The Movie Queen's Virtual Little Girlfriend - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Abrupt

There was little fluctuation in Jiang Yitong’s eyes. Her gaze swept across the entire frame, instinctively lingering a bit longer on the background behind Jiang’er.

Today’s setting had changed from the head of a bed to a high-back chair. Two sections of a black chair back were visible beside Jiang’er’s shoulders, flanked by pale yellow walls—a warm, candy-colored palette.

Jiang’er’s makeup and attire had also changed. Last night, she was clearly in a pre-sleep state with great skin; while her bare face wasn’t exceptionally exquisite, her smile was fresh and sweet, revealing two small pear dimples. Today, she wore light makeup—a touch of warm tones amidst the cold winter snow.

Having been in the industry for so many years, Jiang Yitong had seen countless actresses. Jiang’er’s looks and temperament weren’t particularly outstanding, let alone unique. But Jiang Yitong was never one to place much importance on appearance; otherwise, she wouldn’t have opened the app again.

She had only shared a few simple words with Jiang’er last night. Things always required a gradual process. She wasn’t a person devoid of patience; she still harbored some anticipation regarding whether this game could surprise her in the future.

Thus, she replied simply: Mhm, morning.

Simple to the point of being somewhat cold.

After all, no matter how she replied, she knew that every response given by Jiang’er as an NPC was bound to be something the game’s writing team had pre-set.

However, she still couldn’t understand where those calls of “Yitong,” wrapped in different emotions, came from. Could even AI achieve such a level of realism that it was hard to distinguish?

“What are you doing? Have you started working yet?”

Jiang’er’s tone was a bit soft, and her eyes sparkled slightly. Light poured in from her right side; though Jiang Yitong couldn’t see what was there, she knew there must be a window.

Jiang Yitong’s current film crew was temporarily stationed in the North. The winter climate was always gloomy and overcast, with no sun for several days. That layer of pale light falling on Jiang’er’s face and body was the first ray of sunshine Jiang Yitong had seen in days.

Jiang Yitong: No, haven’t gone to the company yet.

Jiang Yitong had instinctively typed the word “set,” but quickly deleted it upon remembering that the player’s professional setting in the game was a company employee.

“I haven’t either. I’m still in the office. In a bit, I have to go teach the children.”

From Jiang’er’s words, Jiang Yitong gathered a piece of information: teaching children. She first thought of children in a kindergarten, followed by elementary school. Essentially, the random profession assigned to Jiang’er in the game had been narrowed down by Jiang Yitong—the probability of her being a kindergarten teacher was the highest.

She didn’t ask about it directly, instead becoming somewhat interested in the other person’s geographic location, despite knowing that most cities in games are fictional. However, it wasn’t out of the question that the game company might set the NPC’s city as a real-world location to give players a better sense of immersion.

Jiang Yitong wasn’t well-adjusted to this kind of small talk. She had nothing to say, so she only replied with a very faint “Mhm.” If Jiang’er were a real being, she would likely feel awkward and bored by this conversation.

One was about to go teach children, and the other was preparing to continue listening to the news; there was clearly no need for the two of them to keep talking.

But just as Jiang Yitong’s fingertip landed above the miniature exit button in the top left corner of the interface, right as she was about to press it, a voice sounded from the phone again.

“What’s wrong today? You don’t seem to be in high spirits?”

Jiang Yitong’s fingertip stopped abruptly. Her gaze moved back to Jiang’er’s face.

Jiang’er leaned closer toward the screen, causing her face to enlarge and appear nearer. Her eyes were already large and round, appearing even more bright and clear now. From her light brown pupils, Jiang Yitong, in a daze, felt she could even see her own reflection.

Looking closely at the whites of Jiang’er’s eyes, one could catch very faint red veins. Every blink, every lowering of her lids, and every movement of her pupils caused that strange sense of reality to rush toward Jiang Yitong again.

Without waiting for Jiang Yitong to respond, Jiang’er continued, her expression gaining a hint of worry. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

Jiang Yitong didn’t understand how she knew her spirits weren’t high. Was it from her indifferent responses?

But the way she leaned in to observe her actions felt like she was verifying something—as if her doubts were mostly detected from Jiang Yitong’s facial expression, not just the text responses.

Jiang Yitong didn’t think her current expression was particularly bad. Netizens often said she was perpetually cold, always exuding a powerful “stay away” aura. Even if she said nothing, just standing there without an expression was enough to intimidate people.

She didn’t care about such remarks. However, silence didn’t mean agreement. Her face had been like this since childhood; perhaps her features simply weren’t very pleasing to others—when she wasn’t smiling, the corners of her mouth pressed slightly downward, and her eyes were narrow.

Some people also said she looked mean, not like a good person, using even harsher words to attack her. It was as if, without listening to her words or seeing her deeds, they could see into the depths of her soul just from her face.

It was ironic indeed, but by now, Jiang Yitong had long grown accustomed to it. This was her normal expression, her most authentic look when calm, devoid of any dissatisfaction or loathing.

Jiang Yitong: I’m fine.

“Good, that’s good then. As long as everything is okay.”

Jiang’er in the screen nodded slightly, her expression obedient. One sentence confirmed it for Jiang Yitong: she was overthinking, thinking way too much. Of course, Jiang’er couldn’t see her face through the screen.

The dialogue between the two seemed about to end, stopping right there with no need to continue.

“But if there’s anything making you uncomfortable…”

For the second time, Jiang Yitong prepared to exit the game, only to be interrupted yet again by Jiang’er’s sudden opening of her mouth.

Her hand remained frozen. Her brow knitted slightly—a rare occurrence,  as she forced herself to listen to Jiang’er’s next sentence in its entirety.

“Whether it’s physical or psychological, Yitong, I hope you never suffer alone. I know that even the most resilient person needs someone to lean on, right?”

Right?

Jiang Yitong couldn’t answer this question. Perhaps, as Jiang’er said, even the most resilient person needs someone to lean on. Unfortunately, Jiang’er didn’t understand her; she never considered herself particularly resilient, nor did she need anyone to lean on.

If she had to choose someone to rely on, she would only choose to rely on herself.

“Yitong, I want to become your reliance.”

When Jiang’er’s second, overly abrupt sentence sounded, it only made Jiang Yitong feel absurd.

She realized that this game was actually not suitable for her to continue playing. The game shouldn’t have set the player and NPC as a couple right from the start; there should be a process of getting to know each other.

The current state made it hard for her to immerse herself. The sense of fragmentation was too heavy, and Jiang’er’s words made her feel weird, unable to accept them easily.

A game was just a game. She truly couldn’t convince herself to believe that Jiang’er wasn’t a program, but a real, living person. She couldn’t convince herself to believe that Jiang’er possessed a soul and thoughts.

Since playing the game was so unpleasant, she figured the attempt should end here. There was no need to waste more time.

Without replying to Jiang’er’s words, Jiang Yitong didn’t hesitate anymore and exited the game directly.

The phone interface returned to the morning news, and the host’s voice sounded again, continuing the broadcast.

Jiang Yitong put the phone back on the table and took a large gulp of bitter Americano. The taste had long become bland to her, as someone who drank coffee year-round. She swallowed the dark liquid mouthful by mouthful like plain water.

Soon, the empty plastic cup was thrown into the trash. She stood up to pack, preparing to meet her assistant, Shen Si, in a few minutes.

At 9:00 AM, Jiang Yitong arrived at the set an hour early. She pulled over a chair and sat to one side to read the script.

Among the actors in the same group, she wasn’t the earliest. Another actor, Fang Qing, who had no scenes scheduled for filming yet, also arrived early—around 8:00 AM. Since then, she had been waiting silently for the 10:00 AM start.

During this hour, everyone in the crew was busy with their own tasks. No one was in the mood to strike up a conversation with Fang Qing, so she sat alone for a long time, seemingly motionless.

Jiang Yitong’s head was slightly lowered, a few thin strands of hair falling by her temples as she focused on the script, not noticing any movement beside her.

The sound of wood hitting the ground echoed as a figure sat down next to her.

From that angle, the movement should have fallen into her peripheral vision, yet she still didn’t notice, completely oblivious to her surroundings.

Fang Qing didn’t speak. Her gaze scanned Jiang Yitong’s profile twice, stopping at the corners of her eyes, which seemed even more narrow and elongated as she looked down. A faint smile played on Fang Qing’s face.

She didn’t speak, not wanting to disturb Jiang Yitong; it was enough just to sit quietly beside her.

Jiang Yitong’s thin lips were slightly parted, moving imperceptibly. The surroundings were somewhat noisy, so Fang Qing couldn’t hear her voice, but she knew she was wrestling with herself again.

She just stared at Jiang Yitong’s lips, watching them open and close ever so slightly, unwilling to look away and unable to stop the smile spreading across her face.

To be in the same crew and film the same drama as the actress she loved and respected—what a blessing. Even though this actress spoke very little on a daily basis and put her whole heart into the drama, as if nothing and no one else mattered, Fang Qing still felt that as long as she could see her once a day, she was happy.

She had only debuted two years ago. The first drama she filmed was a hit, and she played the second female lead, which gave her a brief period of popularity. When she played the female lead in her second drama, it sank completely upon airing, without causing a single ripple.

Afterward, in her third and fourth dramas, she was also the female lead, but those two also flopped entirely, leaving nothing behind—as if she were a jinx, jinxing every crew she joined.

After hitting consecutive walls, it was hard not to doubt herself. To that end, she gave herself a two-month vacation to travel around, clear her mind, and see the world.

And now, this drama Proud Snow, which had been filming for a month, was her fifth. When she heard that the female lead was played by the very Jiang Yitong she admired, she was ecstatic, feeling incredibly lucky to join such a crew.

Her thoughts had drifted too far. When Fang Qing realized this and snapped back to reality, the seat that had been right in front of her was empty.

Support The Movie Queen’s Virtual Little Girlfriend