She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Lunch Break, Meeting Room. Only Peng Ke and Chu Jin remain.

Peng Ke lit a cigarette—she had quit three years ago, but today was an exception. The smoke rose slowly in the sunlight, blurring her furrowed brow.

“What do you think?” she asked Chu Jin.

Chu Jin closed her notebook, her finger unconsciously tapping the cover. “Between them… it’s more than just acting.”

“No kidding,” Peng Ke exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I want specifics.”

“Specifics?” Chu Jin smiled bitterly. “The specific thing is that when Xi Jisheng read ‘I looked for you for many years,’ I saw real heartbreak in her eyes. And when Lou Ningyu answered ‘So this time, it’s my turn to come find you,’ that tone… it was too real. Too real to be just lines.”

Peng Ke was silent for a while. “You wrote the script. When you wrote this scene, what was in your mind?”

“I thought of regret,” Chu Jin looked out the window. “Two people who loved each other but were separated for various reasons, reuniting years later to find the love is still there, but the best timing has passed.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Chu Jin paused. “Now I feel like they aren’t acting out ‘regret.’ They are acting out ‘there’s still a chance’.”

Peng Ke crushed her cigarette butt. “Do you think something really happened between them?”

“Director,” Chu Jin reminded her, “the industry code.”

“I know the code,” Peng Ke waved her hand. “Don’t ask about actors’ private lives. But as a director, I need to understand my actors. If there really is a story between them, it’s a blessing for this film, but for them personally…”

She didn’t finish, but Chu Jin understood. If there was a real story, then filming this movie would either be a healing process or a second wounding.

“We need to handle it carefully,” Chu Jin said. “Especially the emotional scenes. We can’t push them too hard just for the sake of realism.”

Peng Ke nodded. “I’ll manage the boundaries. But then again—” she looked at the seats where Xi Jisheng and Lou Ningyu had just sat, “if they can use this film to say what needs to be said and untie the knots that need untying, it might not be a bad thing.”

“Only if they are willing,” Chu Jin whispered. “Some knots, the people involved would rather they stay tied forever.”

…

Fifteen minutes before the afternoon session.

Xi Jisheng sat alone in the long gallery outside the meeting room. It was an old-fashioned wooden corridor with wisteria vines climbing the pillars; the flowering season had passed, leaving only dense green leaves.

She was still thinking about that morning scene. “I looked for you for many years”—when she said it, it wasn’t Shen Su in her mind, but herself seven years ago. The version of her that hid behind the dorm curtains, watching Lou Ningyu wait downstairs for three hours before finally turning to leave.

“Here.”

A thermos was suddenly held out in front of her. It was bone china, pale celadon, painted with tiny bamboo leaves.

Xi Jisheng looked up. Lou Ningyu stood before her, backlit, her expression hard to discern.

“You were always like this during rehearsals,” Lou Ningyu’s voice was natural. “You get so into character that you forget to drink water.”

Xi Jisheng froze, not taking it.

“What?” Lou Ningyu smiled slightly. “Afraid I poisoned it?”

“No…” Xi Jisheng took the cup. Her fingertips brushed the surface; it was perfectly warm. “You still remember…”

“Old classmates’ bad habits are hard to forget,” Lou Ningyu sat on the bench beside her, at a distance neither too far nor too close. “Especially someone who enters a vacuum the moment they focus, someone even in an earthquake couldn’t move.”

Xi Jisheng held the cup, unsure of what to say.

Old classmates.

Those two words were like a clear boundary line, keeping their relationship within a safe zone. Yes, they were just old classmates now, co-stars Shen Su and Zhou Yin. What else could they be?

She unscrewed the lid. Inside was chrysanthemum and wolfberry tea with rock sugar—her favorite during rehearsals years ago.

“Thank you,” Xi Jisheng said softly.

“You’re welcome.” Lou Ningyu looked at the banana leaves in the courtyard. “By the way, how is your mother’s health?”

Xi Jisheng’s hand jerked, and hot water splashed onto her skin. She didn’t make a sound, merely wiped it away. “Fine,” she said. “She’s recovering well after the surgery.”

“That’s good.” Lou Ningyu’s tone was light. “Back then… I didn’t know. If I had known—”

“It’s all in the past,” Xi Jisheng interrupted, her voice a bit hurried. “And saying these things now has no meaning.”

Silence fell for a few seconds.

Lou Ningyu turned to look at her, her gaze deep. “Jisheng, just because something is in the past doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Just like Shen Su and Zhou Yin being apart for twenty years—those feelings didn’t disappear, they just took a different form.”

“We are talking about characters,” Xi Jisheng reminded her.

“I know.” Lou Ningyu stood up. “I just wanted to say, if you need… I have the ability now. I can help you share the burden.”

With that, she turned and walked back into the meeting room, leaving Xi Jisheng alone in the corridor. The chrysanthemums in the cup unfurled slowly, and the red wolfberries sank to the bottom like tiny hearts.

Xi Jisheng looked down, her eyes suddenly stinging.

Lou Ningyu said, “I have the ability now.” What did that mean? Was she saying that because she lacked the ability seven years ago, she was pushed away? Was she saying that now that she has the power, they can start over?

It’s too late, she said in her heart. Once certain damages are done, they cannot be compensated by a single sentence. But why did her heart still ache so much?

…

Halfway through the afternoon session, the door opened.

Two women entered. The one in front was twenty-eight or nine, with long black hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a dark grey cotton suit, carrying a notebook and a recording pen. The one behind her was around thirty, with her hair in a low ponytail, wearing olive green cargo pants, a black tank top, and three different cameras hanging around her neck.

Peng Ke rose to introduce them. “This is Wen Biexu, our documentary director. And this is Zhu Jinhe, the photographer. They will be following the entire production to make a documentary about Echoes.”

Wen Biexu nodded politely. “Hello, everyone. Just call me Wen Biexu. I look forward to working with you over the coming months.” Her voice was calm and steady, like she was reading a scientific report.

Zhu Jinhe was much more casual. She raised a camera, snapped a photo of the room, and grinned. “I’m Zhu Jinhe, the one taking photos. If you mind being shot, tell me anytime.”

Xi Jisheng recognized Wen Biexu. Teacher Ai Ye had mentioned her niece was a documentary director, very talented. When she looked at Wen Biexu, she found the other woman looking back—with a scrutinizing, analytical gaze, as if observing a lab subject.

The reading continued. Wen Biexu and Zhu Jinhe sat in the corner. Wen Biexu turned on her recorder. Zhu Jinhe raised her camera, the lens slowly scanning everyone. When it reached the clapperboard, Zhu Jinhe suddenly spoke: “The light at this angle isn’t good. Can we adjust the position?”

The script supervisor looked at Peng Ke, who nodded. “Do as she says.”

And so, a strange scene unfolded—on one side, actors were seriously reading lines; on the other, a photographer was adjusting lights and finding angles, like parallel universes.

During the break, Wen Biexu and Zhu Jinhe had their first argument in the hallway.

“I want to record the real flow of emotion,” Wen Biexu pointed to Xi Jisheng and Lou Ningyu talking in the room. “Look at the tension between them, the things left unsaid—that is the soul of a documentary.”

Zhu Jinhe leaned against a pillar wiping her lens. “The truth isn’t always beautiful. I want to capture beautiful moments. Like just now, the way the sunlight came through the window and the shadow Xi Jisheng’s eyelashes cast on her face when she looked down—that was a beautiful frame.”

“If beauty loses its truth, it has no value,” Wen Biexu frowned. “A documentary isn’t a studio photoshoot.”

“Who says a documentary can’t be beautiful?” Zhu Jinhe raised her camera and suddenly pointed it at Wen Biexu. “Look, the way you’re frowning while you talk right now is very real, but also—” She pressed the shutter. “—very beautiful.”

Wen Biexu froze, then stiffened her expression. “Don’t just take pictures of me.”

“Why?” Zhu Jinhe tilted her head. “Are you afraid of being recorded? You seem perfectly fine recording everyone else.”

“That’s work.”

“This is also work,” Zhu Jinhe shook her camera. “Recording the recorder. How interesting.”

The two stared at each other, the atmosphere subtle. Finally, Wen Biexu looked away. “Suit yourself. But I decide which footage makes the final cut.”

“Sure,” Zhu Jinhe shrugged. “My job is to capture every moment. As for which are used and which aren’t—that’s your problem, Idealist.”

Wen Biexu paused. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Zhu Jinhe smiled mischievously, “you’re an idealist. You believe truth is above all else, that documentaries can change the world. And me—” she patted her camera, “I’m a realist. I believe beauty is above all else, and a good photo is more powerful than ten thousand words of narration.”

Wen Biexu stared at her for a few seconds and suddenly asked, “Can an idealist and a realist collaborate?”

“Of course,” Zhu Jinhe leaned in, lowering her voice. “One looks up at the moon, one looks down to pick up sixpence. Without either, the world is incomplete.” She turned and walked away, leaving Wen Biexu alone in the corridor.

…

9:00 PM, Reading Ends.

As Xi Jisheng walked out of the Cultural Center, she realized it was pouring rain. Rain in Yunnan comes fast; large droplets smashed against the bluestone road, sending up splashes. The Cangshan Mountains were completely hidden behind a curtain of water.

She didn’t have an umbrella and could only wait under the eaves. A black business car drove up and stopped in front of her. The window rolled down, revealing Lou Ningyu.

“It’s heavy,” she said. “Want a ride back to the hotel?”

Xi Jisheng hesitated for three seconds. In those seconds, she remembered Lin Wenxun’s warning to “keep a distance,” remembered that rainy night seven years ago, and remembered her promise of “zero private contact.” But the rain was too heavy, and they were staying at the same hotel.

“Thank you.” She finally opened the door and got in.

The interior was spacious, filled with a faint scent of sandalwood. The driver was professional and raised the partition between the front and back seats, giving them complete privacy.

Lou Ningyu handed over a dry towel. “Your hair is wet.”

Xi Jisheng took it and silently dried her hair. The towel was soft Egyptian cotton and smelled of sunlight. The car audio played soft jazz—an old-school Billie Holiday track, raspy and soulful, singing “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places.” It was too fitting, so fitting it made her heart race.

Looking out the window, the rain meandered down the glass like tears. In the reflection, she could see Lou Ningyu’s profile—she was also looking out, but her focus seemed to be on Xi’s reflection.

Seven years. They used to hide from the rain at food stalls by the Film Academy; they used to watch the rain from the rehearsal hall windows; they used to fall asleep in each other’s arms listening to the rain in their rented room. Now, they sat in a luxury car, listening to a million-dollar sound system, separated by a polite distance.

“Today’s reading,” Lou Ningyu suddenly said, “how did you feel?”

“Good,” Xi Jisheng answered officially. “The director has great ideas, and the script is solid.”

“I wasn’t asking about the director or the script,” Lou Ningyu turned to her. “I was asking about us—Shen Su and Zhou Yin.”

Xi Jisheng’s movements slowed.

“Do you think,” Lou Ningyu’s voice was clear amidst the rain and music, “that after Shen Su waits twenty years for Zhou Yin’s ‘I’m here,’ she will accept her?”

The question was dangerous. It sounded like it was about the characters, but also like it was about them.

“The script says,” Xi Jisheng avoided her gaze, “that they end up together.”

“That’s the script,” Lou Ningyu said. “The real-life Shen Su might push Zhou Yin away again because she’s afraid of being hurt.”

“That would also be the character’s choice.”

“And if it were you?” Lou Ningyu asked softly. “If it were Xi Jisheng, after waiting seven years, hearing Lou Ningyu’s ‘I’m here,’ would she accept it?”

The rain grew louder, drumming against the roof. Xi Jisheng found it hard to breathe. She wanted to roll down the window, but her hand retracted as it touched the button.

“There is no such ‘if’,” she finally said. “We aren’t Shen Su and Zhou Yin.”

“Is that so?” Lou Ningyu smiled, a hint of bitterness in it. “But I think we are even better at missing each other than they are.”

The car stopped. They reached the hotel. Xi Jisheng opened the door, cold wind and rain pouring in. Before getting out, she looked back at Lou Ningyu one last time. In the rain, the car’s interior lights were dim, making Lou Ningyu’s figure look slightly blurred. At that moment, Xi Jisheng suddenly remembered the day they broke up—Lou Ningyu had looked at her the same way, eyes red, but never crying.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered.

Lou Ningyu nodded, smiling. “Yes. See you tomorrow.”