Let's Get Married on the First Day of Rebirth - Chapter 40

On the first day back home, Xu Mi was still steeped in the melancholy of parting from Qu Ange.

But she realized her state of mind wasn’t as bad as it had been a few days prior.

A few days ago, she had felt utterly hopeless, convinced that Qu Ange’s departure meant a permanent farewell. Yet Qu Ange’s urgent return confirmed that she still held a place in the other’s heart. This revelation pierced through the dark clouds in her mind like a ray of sunlight, bringing a sliver of life to the cold, damp soil of her heart.

That night, she slept deeply. The next morning, she went to Tan Zhenzhen’s newly rented apartment.

The layout was identical to her own home. An older two-bedroom unit with the advantage of a large, modern kitchen, perfectly suited for their work. Xu Mi woke the still-sleeping Tan Zhenzhen, saying, “We’ve rested enough these past few days. It’s time to get back to work.”

Tan Zhenzhen nearly cried, “Are you even human? What about when you were sleeping and not doing anything? I stayed up until 3 a.m. playing games yesterday!”

Xu Mi ignored her complaint and asked, “Didn’t you say you filmed some footage these past few days? Let me see what we can use.”

Now that she was apart from Qu Ange, she needed to fill every moment of her time with other things.

Because the moment she had a spare moment, her mind would immediately be flooded with images of Qu Ange. Memories clung to her like stubborn parasites, impossible to shake off.

The only way to bury them was to cover them with something else.

Like work.

Early on the third day, she headed to the docks to buy some fresh seafood. As she went downstairs, she spotted Lin Wanzhao crouching outside, aiming an expensive-looking, oversized camera lens at the palm trees in the neighborhood. Xu Mi had no intention of engaging with her, but as she passed by, she found herself asking, “What’s so interesting to photograph?”

Lin Wanzhao pointed at a leaf. “There’s a bug on it.”

Xu Mi squinted and focused. “Oh, it’s a grasshopper.”

The small, emerald-green insect, damp with dew, looked like an exquisite piece of jade artwork.

Lin Wanzhao beamed with excitement. “So, this is a grasshopper.”

Xu Mi glanced around. “Where’s your guardian?”

Surprisingly, Lin Wanzhao understood. “She drank a lot at the bar last night and hasn’t woken up yet.”

Xu Mi smirked with a hint of sarcasm. “I didn’t know our little town had a bar worthy of keeping CEO Qiu entertained all night.”

She continued walking, and Lin Wanzhao trailed behind, aiming her camera at Xu Mi’s back.

At the docks, Xu Mi picked out some fresh shrimp and crabs. Noticing Lin Wanzhao was still filming her, she frowned and said, “Stop filming me.”

Lin Wanzhao replied with an “Oh,” but couldn’t resist asking, “Not even from behind?”

Xu Mi nodded firmly. “Not even from behind.”

Xu Mi bought fresh bamboo shrimp, blue crabs, and some grouper. On her way home, she ran into an acquaintance—the mother of an old classmate. The woman looked at her in surprise and said, “Isn’t this Mimi? You’re back home?”

Xu Mi nodded. “Yes, I’m planning to work from home now.”

The woman smiled warmly. “It’s good to be back. What about Ange? Is she back too? I remember you two were inseparable back in the day.”

At those words, memories surged like an avalanche. Xu Mi recalled walking along this very street, by this very seaside, with Qu Ange. Everyone knew Qu Ange, greeting her with smiles and asking where they were off to next.

Everyone liked Qu Ange. Wherever Qu Ange went, she became the center of attention.

Fortunately, Xu Mi’s face had always been expressionless. So even though hearing Qu Ange’s name had stirred up a storm inside her, it didn’t show on her face. Her voice was just a bit colder as she said softly, “I’m going back.”

She walked ahead on her own, while Lin Wanzhao was stopped by the other person, who asked, “Little girl, who are you? You look so well-behaved.”

Lin Wanzhao replied obediently, “My name is Lin Wanzhao. I’m Sister Xu Mi’s… um… I think we’re friends.”

The woman laughed heartily and handed Lin Wanzhao a bag of snails, saying, “Here, take these. Cook them in soup—they’re very fresh.”

Lin Wanzhao thanked her and took the bag. Walking under the sunlight, she saw that the red transparent plastic bag contained sea snails of various sizes, types, and patterns—most of which she had never seen before.

She skipped ahead to catch up with Xu Mi and showed her the bag. “Look, that auntie gave these to me.”

Xu Mi’s voice was indifferent. “Congratulations.”

Lin Wanzhao looked at Xu Mi. “Did you slow down just now to wait for me?”

Xu Mi said, “No, don’t flatter yourself.”

Lin Wanzhao let out an “Oh,” then raised the bag again and asked, “Do you know how to cook them?”

Xu Mi didn’t answer. She looked up at the traffic light, and beyond the signal was a vast, clear sky.

That noon, Xu Mi cooked the bag of sea snails into a pot of soup, using only water, salt, and a little sesame oil, finishing it off with a sprinkle of chopped cilantro.

When it was served, Qiu Shuiyi made a face and said, “I don’t eat cilantro.”

Xu Mi ignored her, while Tan Zhenzhen retorted, “Then don’t eat it.”

In the end, Qiu Shuiyi ate more enthusiastically than anyone else, commenting, “There’s too little meat. In the restaurants I’ve been to, the sea snail meat is a hundred times bigger.”

Lin Wanzhao called her out, “But it doesn’t taste as fresh, does it?”

Qiu Shuiyi immediately agreed, “You’re right, little sister Wanzhao.”

The surroundings were always noisy—some people talking, others bickering, and even someone singing. Only at night did it suddenly grow quiet. While replying to messages on Weibo, Xu Mi would often come across Qu Ange’s alternate account perhaps not by accident, but because she wanted to see it.

Qu Ange posted sentimental words there every day:

Day two without seeing my wife, missing her.

Day three without seeing my wife, missing her.

…and so on.

These posts usually appeared late at night or in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes during the day, she would post a picture of a boxed meal from the film set, along with:

Missing the food my wife makes.

Every night, Xu Mi received long messages from Qu Ange on WeChat—paragraphs upon paragraphs, as if she were trying to write a diary. Qu Ange talked about the weather on set, the people, how long she had waited around that day, how her makeup was about to smudge, and how the costume from the props department had torn under the arm, so she had to hold her arm up while someone stitched it back together.

Xu Mi almost felt like she could become an actress herself, because she was getting to know so much about film sets.

She would stare at these messages late into the night, but when she clicked into the text box, she didn’t know what to reply.

After several days of not responding, she began to worry that Qu Ange might lose patience.

She was afraid Qu Ange would lose patience, yet a part of her hoped she would. Every time she received another message the next day, she felt both happy and heartbroken.

But gradually, she stopped crying.

Perhaps this meant that happiness was gradually outweighing the bitterness.

Lin Wanzhao followed Xu Mi to buy groceries early every morning.

Sometimes Qiu Shuiyi would join the shopping trips, and occasionally Tan Zhenzhen or Yue Mei would come along, but Lin Wanzhao was always there. Eventually, the vendors at the market all got to know her. Every day, she would leave with scallions, ginger, garlic, or some inexpensive bits of seafood in her hands. This made her happy, and she became even more enthusiastic about it.

In addition, she tried to lift her camera to film Xu Mi every day.

As she put it, “Just because it’s not possible today doesn’t mean it won’t be possible tomorrow. People’s thoughts change every day. I’m like that, and aren’t you too?”

At first, Xu Mi firmly forbade it, then she would remind Lin impatiently, and finally, she stopped bothering altogether perhaps she had grown used to it.

One day, Xu Mi noticed new videos taken by Lin Wanzhao in the material library on her computer. Yue Mei, who was now mostly in charge of post-production editing, opened the clips one by one. In those scenes, Xu Mi appeared calm and serene, like a tranquil lake, no matter how chaotic the surroundings were.

“You have a great on-screen presence,” Yue Mei commented. “I think we could compile these into a video, maybe with a theme like ‘daily life lately.’ What do you all think?”

She turned to ask for opinions from the others standing behind her. Everyone was lined up, frowning thoughtfully.

Only Xu Mi said, “I don’t want to.”

She felt the footage was anything but flattering—her on-screen self seemed as lifeless and emotionless as a dead fish. When Qu Ange appeared on camera, she always had such expressive facial expressions, and Xu Mi thought that was what made someone look good on screen.

Yue Mei patted her arm understandingly. “I get it. It’s always awkward at first, but you actually come across very naturally. Maybe it’s because Little Sister was secretly filming you.”

Lin Wanzhao, hearing herself mentioned, immediately beamed with pride.

Qiu Shuiyi stroked her chin, lost in thought.

Xu Mi remained firm. “…No.”

Over the next few days, Tan Zhenzhen tried to persuade her with both emotion and logic.

First, she argued that their viewership had hit a plateau. Although their regular audience kept watching, there was no growth, and if this continued, their numbers would inevitably decline.

Second, she promised to edit the footage, removing any unflattering shots. There would be no need for Xu Mi to speak—it would just create a cozy, immersive vibe of shopping and cooking together, making the content more engaging and helping viewers feel more connected.

Xu Mi looked up and retorted, “How have the recent mukbang videos been performing? What are the comments like? Has the website’s video compression issue been resolved?”

Tan Zhenzhen was left speechless and retreated awkwardly.

But the next morning, Qiu Shuiyi triumphantly opened her laptop and said, “When I heard you all discussing this the other day, I thought, ‘This is my area of expertise.’ After some painstaking creativity, my masterpiece is fresh out of the oven. Let me show you.”

Three heads leaned in to watch, while Xu Mi stood to the side, frowning. The screen slowly revealed a scene of a back view walking along a crowded, old street. The grainy, retro-style footage showed aged storefronts flanked by vibrant signs, accompanied by elegant classical music, evoking the feel of an old film from the 1980s.

The rest of the short film also featured only back views. The serene atmosphere, paired with the refined music, complemented Xu Mi’s temperament perfectly, drawing viewers into a tranquil state.

When the five-minute clip ended, Tan Zhenzhen turned around skeptically and asked, “Did you edit this? Did you pay someone to do it?”

Qiu Shuiyi felt insulted and slammed the table, saying, “Me, a top student from the directing department of the New York Academy of Arts—cutting a short film is as easy as pie for me.”

Yue Mei looked surprised. “You studied directing?”

Qiu Shuiyi declared, “It’s precisely because I have artistic talent that I want to start a film company!”

Her words were met with silence.

After the silence, everyone began whispering among themselves. “Honestly, this feels really right. We can add an opening and ending scene. Mimi, you’d agree to that, right? It’s just your back.”

Seeing everyone’s reaction, Xu Mi felt that if she refused again, she might face their collective anger. She had no choice but to silently agree.

They had just decided to shoot the opening scene at the beach when the local news issued a yellow warning: a typhoon was approaching.

The next day, even before the typhoon made landfall, the wind had already picked up. They carried all sorts of equipment to the shore. Under their direction, Xu Mi ran back and forth, her hair whipped into a tangled mess by the wind. She pretended to collect seashells along the shore and tapped at barnacles on the rocks. By the time she had fulfilled all their requests, the sky had darkened, and the wind howled fiercely. They hurried home and got busy.

In contrast, Xu Mi found herself with nothing to do. After taking a shower and washing her hair, she listened to the wind howling outside, curled up under the covers, and reopened the messages Qu Ange had sent her.

At nine o’clock, Qu Ange sent the day’s message—a long, detailed paragraph. Xu Mi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating, before she typed a single line:

【The typhoon is here,】

After typing the comma, she didn’t know what else to say.

Logically, a comma should be followed by more words, but what else was there to say? There was too much she could say, and she feared opening the floodgates of emotions she had carefully sealed away. Even Xu Mi herself didn’t know what would spill out if those gates burst open.

So, she replaced the comma with a period. But those four short words looked increasingly awkward the more she stared at them.

What was she trying to convey by saying, “The typhoon is here”?

It seemed like she wasn’t trying to convey anything at all.

In the end, Xu Mi deleted the entire message, shoved her phone under the pillow, and decided to ignore it.

It was just a small typhoon—it would pass soon enough.

After the typhoon swept through, the sky was washed clean, a brilliant shade of blue, as if the entire world had been scrubbed fresh.

When Xu Mi went downstairs, she saw Lin Wanzhao again. Lin Wanzhao pulled her toward the shore, aimed the camera at her, and said, “How about you walk from here to the railing?”

For the first time, Xu Mi decided to give it a try. But now that she was willing, she grew nervous, her movements stiff and awkward. Halfway there, she was already walking with the same arm and leg moving together.

She turned back and saw Lin Wanzhao staring at her, mouth agape and utterly bewildered.

Xu Mi’s face flushed. “Stop filming,” she said.

Lin Wanzhao laughed. “Are you nervous?”

Xu Mi had always been nervous in front of the camera.

She remembered back in college, at a scenic spot, when they took tourist photos for ten yuan apiece. All she had to do was smile at the camera, but her entire body stiffened, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t manage a smile.

The photographer kept urging her, “Smile, young lady on the left! Why aren’t you smiling?”

His words only made Qu Ange, standing beside her, laugh even harder. Then, Qu Ange leaned close to her ear, her warm breath brushing against Xu Mi’s ear as she asked with a chuckle, “Why are you so nervous? Do you need me to help you relax?”

Xu Mi’s face flushed with heat, her nerves tightening even more. Just as she was about to say, “Don’t mess around,” Qu Ange’s fingers pinched the soft flesh at her waist. A shiver ran through her body, and she collapsed onto Qu Ange, who wrapped an arm around her waist and flashed a peace sign at the camera.

Where did that photo end up? Oh, right—because Qu Ange had asked her not to keep any photos, she had placed many of them into a metal box and burned them all.

She zoned out for a while until Lin Wanzhao put away the camera and said, “It seems I’ll have to sneak photos of you next time. But the sky is so beautiful today—this part is worth keeping too.”

Lin Wanzhao looked at her, smiling, and added, “Sister Qu will watch it too, right? Our video. When she sees how well you’re doing in it, she’ll be so happy.”

That evening, they posted the new video, a collaborative effort edited by Qiu Shuiyi, with music reselected and edited by Lin Wanzhao, text embedding and post-production by Yue Mei, and captions by Tan Zhenzhen.

Xu Mi appeared in the video—buying groceries, cooking, and tasting the food.

Though only her back was shown.

Within two hours of posting, the video had been shared two thousand times, and the view count surpassed their total from the past week.

Everyone high-fived in celebration and decided to go out for drinks.

…

That night, when Xu Mi received Qu Ange’s text message, she had already drunk two cans of beer and was feeling slightly tipsy.

She wasn’t drunk, of course, but the alcohol had loosened some of her self-restraint. Coupled with having read the day’s messages and learning that someone on the set was bullying Qu Ange, she couldn’t help feeling a little angry. So this time, she finally couldn’t hold back and asked—[Who is that actress?]

Without hesitation, she hit send, leaving herself no room for regret or second-guessing.

When Qu Ange received the message, she had just finished watching the video. Seeing Xu Mi’s name pop up in the notifications felt like a hibernating brown bear finally glimpsing the first light of spring. She eagerly opened the chat interface, only to pause in confusion at the question.

Why was she asking about that actress?

For a moment, she couldn’t recall what she had said earlier. Scrolling up through the messages, she remembered she’d mentioned Qin Peiyao giving her a hard time. Suddenly, it dawned on her, and she couldn’t help feeling a secret thrill—was Xu Mi trying to stand up for her?

She replied—[She’s not that important. She’ll be wrapping up and leaving the set soon.]

Xu Mi—[Fine, don’t tell me then.]

Qu Ange’s heart sank. That didn’t sound good—was Xu Mi angry?

She hurried to make amends—[I’ll tell you, I will! But could we do a voice call?]

There was no response for a long time.

So long that Qu Ange began to regret her words, convinced she had ruined the opportunity once again. Just then, her phone buzzed with an incoming voice call from Xu Mi.

Qu Ange scrambled to find the earphones under her pillow, but they weren’t there. She tossed aside the pillow and sheets, frantically searching around like a headless fly, until she finally spotted the earphones on the floor by the bed. She snatched them up, hurriedly plugged them in, and answered the call, saying, “Sorry, I was looking for my earphones.”

Her roommate stared at her in astonishment. Qu Ange raised a finger to her lips and shushed her quietly.

Static crackled from the earpiece, and after a long pause, Xu Mi’s voice came through, saying—

“Mm.”

Light and crisp, like an icicle on a winter branch suddenly snapped off by the wind.

Qu Ange let out a sigh, as if finally breathing in fresh air. Eager to share everything with Xu Mi, her thoughts piled up in her mind, turning into a jumbled mess where she didn’t know where to begin. Amid the chaos, she blurted out—

“I missed you so much.”

On the other end of the phone, Xu Mi covered her mouth with her hand, curling up like a hamster in winter and burrowing under the covers.

A scream was stuck in her throat, but the words that came out were unexpectedly calm: “Actually, talking over the phone isn’t ideal, is it? Your roommate is there, so it’s even harder to mention that person’s name, right?”

Qu Ange chuckled softly and said, “But I wanted to hear your voice.”

Her roommate, who was reading a script on the opposite bed, glanced up at her, suddenly rolled her eyes, and quietly left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Qu Ange said to Xu Mi, “She’s gone. Probably didn’t want to be fed our ‘dog food.’”

Xu Mi didn’t get the reference and let out a confused, “Huh?”

Qu Ange explained, “She’s single, so ‘dog food’ means… Haha, just kidding. She probably went next door to rehearse with the others.”

Xu Mi asked, “Don’t you need to go?”

Qu Ange replied proudly, “They don’t want to rehearse with me. They say acting alongside me is a blow to their confidence.”

Even though Xu Mi had always felt uneasy about Qu Ange entering the entertainment industry, hearing those words still made her smile involuntarily, lifting the corners of her mouth.

Xu Mi said, “Are you that good?”

Qu Ange replied, “Not bad, just at the level of a Best Actress award winner.”

Xu Mi sat at her desk, propping her chin in her hands, and caught her reflection in the glass window. She stretched her lips into a smile, her cheeks puffing up like a hamster with its mouth full of nuts, until it started to ache a little.

Talking with Qu Ange was always something that made her this happy.

Qu Ange chattered on over the phone: “That actress is named Qin Peiyao. I mentioned her in my WeChat messages. She was originally cast as Consort Rong, but I’ll tell you a secret—her acting is terrible. If I were the director, I’d definitely cut her scenes…”

She lowered her voice to a whisper, then suddenly laughed and said, “She’s not even as good as you. I watched your new short film. Who edited it? It’s really well done—unique and heartwarming.”

Xu Mi said, “You’ll never guess who…”

Just as she was about to say, Qu Ange suddenly raised her voice and said, “Don’t tell me! Let me guess. Is it Yue Mei?”

“No.”

“Tan Zhenzhen?”

“No.”

“Wow, Lin Wanzhao?”

“No.”

“…”

Qu Ange fell silent.

After a long pause, she said, “Did you hire an outside studio?”

She had skipped Qiu Shuiyi.

Xu Mi burst out laughing and said, “Why did you skip Director Qiu?”

Qu Ange’s voice was full of doubt: “It couldn’t be her, could it?”

In truth, the more mature and straightforward version of Qiu Shuiyi ten years later did give Qu Ange a sense of artistic flair, but the current Qiu Shuiyi showed no signs of it.

Xu Mi said, “She majored in directing.”

Qu Ange replied, “…I really couldn’t tell.”

Even though it had been a long time since they last talked, once the conversation started, it flowed like a dam bursting open. Just talking to this person brought joy, and any form of interaction—even just hearing their breath through the receiver—made her heart feel steady and secure. The anxiety and restlessness that had plagued her over the past few days vanished completely. Nearly half an hour had passed when her roommate returned from outside. Qu Ange lowered her voice and asked, “Will you still reply to my messages tomorrow?”

Xu Mi fell silent.

Qu Ange buried herself under the covers, almost pleading, “Just let me know you’re still there…”

Xu Mi hummed softly and said, “Okay, I will reply.”

It felt like a spring breeze had blown into a hibernating burrow. Qu Ange threw off the covers, clenched her fists, and silently cheered in excitement.

Reluctantly, she hung up the phone and saw her roommate looking at her curiously. “Qu Ange, are you chasing after someone?”

Qu Ange frowned, “This is my proper partner. What do you mean, ‘chasing after someone’?”

Her roommate clicked her tongue twice and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t tell.”

Qu Ange was in too good a mood to respond and simply pretended not to hear.

She opened Weibo again, logged into her main account, and was about to repost something when she suddenly remembered what Xu Mi had said back in City A—that she didn’t want to be associated with Qu Ange online.

Her finger paused over the repost button. Qu Ange rested her chin on her hand, staring at the screen, and in the end, couldn’t resist giving it a like.

The next day, during a break in filming, Qu Ange started watching Xu Mi’s video again. She thought to herself, My wife’s back looks so good, she’s so photogenic, maybe she could even act in movies. As these thoughts crossed her mind, a lovesick smile spread across her face. Fang Yinzhen, the female lead of Ming Palace Flowers, happened to be nearby and leaned over to look. “Ange, what are you watching?”

Lately, Qu Ange had been seen as a rising star with great potential. Fang Yinzhen, a senior in the entertainment industry and a generation older than Qu Ange, treated her politely since Qu Ange posed no threat as a competitor but could very well be a promising newcomer.

Not very familiar with Fang Yinzhen, Qu Ange replied politely, “It’s a food video my friend made. It’s quite good. Would you like to take a look?”

Fang Yinzhen had recently started using Weibo and was still in the honeymoon phase with the platform. With limited entertainment options on set, she said, “Then forward it to me.”

Qu Ange sent her the Weibo link. After watching it, Fang Yinzhen was also impressed. “It has a cinematic quality. Even though the colors aren’t vibrant, it feels strangely soothing to watch.”

Qu Ange explained, “That’s the healing effect.”

Fang Yinzhen nodded in understanding, didn’t think much of it, and reposted the video with a comment:

【Such a healing short film】

Watching this unfold beside her, Qu Ange couldn’t help but beam with joy.