She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

“Stop.”

Wen Biexu pressed the pause button. The screen froze on Xi Jisheng’s face—specifically, her expression as she sat alone behind the monitor watching a playback after the library scene. Her eyes were fixed on Lou Ningyu’s smile on the screen, her gaze as complex as an overturned palette of colors.

“Look here,” Wen Biexu pointed to the corner of Xi Jisheng’s mouth. “While she’s watching Lou Ningyu smile, she unconsciously purses her lips for a split second. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

Zhu Jinhe leaned in, her face almost touching the screen. “It’s like she wanted to smile, but suppressed it.”

“Exactly.” When Biexu switched the footage, this time to Lou Ningyu. “Now look at her. While Xi Jisheng is performing, Lou Ningyu unconsciously mimics her mouth movements. Look at this line—’Classmate, your book.’ When Xi Jisheng says it, Lou Ningyu’s lips move in sync.”

The footage played back frame by frame, clearly showing the slight twitch of Lou Ningyu’s lips.

Zhu Jinhe let out a low whistle. “Your powers of observation are terrifying. So, has your filming theme changed?”

“Mhm.” Wen Biexu saved the clip. “Shifting from filming the ‘play’ to filming the ‘gaps in the play.’ The real story isn’t in the lines; it’s in the moments that aren’t spoken.”

“Like right now?” Zhu Jinhe raised her camera, aiming it at the second floor of the riverside café. From this angle, she could clearly see Xi Jisheng’s profile by the window and Lou Ningyu’s back in the courtyard below.

“Like right now,” Wen Biexu nodded. “They’re in the same space, yet they use distance to build high walls. The funny thing is, they’re both experts at it—one uses silence, the other uses smiles.”

Zhu Jinhe clicked the shutter, capturing the scene. “So how are the interviews going? Any progress?”

Wen Biexu opened her notebook. “I talked to them separately about university memories. Xi Jisheng said her most cherished memory is the graduation play, The Tornado.”

“Why?”

“She said,” Wen Biexu looked at her notes, “‘Because that was the last time… I expressed love without any reservations.'”

The air went still for a few seconds. From the distance came the chime of the café’s wind chimes, crisp and lingering.

“And Lou Ningyu?” Zhu Jinhe asked.

“She said her biggest regret was not going after Xi Jisheng on graduation day.” Wen Biexu read Lou Ningyu’s exact words: “‘If I had chased her then… perhaps we wouldn’t have to act out a “reunion” now.'”

Zhu Jinhe put down her camera, thoughtful. “So, one is reminiscing about the last time she was brave, and the other is regretting the last time she wasn’t brave enough.”

“Precisely.” Wen Biexu closed her notebook and wrote a line on the cover:

They are in parallel universes, reminiscing about the same thing—a graduation season that should have had a different ending.

She looked at Zhu Jinhe. “Do you think if Lou Ningyu had chased her then, the ending would be different?”

Zhu Jinhe thought for a moment and shook her head. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because Xi Jisheng had already made her decision.” Zhu Jinhe lit a cigarette. “Her decision to push Lou Ningyu away wasn’t a whim; it was a calculated act of self-sacrifice. Even if Lou Ningyu had caught up and knelt to beg her, she wouldn’t have turned back. Some people are like that—the deeper they love, the more they feel unworthy, and the harder they push.”

Wen Biexu studied her. “You seem to know a lot about that.”

“Because I’m that kind of person.” Zhu Jinhe exhaled a cloud of smoke with a casual smile. “When I love someone to the point of feeling unworthy, I start finding excuses to run. It’s not a lack of love; it’s too much of it. Loving them so much you’re afraid your love will destroy them.”

“And now?” Wen Biexu asked.

Zhu Jinhe was silent for a long time, until a long stalk of ash had gathered on her cigarette. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “But I know Lou Ningyu has more courage than I do. She waited seven years and still dared to come back. As for me—” she flicked the ash away, “I didn’t even dare to wait. I just ran.”

…

The Campus Corridor

The scene in the campus corridor was scheduled for 9:00 PM. The prop team had hung strings of warm yellow lights along the corridor to simulate a university night. A fog machine hummed in the distance, sending a light mist drifting under the lights like the haze of youth.

This scene was the night before graduation. Zhou Yin is about to go abroad, and Shen Su comes to say goodbye. Before parting, Zhou Yin plants a kiss on Shen Su’s cheek—script note: Cheat the angle.

During rehearsal, the awkwardness was so thick it was palpable.

“Ningyu, you need to approach like this.” Peng Ke demonstrated, walking up to Xi Jisheng. “Hand lightly on her shoulder, lean in, lips near the cheek—but keep your distance. The camera is shooting from the side, we’ll cheat the effect.”

His hand touched Xi Jisheng’s shoulder and moved to her cheek to adjust the angle. “Jisheng, tilt your head slightly. You can close your eyes; your lashes should flutter. Give me that youthful, nervous energy.”

When Peng Ke’s hand touched Xi Jisheng’s face, Lou Ningyu’s eyes darkened. It was a subtle shift, but Wen Biexu’s lens caught it—her jawline tightened for a split second, her fingers curled instinctively, then quickly released.

“Understood?” Peng Ke asked. Both nodded, though neither looked at the other.

“Alright, let’s do a walkthrough.”

Xi Jisheng and Lou Ningyu stood at their marks, 30 centimeters apart—a safety distance, a physical boundary.

“Action.”

Lou Ningyu walked forward. Her footsteps were exceptionally clear in the silent corridor. One step, two steps, stopping in front of Xi Jisheng. The lights were behind her, casting a soft glow around her silhouette. She raised her hand and rested it lightly on Xi Jisheng’s shoulder. The movement was so light it was as if she were afraid to disturb something.

Xi Jisheng could feel the warmth of her palm through the thin fabric of the costume, searing her skin. Then, Lou Ningyu leaned in. Very, very slowly.

Xi Jisheng could smell her familiar scent—the same faint tea fragrance mixed with a hint of citrus from seven years ago. She could feel her breath, warm and carrying the coolness of a mint, brushing against her cheek.

The distance closed. Twenty centimeters, ten, five…

Xi Jisheng’s eyelashes began to tremble violently. She should have closed her eyes, but she couldn’t—her gaze was fixed on a point behind Lou Ningyu, like a drowning person clutching a final piece of driftwood.

Lou Ningyu’s lips stopped exactly one centimeter from her cheek. Time seemed to freeze. The lights, the mist, the distant cicadas—everything blurred into the background. The world shrank to this one centimeter, to the rhythm of two breaths.

Xi Jisheng could see Lou Ningyu’s lashes; she could count every blink. She could feel her breathing—it was ragged, just like her own.

Then, Lou Ningyu did something outside the script. Her lips didn’t actually land, but in that one-centimeter gap, she exhaled a breath—so soft it was almost imperceptible. A warm wisp of air brushed Xi Jisheng’s cheek like a feather, like a sigh, like a word left unspoken.

Xi Jisheng shuddered.

“Cut!” Peng Ke’s voice was like a thunderclap, shattering the frozen air.

Both women stepped back instantly, moving as if they’d been electrocuted. Xi Jisheng turned to face the wall, her shoulders rising and falling slightly. Lou Ningyu looked down, smoothing her costume, her fingers trembling.

Peng Ke walked over, his expression complex. “It was good… but it was too ‘tragic.'” He looked at Lou Ningyu. “I want youthful first-kiss energy—that cautious, sweet testing. Your state just now felt like a final, life-or-death parting.”

Lou Ningyu looked up, her eyes incredibly bright under the lights. “Director.”

“Mhm?”

“To us,” she said softly, her voice only audible to the three of them, “it is a life-or-death parting.”

Silence fell. Peng Ke looked at her, then at Xi Jisheng’s back, and finally sighed. “I understand. But a play is a play, and life is life. For this scene, I need youth, not heavy burdens. Let’s do it again. Rein in the emotion.”

…

11:00 PM, Hotel Room

Xi Jisheng had just finished showering; her hair was still dripping. She picked up a towel, and her phone vibrated on the nightstand. It wasn’t a WeChat message; it was a call. A Beijing number she didn’t recognize.

Her heart skipped a beat. Her finger hovered over the screen for three seconds before sliding to answer.

“Hello.”

There was a faint static on the line, followed by the sound of breathing. Soft, but she recognized it.

“Jisheng.”

It was Lou Ningyu’s voice. Coming through the line, it was slightly distorted and blurred, yet still as clear as if she were standing right there. Xi Jisheng gripped the phone but said nothing.

“About the kiss scene today…” Lou Ningyu paused. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Xi Jisheng heard her own voice; it sounded unnervingly calm.

“Because I almost actually kissed you.”

The air froze. Xi Jisheng could hear her own heart, and she could hear Lou Ningyu’s breathing on the other end. The two rhythms interlaced through the static like a secret chord.

“If I had kissed you,” Lou Ningyu asked, her voice very soft, “would you have pushed me away?”

Xi Jisheng closed her eyes. The one-centimeter gap in the corridor flashed before her eyes, then Lou Ningyu’s hand froze in mid-air, then that rainy night seven years ago—the moment the light in Lou’s eyes went out as she was pushed away.

It was a long time before she spoke, so long Lou Ningyu thought she wouldn’t answer.

“…Yes.”

A soft, bitter chuckle came from the other end. “I know. That’s why I stopped.”

Then, there was only the silence of the line, the hum of static sounding like the passing of time.

“Goodnight, Jisheng,” Lou Ningyu said. “Goodnight.”

The call ended. Xi Jisheng looked at the screen. Duration: 1 minute and 47 seconds.

Their first call in seven years. Less than ten sentences spoken, yet it had drained all her energy. She saved the number in her contacts. For the name, she hesitated for a long time before finally typing:

“Zhou Yin”

Not Lou Ningyu. Zhou Yin. A character. A safe distance. The closest name she could bring herself to use.

Then she opened her encrypted album, created a new folder, and saved the photos she’d secretly taken on set—Lou’s profile as she read her script in the sun, her hand as she handed over the coffee, the moment she smiled for the camera. The last item was a screenshot of the call log. That unknown number. 1 minute and 47 seconds.

She lay down and turned off the light. In the dark, the phone screen stayed lit on the contact page for “Zhou Yin.”

In the room next door, Lou Ningyu was also looking at her phone. She had recorded the call—not intentionally, but out of habit. Now, she played it back.

The static, the breathing, then her own voice: “Jisheng.” The reply: “Mhm.” The apology. The question. “…Yes.” “I know. That’s why I stopped.” “Goodnight, Jisheng.” “Goodnight.”

She replayed that last “Goodnight” over and over. Xi Jisheng’s voice sounded slightly raspy and soft through the phone, but she had truly said it. After seven years, she had finally heard her say goodnight again.

Lou Ningyu saved the recording, encrypted it, and named it “_Goodnight”.

Then she opened her notes and wrote:

Day 10. She answered the phone. She said she would push me away. But when she said goodnight, her voice was trembling.

She is wavering. I know it.

She set her phone down and looked at the wall. On the other hand, Xi Jisheng was likely still awake. They were separated by a wall, sharing the same night, the same memories, and the same long, silent wait.

Tomorrow, the sun will rise as usual. The play would continue. The distance would be maintained. But once something begins to crack, there is no going back. Like a seed in the night, it has already begun to sprout.