Le Yiqiu slept until past noon before heading to the editing suite to work on the final two episodes of Towards the Moon.
Post-production started at two in the afternoon, and under smooth conditions, they could finish one episode per day.
Xu Qi, the editor, was a big name in the industry. If he hadn’t treated the short drama like a full movie—totaling just over a hundred minutes—he could have wrapped it up in two days.
Le Yiqiu was Tu Sheng’s student, and it was Tu Sheng who had introduced them.
Xu Qi had some fame and mostly worked on TV dramas, rarely touching movies.
His master was Tu Sheng’s go-to editor, which was how he knew Tu Sheng.
With his master getting on in years and planning to retire from the scene, he wanted to pass the torch by introducing Xu Qi to Tu Sheng.
He hoped Xu Qi could join Tu Sheng’s next project and inherit the mantle.
When Tu Sheng mentioned that one of his students had a short drama needing editing, Xu Qi thought it was beneath him—just a short drama; any random editor could handle it.
But his master insisted he take it and told him to treat it with the utmost care, as if it were a movie.
Editing like a movie naturally slowed things down.
Xu Qi was used to working nights, from noon until three or four in the morning.
What surprised him was that Le Yiqiu always clocked out with him.
However long he pulled an all-nighter, she stuck it out right alongside him.
Lately, he’d heard some buzz about Le Yiqiu.
He didn’t buy the online gossip. After working with her firsthand, he believed that as long as she kept pushing, her future achievements wouldn’t lag behind Lou Hansong’s.
A production went through so many stages from filming to release: rough cuts, fine editing, composing and selecting music, adding effects and dubbing, sound synthesis…
Le Yiqiu oversaw it all, even hauling her laptop around to shadow them and learn editing herself. For a director, that was impressive.
Fortunately, Towards the Moon was just a short drama, so it didn’t take forever to finish.
Xu Qi wasn’t working solo; he had his team. A full-length TV series or movie would have taken much longer.
Of course, Le Yiqiu paid the industry rate—no discounts, no favors owed.
She’d worried upfront that any debt of gratitude would fall on her teacher to repay, so from the start, she insisted on paying full price, not a penny less.
The short drama’s theme song and end credits were penned by some music students Le Yiqiu found—nothing fancy, but pleasant enough, and cheap.
All told, the project cost over a million, with most of that going to post-production.
The returns, naturally, were higher. For her first time earning big through her own efforts, Le Yiqiu had already pocketed over three million after recouping the shoot budget, platform splits, and other expenses—even before the drama finished airing.
Plus ongoing revenue from copyrights and merchandise.
And that was just a short drama. Movies had to be even more lucrative.
Le Yiqiu could already picture the string of zeros in her bank account someday.
As a kid, she’d had a modest goal: make a billion.
At twenty-eight, with way more than that in the bank, she’d set her sights higher: earn enough for ten buildings and live as a landlady.
Then she could coast through life—shoot movies when the mood struck, veg out otherwise. With ten properties generating rent, who’d dare call her a pretty boy living off a sugar mama?
The thought made Le Yiqiu chuckle to herself, leaving everyone in the editing suite staring at her in confusion.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll order afternoon tea. What does everyone want?”
…
Lin Xianing’s ad shoot would take three days, by which time Towards the Moon’s post-production would be done—just in time for scheduled updates.
That morning, Le Yiqiu had texted Lin Xianing. Besides “I miss you,” there were a few more:
—Once you’re done, let’s talk.
—Some things can’t be ignored, so let’s face them head-on.
—One thing’s for sure: I like you.
Sending them off lightened the load in Le Yiqiu’s heart.
Better to confront issues and solve them than dodge and let a cold war fester.
If she had a do-over, she’d have shamelessly clung to Lin Xianing and gone home with her. They might have talked it out last night.
Sometimes, you just needed to get out, breathe fresh air, and your perspective shifted.
Lin Xianing didn’t check her messages until after styling. Reading them warmed her heart.
A year older than Le Yiqiu, she felt like the memory-lost Le Yiqiu—barely eighteen or nineteen mentally—handled emotions with more maturity, steadiness, and initiative.
Maybe she’d overthought it and held back too much.
Le Yiqiu wanted to talk, and she agreed—they needed to.
Talk about what they felt inside, about where they went from here.
—Okay, I’ll let you know when I’m free in a couple days.
…
After two sleepless nights, Le Yiqiu finally finished editing the short drama. All that was left was uploading on schedule.
At eight-thirty in the morning, she dragged her exhausted body out of the suite. With only three hours of sleep in two days, she was at her limit.
Her one thought was to get home and crash, but she’d promised to meet Lin Xianing that day.
On the taxi ride, she fought to keep her eyes open. By the time she reached Lin Xianing’s door, she was in a total daze.
Summoning her last reserves against the sleepiness, Le Yiqiu made it inside. For convenience, Lin Xianing had given her a keycard.
She’d just swiped it when the door clicked open ahead of her.
Lin Xianing had been up early, waiting for Le Yiqiu to arrive.
Er Niu detected someone stepping out of the elevator on their floor and immediately announced, “Dumb Ball’s back, Dumb Ball’s back.”
When they’d lived together, they’d messed around setting up nicknames in Er Niu: Dumb Ball for one, Dazed Zero for the other.
At Er Niu’s alert, Lin Xianing—who’d skipped her morning workout and was lounging listlessly on the sofa—snapped her eyes open and trotted over to open the door.
Seeing Le Yiqiu’s surprised face, Lin Xianing realized she’d overdone it.
Covering awkwardly, she said, “I was just taking out the trash.”
Where was the trash?
Le Yiqiu’s gaze drifted down, but her foggy head couldn’t process much.
Yawning hugely, she shrugged off her coat, hung it up, and mustered some energy. “You go ahead and take out the trash.”
Her legs like lead, she shuffled to the sofa and collapsed onto it. Her head throbbed, her eyes refusing to stay open.
Maybe it was being in Lin Xianing’s place, surrounded by that familiar scent—her guard dropped completely. She leaned back and was out almost instantly.
Lin Xianing watched, stunned, as Le Yiqiu sat, closed her eyes, and slumped asleep on the sofa.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds. How wiped out did you have to be to crash that fast?
Lin Xianing quietly shut the door and tiptoed over.
Le Yiqiu was dead to the world, exhaustion etched plainly on her face.
Lin Xianing only knew she’d been scriptwriting; she had no clue about the details.
She cranked up the apartment’s heat a bit and draped a blanket over Le Yiqiu.
Squatting down, Lin Xianing gazed at her sleeping face, heartache swelling as she gently stroked Le Yiqiu’s hair.
After a moment, she pulled back, grabbed a book, and settled on the sofa beside her.
The room filled with steady breathing and the occasional rustle of pages—a cozy, serene vibe.
They kept each other company like that until nightfall.
Le Yiqiu slept straight through to evening. Blinking awake, she dazedly took in her surroundings and realized she was at Lin Xianing’s.
It was dark outside; the curtains were open, and no sign of Lin Xianing.
Rolling over, she rubbed her pounding head, vowing never to pull another stunt like this.
The past month, she hadn’t slept more than eight hours straight even once.
Class started at eight; she’d wake by six at the latest, then tackle homework until one or two in the morning—if she was lucky.
On non-class days, it was shooting the short drama all day, not getting home till midnight.
Next time she made a film, no rushing like this. Health first, Le Yiqiu told herself.
Lounging on the sofa, she struggled to sit up, feeling true bodily fatigue for the first time.
At eighteen, she could pull three all-nighters and still hit the court full of pep.
At twenty-eight, two days wrecked her like an old machine begging for maintenance.
The sleep had revived her mentally some, but her back and waist ached fiercely.
Thank goodness for her consistent workouts these past months, or she’d have collapsed sooner.
Yawning hugely, Le Yiqiu murmured, “Er Niu, close the curtains.”
Her own voice startled her—gravelly as if scraped raw.
Blinking in surprise, she scanned for Lin Xianing. Taking in the room, she saw no one and figured she’d call.
Patting around, she couldn’t find her phone—probably in her coat pocket.
Rising, she fetched the coat and fished it out.
Er Niu suddenly chimed, making Le Yiqiu’s heart skip.
“Dazed Zero’s back, Dazed Zero’s back.”
Le Yiqiu burst out laughing, memories flooding back of them chasing each other around, resetting nicknames on the tablet.
She’d pinned Lin Xianing down and changed hers to Dazed Zero.
Lin Xianing, miffed, had retaliated by dubbing her Dumb Ball.
Even after all this time apart, Lin Xianing hadn’t changed them back.
The door clicked open. Spotting Le Yiqiu behind it, Lin Xianing froze, then remembered Er Niu’s alerts and smiled sheepishly.
“You’re up? Want to move to the bed?”
Le Yiqiu shook her head. “Just woke up—still floaty. I’ll sit a bit.”
Her legs felt like jelly, her soul half-out-of-body.
Lin Xianing hurried over to steady her. “You’re feverish. I just went out to get medicine.”
She’d spent the day munching snacks and reading, eyes flicking to Le Yiqiu constantly.
Around dinnertime, setting her book aside, she’d noticed Le Yiqiu’s unnatural flush and restless sleep. Pressing the back of her hand to Le Yiqiu’s forehead and cheek confirmed it: burning up.
She grabbed the forehead thermometer; it beeped at 37.5 degrees.
Forehead readings ran a touch low—Le Yiqiu’s real temp was probably 0.2 higher.
Not a raging fever, but miserable all the same.
They had antipyretics but no cooling patches. Lin Xianing wiped Le Yiqiu’s face, loosened the blanket to just cover her belly, and dashed out for patches.
Returning, she found Le Yiqiu wobbling like a toddler taking first steps—slow, deliberate, unsteady.
That “sit” had been more like a flop onto the sofa.
Lin Xianing checked her temp again. “Good, no spike.”
“Put on the cooling patch. I got porridge—eat that, then the meds.”
Le Yiqiu obeyed meekly. Overwork had pushed her body into rebellion.
No wonder she felt so drained and foggy-headed.
Every late night exacted payback eventually.
The malaise dulled her thinking; even simple thoughts made her head throb like she’d taken a brick to the skull.
That morning, she’d chalked it up to sleepiness, her whole vibe off—never guessing fever.
Slumped bonelessly on the sofa, she basked in Lin Xianing fussing over her, heart glowing warm.
How long since she’d been sick and not toughed it out solo—pop pills, sleep it off, drag to the clinic if no better in days?
Back then, underage after Grandma passed, her parents dumped her alone at home. Sure, she had money, but they’d “forget” living expenses half the time.
Only remembered when prodded.
But it didn’t matter. People who’d neglected her as a kid weren’t worth caring if they stepped up now.
The one bustling for her sake now? That was who mattered.
