over the updated schedule, she hardly dared to breathe, clueless what was up with them. The main cast group chat had been full of teasing just before.

“Director Nong wants to reshoot a few earlier scenes. She’s not happy with them.”

Zhong Jia responded distractedly. It wasn’t until the meeting broke and Xie Yingnian walked out that she picked up her milk tea and took a few sullen gulps.

Before the sudden twist, Ruan Ting and Kong Can stole a tender moment in the cramped hospital bathroom stall. It felt like the vast world had shrunk to just that tiny space for them. Moonlight gleamed outside the window, tree shadows swayed, the breeze was gentle—no hint of the storm to come.

No telling whether disaster or tomorrow would arrive first.

The hospital set was built inside the studio, convincingly so—a early-2000s small-county hospital. The toilet used a foot-pedal flush, with rusty parts.

Water seeped from the ceiling, and the walls’ peeling plaster gaped in cracks.

Zhong Jia leaned against the door, waiting for the lights to be set. The director called out commands.

She wore a white tank top. Kong Can had rushed Yuan Yuan to the hospital without changing or grabbing a jacket. Luckily, it was a cool summer night, not cold. Her black hair hung to mid-length, soft tips brushing her even, lovely collarbones. Her palms were still damp from just washing her hands when she ducked into the farthest stall with Ruan Ting, kissing as they went.

The bruise on her knee was barely covered by concealer. For full-body shots, with board shorts below, no angle could hide it.

Worried it’d ruin the take, Zhong Jia had asked the makeup artist at the hotel and set the ointment aside without applying it.

How’d it end up like this?

She’d sent a photo; the makeup artist thought it looked bad and expressed concern.

Zhong Jia: “Ah, bumped it this morning ’cause I wasn’t awake yet.” She’d added a winking Little Cat emoji.

Glancing at her cat avatar, time had flown. It felt like she’d just joined the crew two weeks ago, but her heart had long been filled by the other woman. No wonder she’d been so out of it lately, even getting hurt. How to explain it? She couldn’t very well say it was a breakup funk.

Yeah, a breakup.

I didn’t ask, she didn’t say, but it had to be. I saw it coming. Prepared for it from the start. Hadn’t every one of her relationships been like that? Started on set, fizzled out by wrap. Why would I be different?

Pretty good, really. Stolen time, however brief, was a wish fulfilled. Should be grateful.

But it still hurt.

Xie Yingnian finished touching up her makeup and headed over.

From Zhong Jia’s angle, she first caught sight of her profile: a scarf tied around her long wavy hair, draping to the side in a soft pale blue. Her slender neck wore a butterfly silver chain.

The cheap overhead fluorescent light reflected off the necklace, the gleam hot enough to make Zhong Jia look away before Xie Yingnian fully entered her view.

She stared down instead, afraid to look at her—or at nothing. So she fixed on the water trickling slowly along the tile grout toward the squat toilet.

The door creaked open. Zhong Jia’s ears burned. The space was tiny—barely room for one more person besides her.

Xie Yingnian stood on the other side. She’d already adjusted for the rehearsal angle, experienced enough to nail the tricky camera positions and look perfect on film.

Her mild, serene perfume scent was the signature she’d given Ruan Ting—something the movie couldn’t convey to audiences. A minor detail to others, but it could sway her scene partner’s mood.

Not so much today, though.

“Coordinator filled you in, right?” Xie Yingnian reached out to gently ruffle Zhong Jia’s hair. “Dinner tonight. Celebrating your wrap.”

On the way to set, Zhong Jia had talked with Shi Heng, confirming her private trip to Jincheng. A Cha wouldn’t come; she’d go alone. Travel tickets were booked ages ago. She’d miss the dinner. About Wonderful Cloud Temple, the prayer beads, Xie Yingnian… She had countless urgent questions demanding answers.

Zhong Jia: “You going too?”

She grasped Xie Yingnian’s wrist, glancing at the equipment’s blinking red light. Recording, but no big deal—they were a couple in the script, after all.

“If you don’t mind.”

“You’re my senior—how could I dare?” Zhong Jia was terrified that she would think she was just throwing a tantrum. She really wanted to, but when it came to Xie Yingnian, it wasn’t about daring at all. It was about willingness—about not being able to bear it.

She smiled faintly. “I’m looking forward to you coming.”

Xie Yingnian fiddled with her bangs again. “They’re covering your eyes. Go get a trim when you get back.”

Such an old trope, right from the start. Zhong Jia replied, “Yeah, it’s for the role. Once I cut it, I’m going to dye it too.”

“Dye it less,” Xie Yingnian said. “It damages your hair.”

“Here we go again.” Zhong Jia rolled her eyes, though the gesture carried little menace. It was all to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “Teacher Xie, you won’t be able to boss me around anymore after this.”

In her own way, she was pleading for her to stay—still hopelessly devoted, unwilling to give up.

Xie Yingnian turned her head to glance at the moths fluttering tirelessly around the lightbulb. Heedless of death, they had no idea that the very place they yearned for would become their grave.

After a moment of silence, she heard herself speak, her tone carrying a sense of relief on the other’s behalf. “I thought you’d be really upset.”

“I am really upset,” Zhong Jia said, “but I can’t just mope around. I have to do justice to this movie, to this role. Playing this final scene well—that’s what made you fall for Kong Can.”

A smile crinkled the corners of Zhong Jia’s eyes. “So why not seize tonight? Give me a chance. I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

She took Xie Yingnian’s hand, which hung loosely at her side. Under that expectant gaze, she wrote stroke by stroke, taking a long time: Cry for you one more time.