She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The rain arrived at dusk—not the gentle drizzle scripted in the screenplay, but the sudden, fierce downpour characteristic of a Yunnan summer, carrying the raw scent of the wild mountains.

The filming location was an abandoned primary school on the edge of the ancient town. The playground lay desolate, weeds snaking through cracks in the concrete, growing wild in the rain. At the far end, the two-story school building stood with mottled walls and shattered glass, looking like a face forgotten by time.

Xi Jisheng stood under the eaves, watching the crew set up the artificial rain equipment. Thick water pipes coiled across the ground like black pythons, and nozzles were mounted high, aimed at the clearing that would soon host the “Rainy Night Argument” scene. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth mixed with the bitter fragrance of crushed grass.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her heartbeat.

“Jisheng.”

Director Peng Ke’s voice came from behind her. She turned to see the director walking toward her alongside Lou Ningyu.

Lou Ningyu was already in costume—styled as Zhou Yin at age thirty: a simple white shirt, khaki trousers, hair tied in a low ponytail, and light makeup with a few fine lines etched near the corners of her eyes.

“In the upcoming scene,” Peng Ke said, “I want that feeling of… words reaching the lips only to be swallowed back down. Shen Su tells Zhou Yin to leave, not because she doesn’t love her, but because she loves her too much—so much that she feels she’s unworthy of the other’s future.”

Lou Ningyu chimed in, “And Zhou Yin? She actually knows what Shen Su is thinking, but she still has to say that line: ‘What if I said my greatest light is you?’ Because she wants to gamble—gamble on whether Shen Su will ask her to stay.”

“Exactly. That’s the tension,” Peng Ke nodded with satisfaction. “One pushing away, one drawing near. One saying ‘Go,’ the other saying ‘You are my light.’ So painful, yet so beautiful.”

Xi Jisheng looked down at her script. She knew these lines by heart, yet every time she read them, her chest tightened with a dull ache.

…

[Scene 42: Playground · Night · Rain]

Shen Su (29): “Go. Go to Beijing, go to Shanghai, go anywhere where you can shine.”

Zhou Yin (30): “What if I said… my greatest light is you?”

Shen Su: (Turns away, voice trembling) “Don’t say things like that… I’ll start believing you.”

…

“Ready?” Peng Ke asked.

Xi Jisheng nodded, her fingers unconsciously stroking the edge of the script, the paper already frayed from constant flipping.

Lou Ningyu glanced at her. It was a fleeting look, almost impossible to catch, but Xi Jisheng felt it—like a feather brushing against her heart; itchy, yet painful.

“Director,” Lou Ningyu suddenly said, “during the actual take, can I improvise a bit? Just the final line.”

Peng Ke arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Instead of ‘I’ll start believing you,’ say…” Lou Ningyu paused, “say, ‘I already have.'”

Xi Jisheng’s head snapped up.

“No,” Peng Ke shook his head. “‘I’ll start believing you’ holds a sense of unfinished regret. ‘I already have’ is too direct; it lacks subtext.”

Lou Ningyu didn’t push. She simply smiled. “Alright, as you wish.”

But as she turned to touch up her makeup, she glanced at Xi Jisheng again. That look seemed to say: You know, don’t you? You know what I wanted to say.

The crew began clearing the set. Xi Jisheng walked to her mark and closed her eyes for breathing exercises. This was her ritual—seven counts in, seven counts out—to lock “Xi Jisheng” away and let “Shen Su” emerge.

But today, Shen Su was reluctant to come out.

Whispers drifted from the sidelines: “Those two seem strange today…” “I felt the vibe was off during the table read this morning. Teacher Lou kept looking at Teacher Xi.” “Wasn’t it said they don’t get along? I see Teacher Lou taking quite good care of her.” “Who knows? They’re actors; you can’t tell the truth from fiction.”

Xi Jisheng opened her eyes. She saw Lou Ningyu confirming marks with the Director of Photography. When Lou spoke, she leaned forward slightly, her profile sharp and focused under the lights against the curtain of rain. Every time she finished a sentence, she would naturally look toward Xi Jisheng—not intentionally, but more like a habitual confirmation. Confirming that she was there.

That look was too familiar.

Seven years ago, during the climax of rehearsals, Lou Ningyu would look at her the same way. As if asking: Is this right? Are you still here?

Back then, Xi Jisheng would always nod and mouth the word: Here.

Now, she could only look away.

…

The Rain Begins

Take One, 8:07 PM

The artificial rain was switched on, fine droplets weaving a glowing web under the lights. Xi Jisheng stood in the rain, her hair quickly becoming soaked and plastered to her cheeks.

“Action!”

She looked up at Lou Ningyu. The rain blurred her vision; Lou’s silhouette swayed in the mist like an unreal dream.

“Go,” Xi Jisheng began. Her voice was perfectly controlled—suppressed, reluctant, but mostly a forced resolve. “Go to Beijing, go to Shanghai, go anywhere where you can shine.”

Every word felt like a blade scraping out of her throat.

Lou Ningyu took a step forward, rain dripping from the ends of her hair. Her eyes were startlingly bright in the rainy night. “What if I said my greatest light is you?”

In the script, the emotion for this line was “desperate testing.” But when Lou Ningyu said it, there was something more—a weight of reality so heavy that Xi Jisheng nearly failed to catch it.

She turned away, giving the camera a trembling back, her voice shaking. “Don’t say things like that… I’ll start believing you.”

“Cut!”

Peng Ke looked up from the monitor, frowning slightly. “Print it. But…” He paused. “It’s too precise. Jisheng, your turn was an exact 45 degrees. Ningyu, you took exactly three and a half steps. Even the path of the rain on your face looks calculated.”

He stood up and walked to the edge of the rain. “I don’t want precision. I want reality. I want the instability of Shen Su nearly tripping when she turns. I want the actual sob in Zhou Yin’s voice. Again.”

Take Three, 8:35 PM

Before this take started, the sky opened up for real. It wasn’t the uniform mist of the artificial rig, but a torrential Yunnan downpour. Heavy drops crashed down, mixing with the artificial rain until truth and fiction were indistinguishable.

“Director, the equipment is glitching!” a crew member shouted. “Forget it!” Peng Ke waved his hand. “Real rain is better. Keep rolling!”

Xi Jisheng stood in the rain once more. This time, the water was much colder, hitting her skin with a stinging force. Her costume was soaked through, clinging to her thin frame.

“Action!”

The same lines, the same movements. But when she said “Go,” the tremble in her voice was more real than before—partly from the cold, partly from something else.

Lou Ningyu walked over. This time she took four steps, stopping closer than before. Rain flowed down her chin, her eyes like two burning flames in the dark.

“What if I said,” her voice was softer than the script required, almost a whisper, “my greatest light is you?”

Xi Jisheng’s heart constricted violently. She turned away more abruptly than in the previous takes, more clumsily—she actually stumbled. After steadying herself, she spoke in a voice that was nearly shattered:

“Don’t say things like that… I’ll start believing you.”

As she finished the line, she suddenly choked up. It wasn’t acting. She was truly choked. Her throat felt blocked; she couldn’t make a sound, only gasping as rain poured into her mouth, making her cough. Tears mixed with rain flowed down her face, indistinguishable from the performance.

Behind the monitor, Peng Ke held his breath.

In the frame, Lou Ningyu’s expression changed. The script called for Zhou Yin to give a bitter smile and walk away. But Lou didn’t move. She just watched Xi Jisheng—watched her trembling shoulders, watched the unrestrained tears on her face.

Then, she did something outside of the script.

She reached out, her fingertips hovering near Xi Jisheng’s cheek, as if wanting to wipe away the water. The movement was gentle, slow, like touching fragile porcelain.

But at the final centimeter, she stopped. Her fingers hung in mid-air, trembling slightly. Rain ran down her arm and dripped from her fingertips like transparent pearls.

Time froze.

Xi Jisheng felt it—the slight air current from the hovering hand, the rhythm of Lou Ningyu’s breath, the surge of an emotion that threatened to break through the rain. She didn’t dodge. She didn’t move. She just stood there, letting the rain wash over her, letting that hand remain just inches away.

Three seconds. Five seconds.

“Cut!” Peng Ke finally called out, his voice slightly hoarse. “That… was excellent.”

The rain continued. Staff rushed forward with towels. The assistant, Xiao Tang, wrapped Xi Jisheng in a large bath towel, asking repeatedly, “Are you okay, Teacher Xi? Is it too cold?”

Xi Jisheng shook her head, pressing the towel to her face. The damp cloth hidden her uncontrollable expression. Beneath the towel, she took a deep breath, counted to ten, and when she looked up again, she had regained her composure.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Peng Ke, her voice still raspy. “The rain got in my eyes; I lost control.”

Peng Ke looked at her with a complex gaze. “It’s fine. The emotion was spot on. Go rest, get changed.”

On the other side, Lou Ningyu had already turned toward her own rest area. Her assistant handed her a towel and hot water. She took them, but her grip was so tight her knuckles were white.

“Sister Ningyu?” the assistant asked cautiously. “I’m fine,” Lou Ningyu said, her voice unnervingly calm. “Let me be alone for a moment.”

She sat on a folding chair, watching Xi Jisheng’s retreating back as she was ushered away. She didn’t move for a long time. Rain dripped from her hair, one drop after another.

Like a rainstorm that had been falling for seven years and still hadn’t stopped.

…

The Changing Room

The changing room was a temporary prefab structure divided into four stalls. Xi Jisheng entered the furthest one and locked the door. Her soaked costume felt cold and heavy. She peeled it off piece by piece and dropped it into a plastic bin, then reached for clean clothes. Her movements were mechanical, like completing a program.

The sound of a door opening came from the adjacent stall, followed by the rustle of fabric. Xi Jisheng froze. She could hear it—the sound of a zipper being pulled, the muffled thud of wet clothes falling, even the faint sound of breathing. Through the gaps in the partition, the light from the next stall cast a thin, long streak across the floor.

They were too close. Close enough to feel the other’s presence.

“Jisheng.”

Lou Ningyu’s voice suddenly rang out. It was soft, but in the silence of the changing room, it was as clear as a whisper. Xi Jisheng stiffened, the towel in her hand dropping to the floor. She didn’t pick it up; she just stared at the partition as if she could see through the wood.

“Earlier…” Lou’s voice paused. “Are you alright?”

Xi Jisheng opened her mouth but found no voice. She cleared her throat before answering, “I’m fine. Just got into character.”

“Was it just the character?”

The question was too direct—it tore through all pretenses. A wave of panic hit Xi Jisheng, like being suddenly pushed to the edge of a cliff. She bent down to retrieve the towel, gripping it until the fabric was twisted out of shape.

“Teacher Lou,” she said, her voice deliberately flat, “we had an agreement. We don’t talk about things outside the scene.”

Silence followed from the other side. It lasted so long that Xi Jisheng thought she wouldn’t reply, until Lou Ningyu’s voice came again—very light, carrying a trace of weary irony.

“Right. My apologies.”

Then came the sound of a zipper being pulled up, sharp and decisive. Footsteps sounded; a door opened and then closed.

Xi Jisheng was left alone. She leaned against the partition and slowly slid to the floor, burying her face in her knees. Her wet hair was still dripping, forming a small puddle on the ground. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were painfully dry.

Why was it always like this? She had pushed her away seven years ago, and seven years later, pushing away was still the only thing she knew how to do.

Her phone vibrated. A message from Lin Wenxun: I’m waiting in the car outside.

…

9:20 PM, Inside the Van

The air conditioning was blasting. Xi Jisheng was wrapped in a blanket, holding a cup of ginger tea. Lin Wenxun sat opposite her, studying her pale face.

“You almost lost it just now,” Lin Wenxun said bluntly.

Xi Jisheng looked down at her tea, the steam blurring her vision. “I know. But I kept it together.”

“You’re holding it together too hard.” Lin leaned forward. “Jisheng, I’ve known you for ten years. Every time you’re forcing your emotions down, your jaw tightens and you start picking at things—just like right now.”

Xi Jisheng looked down and realized she was indeed picking at the edge of the blanket. She let go.

“About Lou Ningyu,” Lin Wenxun sighed. “She wanted to touch you back there.”

“I know.”

“You know, and you let her do that?” Lin’s voice turned serious. “The relationship between you two is incredibly delicate. One movement, one look caught on camera could be over-interpreted. Besides…” She paused. “Do you truly feel nothing, or are you just pretending?”

Xi Jisheng looked out the window. The rain had subsided, and the lights of the ancient town cast blurred, shimmering reflections on the wet streets.

“Lin,” she said softly, “I didn’t let her touch me seven years ago. I won’t start now.”

“Why?”

Why? Xi Jisheng asked herself.

Was it the fear of being hurt again? Was it the feeling of being unworthy? Or was it because… she didn’t dare admit that when Lou Ningyu’s hand hovered by her cheek, she had desperately wanted to lean into it?

Seven years, yet her body still remembered that warmth.

“There is no ‘why,'” she finally said. “Some lines, once crossed, leave no way back. We’re… fine like this.”

“Fine?” Lin Wenxun smiled bitterly.

“At least it’s safe,” Xi Jisheng’s voice was barely audible. “At least we won’t destroy each other like we did seven years ago.”

The car pulled up to the hotel. Xi Jisheng opened the door, a cold wind rushing in, making her shiver.

“Jisheng,” Lin Wenxun called out.

She turned back.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Lin looked at her, “when you pushed her away seven years ago, was it really for her sake? Or was it for yours—because you were afraid to carry the weight of that love?”

The question was like a knife, precisely stabbing into Xi Jisheng’s deepest wound. She didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked into the rain. Her silhouette was as thin as a sheet of paper, looking as though it might be blown away by the wind at any moment.