She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

10:00 PM, Second Floor of the Ancient Town Tea House

The ancient town after the rain held a tranquility that felt cleansed of all vanity. The bluestone paths reflected the light from the lanterns like a flowing river of stars. The tea house had already closed, but the owner recognized Wen Biexu as part of the film crew and made an exception, letting them sit on the second-floor terrace.

Zhu Jinhe set up her tripod, shooting a time-lapse of the post-rain night sky. The rhythmic click of the camera shutter sounded like a steady heartbeat.

Wen Biexu was organizing the day’s footage. The light from her laptop screen flickered across her face. She repeatedly replayed the scene from that evening—the rain, the hovering hand, the trembling back.

“Do you want to use that segment?” Zhu Jinhe asked suddenly, her eye still pressed to the viewfinder.

Wen Biexu’s finger paused on the trackpad. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Zhu Jinhe turned her head. “It would be such a waste not to use a moment that is brilliant.”

“It’s too private.” Wen Biexu closed the video. “It feels like peering into someone’s diary.”

Zhu Jinhe laughed, packed up her camera, and sat across from her. “You’re really interesting. Isn’t the point of a documentary to record the truth? Now that the truth is staring you in the face, you’re afraid to use it.”

“There are many kinds of truth.” Wen Biexu shut her laptop. “Some truths are too cruel; displaying them feels like an act of violence.”

“For example?”

“For example…” Wen Biexu looked out the window. “For example, Teacher Xi’s tremor when she turned away—that wasn’t acting, she was truly crying. Or Teacher Lou’s hand reaching out and then pulling back; that single gesture held the weight of seven years. These things are too intimate. So intimate they shouldn’t be put on a screen for public consumption.”

Zhu Jinhe rested her chin on her hand, studying her. “Wen Biexu, have you ever been in love?”

Wen Biexu froze. “Why ask that?”

“Because,” Zhu Jinhe tilted her head, “I don’t think you’ve ever truly loved anyone. That’s why you can analyze other people’s pain so calmly, like you’re looking at experimental data.”

The air went silent for a few seconds. From the distance came the sound of the night watchman’s gong—long and desolate.

“I have,” Wen Biexu said suddenly.

Zhu Jinhe arched an eyebrow.

“Junior year of college. With a senior.” Wen Biexu’s voice was steady, as if she were speaking about someone else. “She said I would always put documentaries first. The day she left for New York, I was at the airport filming a refugee family’s reunion. She told me: ‘See? Even when I’m leaving, your lens is pointed at someone else.'”

“And then?”

“Then she got married. She’s a lawyer in Boston now.” Wen Biexu took a sip of tea. “And I kept making documentaries.”

Zhu Jinhe stared at her for a long time, then raised her camera. Click.

“What are you doing?” Wen Biexu frowned.

“Capturing your expression right now.” Zhu Jinhe looked at the screen. “When you talk about losing someone you loved, your eyes still go dark. Even if only for 0.1 seconds.”

Wen Biexu looked away. “Delete the photo.”

“I’m not deleting it.” Zhu Jinhe tucked the camera away. “This is the best photo I’ve taken today—the moment an idealist shows a crack in their armor.”

They fell into silence. The night breeze blew, making the wind chimes on the eaves tinkle.

“Zhu Jinhe,” Wen Biexu spoke up again.

“Yeah?”

“Who do you think is in more pain… Teacher Xi or Teacher Lou?”

Zhu Jinhe thought for a moment. “On the surface, it’s Teacher Xi. She’s constantly hiding, running, like a startled rabbit. But Teacher Lou…” She paused. “Teacher Lou hides her pain too well. So well that everyone thinks she’s bulletproof.”

“Can pain be hidden for seven years?”

“Yes.” Zhu Jinhe lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dark. “As long as you cover it with enough success. How many awards has Lou Ningyu won in these seven years? How many covers has she been on? She’s turned herself into a legend. And legends aren’t supposed to feel pain.”

Wen Biexu looked at her. “Do you think there’s still a chance for them?”

“I don’t know.” Zhu Jinhe exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But I don’t think Teacher Lou came back this time to ask for an answer.”

“Then for what?”

“She came to give an answer.” Zhu Jinhe’s gaze turned deep. “She wants to tell Xi Jisheng: ‘Look, I’ve become strong enough. Strong enough to protect you, strong enough so you don’t have to push me away anymore.'”

“Will Teacher Xi accept that?”

Zhu Jinhe smiled. “You’d have to ask her. You’re the documentary director. Aren’t you the expert at observing people?”

Wen Biexu said nothing. She opened her laptop and clicked the video again. In the rain, Lou Ningyu’s hand hovered by Xi Jisheng’s cheek, never quite landing. That distance—so close, yet so far. Just like their seven years.

…

1:00 AM, Hotel Room

Xi Jisheng lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation in the changing room played on a loop in her head:

“Was it just the character?” “Teacher Lou, we had an agreement. We don’t talk about things outside the scene.” “Right. My apologies.”

That “apologies” had been spoken so lightly, yet it felt so heavy. So heavy that her chest felt tight just thinking about it.

She picked up her phone, unlocked it, and habitually opened WeChat. She wasn’t looking to chat; she clicked on a familiar avatar—Lou Ningyu’s Moments. For seven years, this had become a ritual. A glance before sleep, like a confirmation of something, or perhaps a form of self-punishment.

Lou Ningyu’s Moments were very clean, almost devoid of personal content. The latest post was from three hours ago: a photo of the rainy night view from a window in the ancient town. The glass was covered in rain streaks, and blurred lantern light shone from outside. The caption was only two words:

“Echo.”

No selfie, no expression of emotion, not even a location tag. But Xi Jisheng stared at that photo for a long time. She recognized the angle—it was taken from the window of Lou Ningyu’s room.

Which meant that when she posted this, she was sitting by the window, watching the rain, thinking… thinking of what?

In a moment of madness, Xi Jisheng tapped the ‘Like’ button.

The instant her finger hit the screen, she snapped to her senses and quickly un-liked it. But the “Liked” notification had appeared for a split second—a mistake she couldn’t take back. She tossed her phone aside and buried her face in the pillow.

So stupid, she thought. Like a middle schooler stalking a crush.

In the room next door, Lou Ningyu was leaning against her headboard reading a book. Her phone screen suddenly lit up. The notification bar showed:

“Sheng Sheng liked your Moment”

“Sheng Sheng un-liked your Moment”

The two notifications were less than three seconds apart.

Lou Ningyu stared at the screen for a long time. A faint smile played at the corners of her lips. It was a smile of bitterness, of helplessness, and a trace of… relief at finally catching a clue.

She set her book down and whispered to herself, her voice almost inaudible in the silent room:

“Jisheng… you’re still watching.”

Seven years. She had posted so many Moments—travels, work, award ceremonies—and Xi Jisheng had never liked a single one. She had once thought Xi Jisheng had blocked her long ago, or deleted her.

But no. She was still watching.

Just like her, during countless sleepless nights, stealing a glance at the other’s life and then pretending nothing happened.

Lou Ningyu picked up her phone and browsed through Xi Jisheng’s Moments. They were equally sparse—the most recent post was theatre performance info shared a month ago. Scrolling further back: stage photos from six months ago, a book recommendation from a year ago…

She read slowly, as if reading a diary she hadn’t seen in seven years. Though there was almost no personal content, Lou Ningyu could piece together the trajectory of Xi Jisheng’s life from these shares—always acting, always reading, always alone.

Just like her.

Lou Ningyu put her phone down and walked to the window. The rain had stopped. The night sky was washed clean, revealing a few scattered stars. The lanterns of the ancient town were still lit, casting warm halos on the wet streets.

She remembered seven years ago, when they were squeezed into that tiny rental near the Film Academy. On a rainy night just like this, Xi Jisheng leaned on her shoulder and whispered: “Ningyu, when we’re old, let’s find a town like this to live in. We’ll read, walk, and watch the rain every day.”

She replied: “Okay. But you have to promise not to get annoyed with me then.”

Xi Jisheng laughed: “How could I? I want you to annoy me for a lifetime.”

A lifetime. Such an easy promise to make; such a heavy word to carry.

Lou Ningyu pressed her hand against the glass. It was ice cold. She looked at her reflection—thirty years old, fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a gaze no longer as innocent and bright as it was at twenty-three.

But the twenty-three-year-old Lou Ningyu inside her heart was still waiting. Waiting for an answer, waiting for a turn, waiting for a seven-year rainstorm to fall again.

On the other side of the wall, Xi Jisheng also sat by the window. She hugged her knees, looking at the same night sky. The stars were faint, like the traces of dried tears. Her phone screen was still on, parked on Lou Ningyu’s Moments page.

She had saved that photo of the rainy window and put it into an encrypted album. The password was 0830. Inside were seventeen photos from seven years ago. Now, there was an eighteenth—this one didn’t have Lou Ningyu in it, only rain and light.

But Xi Jisheng knew that the person who took this photo was right there, separated only by a wall. Looking at the same sky, thinking of the same past.

What is this? she asked herself. Is it a connection? Torture? Or just two cowards secretly holding hands in the dark, only to let go instantly?

She didn’t know. All she knew was how badly she wanted to grab that hand when it hovered by her cheek. All she knew was how badly she wanted to say “No” when Lou Ningyu asked her in the changing room if it was “just the character.”

But in the end, she could only say: “Teacher Lou, we had an agreement.”

The agreement. Safe distance. No talking outside the scene. She used these rules to build a high wall, locking herself inside.

But why was it that the higher the wall, the emptier her heart felt?

Outside the window, a faint song drifted from a bar where a few lingering guests remained, singing an old tune:

“If the flowing water could turn back, please take me with you…”

Xi Jisheng closed her eyes. If time could turn back, would she still push Lou Ningyu away?

There was no answer. Only the post-rain night breeze, blowing gently over the white walls and black tiles of the ancient town, through two sleepless rooms, and over a love that had remained silent for seven years.