She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

On the tenth day of filming, the morning mist in the ancient town was thicker than usual, like a fine veil draped over the sleeping village.

The crew had adapted to the rhythm—starting at 6:00 AM, wrapping at 10:00 PM. The days were marked off the shooting schedule like squares on a calendar, a solemn ritual in progress.

Between Xi Jisheng and Lou Ningyu, a fixed pattern had emerged.

On set, they maintained a physical distance of at least 1.5 meters—a safety line Xi Jisheng measured with her own footsteps. Their dialogue was stripped to the bare essentials:

“Are the lines correct?” “Is the blocking like this?” “Good.” “Mhm.”

Not a single extra word. Like two precision instruments exchanging data: accurate, cold, and efficient.

Meal times were even more strictly staggered. If Xi Jisheng appeared in the canteen at exactly noon, Lou Ningyu was guaranteed to arrive at 12:30. Their assistants seemed to have a pact; as soon as one finished collecting a meal, the other would arrive. Their tables were at opposite ends of the room, separated by a bustling dining area that felt as vast as the Milky Way.

But some things cannot be hidden.

“Teacher Xi, your tea.”

Xiao Zhang, a crew member, handed her a thermos. The body of the cup was warm. Xi Jisheng took it and unscrewed the lid; it was freshly brewed chrysanthemum and goji berry tea, at the perfect temperature.

This has been happening for ten days now. Every morning at 9:00 AM and every afternoon at 3:00 PM, the thermos would punctually appear by her side—always full, always at the exact temperature she preferred.

She looked toward Lou Ningyu. The other woman was discussing something with the director, her profile focused, seemingly oblivious to anything else.

But Xi Jisheng knew.

She knew Lou Ningyu’s peripheral vision covered the entire set. She knew that a seemingly casual gesture by the director’s chair—a slight tap of the index finger—was the signal for Lou’s assistant to slip away and return ten minutes later with the thermos.

She said nothing. She only lowered her head and drank. The warm liquid slid down her throat, carrying a faint sweetness.

…

On the other side, Lou Ningyu flipped open her script. It was covered in dense notes written in a neat hand—not her usual flamboyant cursive, but a deliberately practiced, elegant script.

It was Xi Jisheng’s handwriting from her university days.

Lou Ningyu had spent three nights practicing to achieve even a seventy percent resemblance. Beside every key line, she marked emotional beats using symbols Xi Jisheng favored: a circle for restraint, a triangle for an outburst, a wavy line for hesitation.

It was a secret dialogue, written in a language only the other would understand.

“Teacher Lou arrived early today,” Assistant Director Lao Chen walked over. “Teacher Xi just arrived too; she’s over there checking the scenery.”

Lou Ningyu looked up. She saw Xi Jisheng at the other end of the courtyard, standing under an old locust tree, looking up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Her profile appeared exceptionally cool in the morning light. The distance was about twenty meters, with a busy film set in between.

“Mhm,” Lou Ningyu withdrew her gaze. “Heavy scenes today. Need to prepare early.”

Lao Chen followed her gaze, then looked back at her and smiled. “You two are quite interesting.”

“How so?”

“Both dedicated, excellent actors, yet you both insist on pretending to be strangers.” Lao Chen lit a cigarette. “The script supervisor, Xiao Li, asked me yesterday: ‘Is that just how they are? No fighting, but no closeness?'”

Lou Ningyu’s finger paused on the page. “And what did you say?”

“I said,” Lao Chen exhaled a cloud of smoke, “isn’t that how professionals act? Better than actual fighting. Besides—” he lowered his voice, “sometimes, pretending to be strangers is much harder than actually being strangers. ‘Pretending’ means there’s still drama in the heart.”

With a pat on Lou Ningyu’s shoulder, he turned to arrange the equipment. Lou Ningyu watched him go, then looked back at Xi Jisheng. The sun had shifted, gilding Xi Jisheng in a golden halo, like the intentional backlight of an old movie.

Lou Ningyu looked down and wrote a small line in the margin of her script:

“Day 10. Distance: 20 meters. She drank the tea. She didn’t look at me.”

Then she crossed it out, as if it had never been written.

…

The Library Encounter

The location for the “First Meeting” was the town’s cultural station, which housed the only old-style reading room left. Solid wood shelves reached the ceiling, and sunlight sliced through the slats of the blinds, drawing a series of light-grids on the dusty floor.

Xi Jisheng changed into her costume—Shen Su’s outfit: a faded blue dress, black round-toe leather shoes, and hair tied in a simple ponytail. The makeup artist had applied a minimal look, focusing on making her features appear more youthful, masking the traces left by time.

She looked in the mirror. For a moment, she felt as though she truly was nineteen again. The age before she met Lou Ningyu, before the parting, before the naive illusions of love were shattered.

“Ready?” Peng Ke asked.

Xi Jisheng nodded and walked to her mark—the aisle between the bookshelves. Lou Ningyu was already in position at the other end, wearing a white shirt and a plaid skirt, her hair down with slight curls at the ends. This was Zhou Yin at twenty: the girl who had just transferred from the big city, with eyes still sharp and unweathered by the world.

“Action!”

Xi Jisheng stood on her tiptoes to reach for a book on the top shelf. The script called for One Hundred Years of Solitude; the prop team had provided an old edition with a worn spine. Just as her fingertips brushed the book, it slipped—

Lou Ningyu reached out and caught it steadily.

Time slowed. Sunlight hit the dust motes dancing between them like golden fireflies. Xi Jisheng looked down and saw Lou Ningyu’s upturned face, seeing her own reflection in those eyes.

According to the script, they were to lock eyes for three seconds before Zhou Yin smiled and said, “Classmate, your book.”

But Xi Jisheng froze.

The emotion in Lou Ningyu’s eyes was too complex—it wasn’t just the “flutter of a first meeting,” but something deeper, like a long-buried secret finally breaking through the soil. Her heart raced out of control; her breathing faltered.

“Cut!” Peng Ke frowned. “Jisheng, the eyes are wrong. Shen Su’s first time seeing Zhou Yin should be pure, caught-off-guard attraction. Right now, your gaze… it’s too heavy.”

“Sorry, Director,” Xi Jisheng lowered her head. “Let’s go again.”

Take two, take three, take four…

Every time, the moment they locked eyes, it collapsed. Either Xi Jisheng’s gaze was too burdened, or Lou Ningyu’s smile held too much of the “preciousness of a reunion,” failing the “first meeting” test entirely.

By the seventh NG (No Good), Peng Ke called a halt.

“Come here,” he beckoned, his expression stern.

Xi Jisheng and Lou Ningyu walked to the monitor, standing side-by-side with a polite distance between them. Peng Ke replayed the footage, pointing at a frozen frame:

“Look. Right here.” In the frame, Xi Jisheng was looking at Lou Ningyu with a mix of shock, fear, and even… guilt? “Is this Shen Su looking at Zhou Yin? This looks like someone looking at a debt collector they’ve owed for seven years.”

Xi Jisheng turned pale.

“And you, Ningyu.” Peng Ke switched frames. “This smile is too tender. It’s the tenderness of someone who has loved her for many years. But this is the first meeting. It should be curiosity, inquiry—the spark of ‘this person is interesting.'”

Lou Ningyu remained silent.

Peng Ke leaned back in his chair, looking at Xi Jisheng, then Lou Ningyu. He asked suddenly, “What was it like when you two first met in university?”

The question was about a lightning strike. Xi Jisheng’s fingers tightened, leaving deep creases in the edge of her script.

Lou Ningyu spoke first, her voice soft.

“In the rehearsal hall,” she said. “She was wearing a white shirt, reading a script with her back to the light. The sun from the window behind her gave her a golden silhouette. I pushed the door open, and she turned around—”

She paused, her voice dropping even lower.

“I thought to myself: This person… is going to change my life.”

Xi Jisheng snapped her head toward her. Lou Ningyu didn’t look away; she met her gaze, her eyes as frank as if she were merely stating a fact.

Peng Ke’s eyes lit up. “That’s it! The shock of the first meeting—that premonition of ‘destiny has arrived.’ Remember that!”

He sat up straight. “One more time! Jisheng, you aren’t Xi Jisheng right now. You are nineteen-year-old Shen Su, seeing someone who glows for the first time. Ningyu, you are Zhou Yin, the new transfer, curious about everything—including this quiet girl.”

They returned to their marks. The clapperboard snapped. “Action!”

This time, Xi Jisheng closed her eyes and breathed. She wasn’t Xi Jisheng; she was Shen Su. Nineteen, raised in a small town, life as simple as a straight line. Then, that line was interrupted by a girl named Zhou Yin.

She stood on tiptoes. The book fell. Lou Ningyu caught it and looked up.

Xi Jisheng looked down at her—this time, her eyes were clear. It was the gaze of a nineteen-year-old looking at a stranger: curiosity, a jolt of shock, and a sliver of shy panic. Like a stone thrown into a still lake, ripples spreading outward.

Lou Ningyu smiled. The smile was light, her eyes crinkling slightly, the curve of her lips just right—it was a smile of curiosity, of “you’re interesting,” the kind of smile that belongs to a first meeting, unburdened by a heavy past.

She held out the book. “Classmate, your book.” Her voice was clear, with the bright ring of youth.

“Cut!” Peng Ke stood up excitedly. “That’s it! The you of twenty years ago! We got it!”

Applause broke out. Xi Jisheng stood frozen, still holding the copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The theme of twenty years ago.

Yes. Twenty years ago, she was nineteen and Lou Ningyu was twenty. In the rehearsal hall of the Film Academy, light streaming from the high windows, she had turned around to see a girl in a white shirt leaning against the doorframe, smiling as she said: “Classmate, you act really well.”

That was the real first meeting.

And now, they were re-enacting that meeting in a play, separated by seven years, countless sleepless nights, and a grand, silent farewell.

Xi Jisheng handed the book back to props and turned to leave. Lou Ningyu watched her go, the smile slowly fading. Some things, no matter how well you act them, can never be returned to.

…

The Riverside Coffee House

The only decent coffee house in the ancient town was by the river—a two-story old wooden building owned by a retired photographer from Beijing. The walls were covered in black-and-white photos of the town.

Xi Jisheng was used to spending her lunch break here. The window seat on the second floor was her regular spot; outside was the gurgling river, and on the opposite bank were old houses with white walls and black tiles.

She ordered lemon water and opened her script. She would usually sit for an hour. Today, she had only been seated for ten minutes when she heard a familiar voice from downstairs.

“An Americano, thanks. And a latte, with oat milk, less sugar.”

It was Lou Ningyu.

Xi Jisheng’s finger stopped on her script. She didn’t look down; she just stared out the window. Ducks swam across the river, leaving ripples in their wake.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. She expected Lou Ningyu to come up, but the footsteps stopped on the first floor. Through the gaps in the wooden floorboards, she could vaguely see Lou’s silhouette—she was sitting in the courtyard, her back to her, a laptop open in front of her.

The distance was neither near nor far, separated by floorboards and glass panes, like two parallel worlds.

A server came upstairs with a tray and placed a latte in front of Xi Jisheng.

“I didn’t order this,” Xi Jisheng said.

“The lady downstairs ordered it,” the server smiled. “She said it’s a ‘store anniversary’ gift.”

Xi Jisheng looked at the latte. Oat milk, less sugar—the habit she’d had for seven years. Lou Ningyu remembered. She remembered a detail so small that Xi Jisheng herself had almost forgotten it.

She picked up the cup; the temperature was perfect. After hesitating for three seconds, she looked down at the courtyard.

Lou Ningyu seemed to sense it. She looked up. Their eyes met through the glass window. Lou Ningyu raised her Americano in a silent toast and gave a faint smile. Xi Jisheng gave a small nod in return.

Then she withdrew her gaze and lowered her head to drink the coffee. The latte was fragrant, the richness of the oat milk neutralizing the bitterness of the coffee, the sweetness exactly right. It was the taste of her memory.

Downstairs, Lou Ningyu watched the silhouette of Xi Jisheng drinking her coffee for a long time. The sunlight through the glass cast dappled shadows on her, making her look much softer.

She thought: If I went upstairs now, what would I say? She might say: “Jisheng, I remember. I remember every habit. I remember what you love to eat and what you don’t. I remember how you pick at your fingers when you’re nervous and how your eyes smile before your lips do.”

But how would Xi Jisheng answer? She would likely say: “Teacher Lou, we had an agreement.”

So, she didn’t go up.

On the second floor, Xi Jisheng was also thinking: If I went downstairs now, what would I say? She might say: “Why do you remember? Why do you still remember these things after seven years?”

But how would Lou Ningyu answer? She would likely say: “Because I never forgot.”

So, she didn’t go down.

They stayed as they were—one upstairs, one downstairs, separated by a safe distance, each finishing a cup of coffee. Like two ships passing in the night, seeing each other’s lights on the dark sea, knowing the other was there, but neither sounding a horn, nor drawing closer.

They simply, silently, and with a shared understanding, sat together in the afternoon sun.