She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The Moon and Sixpence

The lights of the Busan International Film Festival were dazzling. Wen Bixu stood on stage, clutching the trophy for Best Documentary. Before her was a sea of people, the camera flashes sparkling like a galaxy. She wore a simple black suit, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

“Thank you,” she said into the microphone, her voice echoing slightly in the vast hall. “Beyond Echoes records how a love can be reborn. But more importantly—the process of filming this piece made me understand the power of truth.”

She didn’t mention Zhu Jinhe’s name. The spotlights were too bright; she couldn’t see the faces in the audience. But she knew that person wouldn’t be here.

Zhu Jinhe was likely in some far corner of the world, chasing light and shadow with her camera, just as they had agreed when they parted three years ago: “I won’t stay for you, and you won’t change your life plans for me.”

…

Upon returning from Busan, Wen Bixu’s life entered a new orbit. She moved out of the studio she had rented for years and bought a small apartment in Beijing’s East Fourth Ring. It was sixty square meters—one bedroom, one living room, and a south-facing balcony filled with greenery. The living room became her workspace, the walls covered in shooting schedules and timelines.

The bedroom was tiny, holding only a bed and a bookshelf. She also adopted a cat—a stray she found in her neighborhood. It was a black-and-white bicolor with a patch of black over its left eye, looking like an eyepatch. She named it “Echo.”

“Because all love has an echo,” she told the cat, though the cat only rubbed against her leg for food.

Her new project was a documentary series titled Forty Years of Female Filmmakers. Her first subject was Ai Ye.

“Teacher Ai, sorry for the intrusion,” Wen Bixu said as she set up her gear.

Ai Ye sat on her sofa in a lotus-root-pink Chinese blouse, her silver hair styled impeccably. “Bixu, you’re here. Sit, don’t overwork yourself; let the assistant handle that.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Wen Bixu insisted. “I want to handle this documentary personally, from interviewing to editing.”

Ai Ye nodded. “That sounds like you.”

The interview lasted three hours. As it ended and Wen Bixu turned off the camera, Ai Ye suddenly asked, “Bixu, what about you? How are you doing now?”

Wen Bixu’s hands paused. “I’m very well.”

“That… Zhu girl? Are you still in touch?”

“Occasionally,” Wen Bixu smiled. “She’s running all over the world; I’ve taken root in Beijing. We are both well in our own ways.”

Ai Ye looked at her with a knowing gaze. “Some people are migratory birds, destined to fly far. Understanding that means you’ve truly grown up.”

Wen Bixu nodded. “Yes, I understand now.”

…

At 3:00 AM in Greenland, Zhu Jinhe stood on the ice sheet in heavy arctic gear, adjusting her camera. The temperature was minus twenty-five degrees Celsius. Her breath turned to frost, and her fingers were nearly numb, but her eyes were bright as she watched the aurora borealis through the viewfinder.

The shutter clicked, sharp in the silent polar night.

Anna, a Norwegian explorer traveling with her, walked over and handed her a thermos. “Hot cocoa. You’ll freeze solid if you keep this up.”

Zhu Jinhe took it but didn’t look away from the camera. “Wait, the light is changing.”

“You’re the most driven photographer I’ve ever met,” Anna laughed.

“Because beauty doesn’t wait,” Zhu Jinhe said. “Just like love—the purest moments are often the shortest.”

Over the last three years, Zhu had traveled through Antarctica, the Sahara, the Amazon, and now Greenland. Her Instagram had accumulated a million followers, but no one knew what she looked like; she never showed her face, only her work. Her photos were lonely, vast, and possessed a nearly cruel beauty.

A reporter from National Geographic once asked her, “Do you not believe in eternity?”

“I believe in the eternity of a moment,” she replied. “The moment frozen in a photograph is eternal.”

Her contact with Wen Bixu had dwindled over these three years.

Year One: Frequent letters. Zhu sent postcards of penguins; Wen emailed about her cat.

Year Two: Birthday gifts—stones collected from around the world.

Year Three: Only the exchange of works. Wen sent the DVD of her film; Zhu sent her new photography book. No letters, no words—only the art spoke.

They never “broke up” formally. They just drifted, like two orbits that had briefly intersected before continuing in their own directions.

…

March, Paris.

Wen Bixu was in town for an international documentary seminar. The schedule included Zhu Jinhe’s name—her Sahara Light series was being exhibited at a Paris gallery. Wen hesitated for a long time but finally went.

In the gallery, she stood before a photo of the Sahara night sky. She remembered this shot; Zhu had messaged it to her years ago.

“Director Wen?” her assistant whispered. “I think that’s Teacher Zhu over there.”

Wen Bixu turned. In the corner, Zhu Jinhe was speaking with a curator. She was thinner, tanner, and her long hair was now a sharp short cut. She looked sharper, like a polished blade.

Feeling a gaze, Zhu turned. Their eyes met. Time froze for a few seconds. Then, Zhu Jinhe gave a slight nod and a very faint smile. Wen Bixu nodded back.

Later, on the balcony to get some air, a voice came from behind. “You came out too.”

Wen Bixu turned. Zhu Jinhe leaned against the doorframe with a glass of champagne. They leaned on the railing together.

“Congratulations on the award,” Zhu said. “And your exhibition is a success,” Wen replied.

Silence followed.

“Are you… doing well?” Zhu Jinhe’s voice was soft. “Yes. Work is busy, my cat is clingy.” “That’s good.”

“And you?” Wen Bixu asked. “Where to next?” “Greenland for the aurora. Then Svalbard for polar bears. I might be without signal for six months.”

“Stay safe.”

“Wen Bixu,” Zhu Jinhe called out, her voice slightly raspy. “I…” “Don’t say it,” Wen Bixu interrupted, her voice calm. “This is enough.”

Zhu Jinhe reached out and gave her a light, quick hug. “Be happy,” she whispered. “You too.”

They parted. As Wen Bixu walked out into the damp Paris night, she didn’t look back. She knew Zhu Jinhe wouldn’t either.

…

Back in Beijing, Wen Bixu began a friendship with Shen Zhi, a psychology professor she met through her work. They shared coffee once a week—not talking about feelings, but about work, film, and tea.

“Are you hiding yourself?” Shen Zhi asked once. “In your films, you hide while recording others’ love.”

“Because reality is too painful,” Wen Bixu admitted. “After Beyond Echoes, I locked myself away.”

“That’s self-protection,” Shen Zhi said gently. “But if it lasts too long, you lose the ability to feel. We can take it slow. Just share things that don’t hurt—like what tea you like, or what stupid thing your cat did.”

Wen Bixu agreed. She started to open up, one tiny step at a time. She realized that life didn’t have to have a partner to be complete. If you are whole yourself, anyone else is just a “gilding on the lily.”

…

In Tromsø, Norway, Zhu Jinhe sat in a cabin writing a letter.

“Xu, I hope this finds you well.

I’m writing this under the aurora. Tomorrow I go to Svalbard, and the signal will be gone for months.

I’ve traveled through twenty-four countries and shot countless skies. But the brightest stars are still the ones in your eyes from that night in the ancient town.

Anna and I have parted. She said I will always love the ‘faraway’ more. She was right. I am a bird that cannot be caged. It’s not a lack of love; it’s just a different way of loving.

You once asked if idealists and realists belong together. My answer now: Yes, but they don’t necessarily have to be ‘together.’

Idealists need to walk a long road to understand the weight of a sixpence. Realists need to look at the moon many times to believe in its eternity. We taught each other these things. That is enough.

Be happy. Sincerely, Zhu.”

…

The letter arrived in Beijing a week later. Wen Bixu read it, then placed it on her desk and returned to her editing. Her fingers stayed still on the keyboard for a long time.

That night, she sat by the window with her cat, Echo. Beijing actually had stars visible tonight. She opened her journal and wrote:

“H. I received your letter.

I wish you happiness too—among the glaciers of Greenland, under the Sahara stars, and in every ‘faraway’ you choose.

Thank you for teaching me: to have loved is eternity.

Idealists and realists do fit together—not necessarily the kind of ‘fit’ where they stay together, but the kind where they illuminate each other. You illuminated my reality, and I illuminated your ideals. That is enough.”

She closed the journal. She didn’t send the letter. Some things didn’t need to be known by the other person. As long as she understood it herself, it was enough.

“Echo,” she whispered to the cat, “we will all be happy. In our own ways.”

Outside, the Beijing night was quiet and deep. The Sahara stars in her heart would shine forever.

As Zhu Jinhe said: Beauty is often born of solitude. And to have loved is an eternal echo.