The Movie Queen's Virtual Little Girlfriend - Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Uninstallation

Jiang Yitong added a few extra words to her reply, largely out of curiosity, it wasn’t because the excitement in Jiang’er’s tone had made her feel that the girl was adorable.

In truth, Jiang Yitong didn’t care at all about what Jiang’er’s kitchen looked like, what was inside it, what dishes or desserts Jiang’er liked to make, or whether her mood while talking about them was joyful, sad, turbulent, or calm.

She typed those extra words simply to observe Jiang’er’s reaction. She suddenly wondered if, given the choice, she would like to see how the NPC would respond differently if she maintained a cold, indifferent attitude versus adding a few words like she just did. But then she dismissed the thought—it was impossible. Since the program was pre-set, the NPC’s reactions would likely be identical in both scenarios, following a fixed pattern.

“Okay, Yitong, if there’s a chance in the future, I’ll make them for you to eat. I know how to make all kinds of cuisines and desserts.”

On the screen, Jiang’er smiled, looking perhaps even more innocent and radiant than when she was introducing the kitchen. Seeing this, Jiang Yitong suddenly froze. Though her expression remained flat, her brow furrowed visibly.

She pressed the backspace key, reverting the chat to the last sentence before Jiang’er introduced the kitchen. Exactly as the tail end of Jiang’er’s last syllable faded, the game paused at the same spot as before, and the reply box reappeared.

Jiang Yitong was silent for two seconds before starting to type. The question she had just thought of—she suddenly felt it wasn’t necessarily so. If Jiang’er could respond so precisely to her words, it was because of the program settings.

The programmers had likely input countless response snippets into the game; once the keywords in a player’s reply were detected, the system would respond with the corresponding snippet. There were bound to be many other ways to respond.

But ultimately, no matter how many ways she could respond, Jiang’er was still just an “inanimate object.” She had no life, and she never would. What was she expecting? Was she hoping a program could come alive, possess a life, a soul, and then communicate with her with true sincerity? Jiang Yitong silently scolded herself for not being clear-headed enough just after waking up; such absurd thoughts had no business existing in her mind.

She refocused her gaze on her fingertip, which was poised against the screen, ready to type. She slowly pulled her hand back and exited the game. No matter how she replied, it wouldn’t change the fact that an NPC is just a machine, dictated by the game company’s settings.

“An actor must have a sense of conviction; when acting, you must first believe it yourself.” This was a phrase Jiang Yitong often cited when she first entered the industry, and it had benefited her greatly, helping her gain much in the study of acting. But at this moment, facing the only game on her phone, “conviction” was completely useless.

Life is not a play; life should be purer. Life is not a game. Jiang Yitong could only conclude that she was not the target audience for this game, nor was she suited to play any kind of game.

This time, she finally uninstalled “A Grain of Red Bean.”

There would be no more “Good morning” notifications from Jiang’er—not tomorrow, and certainly no “Good night.” There would be nothing left at all. Jiang Yitong knew she would be more at peace; there would be no need to weigh reality against illusion. All these complex and troublesome things evaporated the moment she tapped “Confirm Uninstall.”

She turned and got out of bed to wash up and get ready. She went downstairs to the restaurant for breakfast as usual, brought a hot Americano back upstairs, and sank into the sofa to listen to the news, closing her eyes to rest while taking sips of coffee.

Day after day, it was the same. Everything proceeded in perfect order—methodical and steady. Jiang Yitong’s life was calm and fulfilling; she worked hard when it was time to work and enjoyed her solitary world after filming. This world was simple, quiet, and lonely.

In truth, this wasn’t a loneliness that caused loss or pain. This inner solitude had accompanied Jiang Yitong for far, far too long—so long that she could no longer remember when it began. Perhaps ten years, perhaps twenty. Over time, she had grown accustomed to this loneliness; it had even become a quiet enjoyment.

Time flew to the end of December. The weather at the film set was freezing, and the forecast had issued warnings early on, stating that from the 30th—yesterday, until the beginning of the next year, the temperatures would continue to drop. Everyone was advised to keep warm while outdoors.

The temperature drop was indeed significant. When the cast and crew of Proud Snow filmed in their costumes, the biting, cold wind lashed at them, making their cheeks ache. It felt as if cold air was leaking in everywhere, drilling into their clothes and bones—unbearably icy.

Jiang Yitong felt it too, but she always remained calm and flat. She made it impossible for anyone to see through her, as if she didn’t feel the cold at all. People often said she was a cold person to the core, so she didn’t care about the cold weather.

During the walk-through before filming, while the other actors shivered and hugged themselves, Jiang Yitong stood quietly in the open space, her eyes and heart filled only with the scene.

Her colleagues agreed that Jiang Yitong possessed some sort of divine power. It was as if her sensory nerves were naturally dull. Even though she was thin and should have been more sensitive to the cold, there was no chattering of teeth, no contortion of her face—just her usual, consistent self. Even Cheng Dong admired her for this.

Fang Qing stood not far from her, rubbing her palms together vigorously, then exhaling warm breath into her cupped hands. She looked over and saw Jiang Yitong lost in thought. She wanted to remind her to put on her coat, but worried she might disturb her. She was stuck in a dilemma.

By the time Shen Si quickly wrapped the coat around Jiang Yitong, the actress was still deep in thought. Everyone knew she was thinking about the scene, so no one interrupted her; they stayed to the side, jumping or jogging in place to keep warm.

It wasn’t until Jiang Yitong regained her focus, glanced toward Cheng Dong, and gave a slight nod—signaling she was ready—that the group stopped their efforts to fight the cold. They became serious immediately and entered the necessary state of mind.

Cheng Dong had always known that every actor in this crew was excellent; that was his good fortune.

Two days ago, Jiang Yitong had taken a half-day leave to travel with Feng Man and Shen Si to Xingcheng to attend the Golden Sandalwood Awards ceremony held there. This year, she had three films released in theaters—during the Spring Festival, Labor Day, and Summer slots—two art films and one commercial film.

They weren’t all filmed last year; one had been shelved for four years before finally being released. Because so much time had passed, and the filming process had been quite mundane, leaving no deep impression on her, she had almost forgotten the content of the movie herself.

During the Spring Festival, she spent the holiday with the crew. She chose a day off to go to the cinema specifically to watch this film. She sat in the middle of the last row, wearing a duck-bill cap and a black mask. No one around her recognized her. The audience’s attention was entirely on the film itself; they were watching intently, and no one really cared who was sitting next to them.

The film was 90 minutes long. The plot was relatively mediocre, but it flowed smoothly enough; for most of the audience, it was worth the ticket price. When the movie ended, Jiang Yitong knew there would be no post-credits scene, but she stayed seated until the credits had finished rolling and the screen turned completely black.

She enjoyed the relaxation of sitting in a nearly empty theater. The film didn’t touch her deeply, but the comfortable environment of the cinema and the quiet atmosphere provided her with peace.

Most of the audience watched movies for a gripping plot or to be entertained, but Jiang Yitong had an extra layer to her viewing experience. Throughout the movie, she was scrutinizing her own performance, realizing which parts were truly mediocre and where she could have tried a different approach.

Of course, she didn’t watch every film this way; if she did, the pleasure of watching movies would soon be worn away. She chose when to do this to maintain a good state of mind.

In addition to the commercial film, her other two works were nominated for several Golden Sandalwood awards, and she herself was nominated for Best Actress for one of them.

The ceremony was in Xingcheng. The process was the same: walking the red carpet, signing autographs, the award ceremony, and post-show media interviews. That night, Jiang Yitong wore a black trailing gown.

Her straight black hair had been curled, adding volume, and was draped over her back. She was born with striking, bold features, and with heavy makeup on, she looked like a slowly blooming black rose as she walked the red carpet.

Black should have been a relatively understated color, but on her, it was all the more eye-catching. The intertwining of red and black made her even more mysterious, more moving, and more compelling to explore.

The awards for Best Actor and Best Actress were traditionally held toward the end. There were colleagues she had worked with before nearby, but from the moment she sat down, she didn’t initiate conversation with anyone.

If someone greeted her, she would nod in return, but that was it—she had no intention of continuing any conversation. People in the circle knew Jiang Yitong’s temperament and wouldn’t force small talk, as the result would only be awkwardness for them.

Feng Man had once told Jiang Yitong that after the nomination list was announced, the online consensus was that she would definitely win, and critics had praised her exquisite acting when the film was released. To this, she had only nodded faintly, feeling grateful in her heart but, as she had long since lost the habit of expressing her thoughts, she remained silently muted.

The lighting under the stage was dim. She sat in the guest section, hidden in the shadows, with only her long, narrow eyes catching the light from the stage. She watched the stage with focus. Though she appeared composed, she was quietly anticipating the moment the awards would be revealed.

Before the winners were announced, she had a measure of confidence—not just because of the audience’s encouragement, but because she truly believed her performance in the film was good. This wasn’t arrogance; it was simply because, in terms of performance, she had no regrets. She had given her entire heart and done the very best she could at that time.

Unfortunately, in the end, she didn’t win.

The close-ups of the five Best Actress nominees were projected onto the big screen. Almost everyone’s face wore a smile for the camera; only Jiang Yitong’s smile was barely perceptible, maintaining her usual calm. Some had excellent control over their expressions—when the presenters announced the winner and it wasn’t them, their smiles only grew broader as they enthusiastically applauded for the victor.

Jiang Yitong’s expression didn’t change, but she joined the applause immediately, watching the actress who stood up in front of her, turned around, and bowed deeply to the four corners of the room. Applauding a winning colleague was sincere, but she could not deny a trace of disappointment after not receiving the award.

She wasn’t an actor who looked at awards as meaningless trifles, not winning naturally brought unavoidable regret. Although she had been in the industry for ten years, she was still under thirty and naturally wanted to use awards to prove herself—especially one as prestigious as the Golden Sandalwood.

These years, she had won many awards and had been nominated for the Golden Sandalwood and the Golden Magnolia four times each. She had won twice at the Golden Magnolia but never the long-awaited Golden Sandalwood. This was her fifth nomination.

Fortunately, the awards for Best Director, Best Screenplay, and Best Art Design were all swept by her crew. She was sincerely relieved for them and, recalling the filming process, knew that the veteran actors and everyone else deserved it.

The ceremony ended at 9:30 PM. Jiang Yitong gave a brief interview backstage, changed into casual clothes, and headed straight to the airport with Feng Man and the team. She had filming duties the next morning and needed to rush back as early as possible. Stepping out of the black business car, Jiang Yitong stood at the airport entrance, looking up at the airport terminal in the cold wind.

The words “Xingcheng Airport” were illuminated at the top of the building. As her gaze touched them, the first thought that entered her mind had nothing to do with the airport, Xingcheng, or the award ceremony. It had been over a week since she uninstalled A Grain of Red Bean.

She had lived her days normally, focusing on filming and reading the script for her next movie before sleep. She hadn’t recalled the feelings the game had given her. Illusory things should not leave traces in one’s memory—A Grain of Red Bean was like that, and Jiang’er was like that. At least for the past week, Jiang Yitong had done a great job of letting those memories fade, or even completely forgetting them.

Yet today, just by looking at the airport name, she somehow linked Xingcheng to Yue City.

Xingcheng and Yue City were indeed neighbors; both had iconic landmarks—Xingcheng was mountains, Yue City was the sea. She dismissed it as a sudden wandering thought: thinking of mountains led to thinking of the sea, seeing “star” led to “moon.” But the next moment, she was confused: why would she suddenly link Yue City to Jiang’er? Just because Jiang’er had once said she lived in Yue City? But what of it? What did that have to do with her? Why would she remember her for no reason?

Jiang Yitong withdrew her gaze. She didn’t want her thoughts to be dominated by some inexplicable person or thing. Yue City, the game, Jiang’er—none of that had anything to do with her current self.

Once on the plane, Jiang Yitong looked out the window, seeing only clumps of black clouds; the atmosphere was oppressively suffocating. The night was deep. She looked away, leaned her head back against the seat, and prepared to take a short nap.

“What’s wrong? Not in high spirits?”

A voice drifted to her ear, clearly kept very low. Feng Man sat beside her. She had been observing her quietly since the backstage interview and finally couldn’t help but lean in toward Jiang Yitong. “Because you didn’t win the award?”

Jiang Yitong’s expression was always the same, making it difficult to distinguish her joys or sorrows, but Feng Man could observe carefully and capture details others might miss. For instance, Jiang Yitong had just knitted her brows slightly, her eyes narrowing. She would never look like this when she was relaxed. Feng Man knew well that Jiang Yitong had likely thought of something unpleasant.

Jiang Yitong slowly lifted her lids and glanced sideways at Feng Man, who had leaned in extremely close to her at some point. She disliked others getting too close; this distance made her feel uncomfortable, even with Feng Man, whom she had known for years. So, she subconsciously leaned her head toward the inside and said calmly, “It’s okay.”

“Actually, I think it’s quite a pity, too. Everyone thought you would win. I was also full of confidence, thinking it was a sure thing… Who would have thought it would be snatched away by someone else… But I don’t think you should be too disappointed. The audience’s support for you to win is still very high. I logged onto Weibo just now and saw that you are trending again.”

Hearing that she was trending, Jiang Yitong could now keep her eyes from even twitching. In the past, she had trended for all sorts of things—”Jiang Yitong’s world-weary face,” “Is Jiang Yitong mute?” “Jiang Yitong looks beautiful when she doesn’t speak.” She and her team had never bought trending topics; she didn’t know how they got there.

But she hadn’t looked at Weibo much for a long time, and most trending info came from Feng Man either face-to-face or via WeChat. Feng Man sometimes liked to joke, showing Jiang Yitong a screenshot of the trending chart and asking, “Yitong, what do you think of this topic?” Jiang Yitong had no thoughts on them, always sending back a “speechless/sweating” emoji.

Feng Man knew Jiang Yitong’s attitude, but she kept asking because she wanted to see more of this different side of Jiang Yitong. Jiang Yitong almost never sent emojis when chatting, and her replies were always short. If there was business to discuss, they mostly used voice calls.

Opportunities like this were rare, especially since the “speechless” emoji was so silly and cute—not at all in line with Jiang Yitong’s character. But that was exactly the contrast that made this cold, rigid person seem a little more interesting.

How interesting.

“Hmm, trending is trending, it doesn’t matter.” Jiang Yitong maintained that attitude, unbothered. She took the steam eye mask Feng Man handed her but didn’t put it on immediately, knowing the other party wasn’t finished. Her face was fresh and bare now that her makeup had been removed in the car.

“You don’t even want to know what the trending topic is?” Seeing Jiang Yitong stop, Feng Man smiled and continued, “I’ll tell you—it’s netizens feeling sorry that you didn’t win. Everyone is speaking up for you, asking why you couldn’t win even after such a brilliant performance in The Mirror.”

“Look, you haven’t even expressed anything, yet everyone is already feeling the injustice for you. See… it just shows how outstanding your performance was, right?”

The content of the trending topic was indeed beyond Jiang Yitong’s expectations. She had thought it would be about her look tonight, but it was about the award. The award was just one part; her look, which stunned countless people today, was also trending.

The higher-heat award issue ranked lower, and Feng Man didn’t mention it specifically—she knew that in Jiang Yitong’s world, awards were far more important, and the look was barely worth mentioning.

But Jiang Yitong’s beauty tonight was undeniable. Feng Man had witnessed her walking the red carpet on the big screen in the lounge and was overcome with emotion, then felt a sense of loss after sobering up. Counting them up, it seemed like no matter how many times it happened, whenever Jiang Yitong walked the red carpet in various styles of haute couture, Feng Man would be stunned.

Jiang Yitong possessed an innate noble temperament, as if carved into her bones. The aura she exuded was as cold as frost, making it difficult for strangers to approach. Not just strangers—even acquaintances found it hard to get close to her, let alone walk into her heart. To put it deeper, perhaps even Feng Man herself had never truly entered Jiang Yitong’s heart.

Her heart seemed never to have been opened for anyone.

Feng Man turned to look at Shen Si, then at the photographer and makeup artist on the team, finding that everyone’s expression looking at the screen was almost identical—as if mesmerized, immersed in the cold and enchanting atmosphere created by this “night rose.”

She heard the photographer, Li Tian, exclaim, “Too beautiful, Sister Yitong is too beautiful tonight!” and heard her say she would take a hundred beautiful photos of her when she returned backstage.

The regret of today was now the past. Feng Man moved to lean on Jiang Yitong’s shoulder—an intimate gesture common between friends. But just as she moved over, still a significant distance away, she stopped immediately.

She felt helpless, remembering that Jiang Yitong didn’t like being touched. But how could she be considered “someone else”? It made no sense. Years of friendship had failed to warm Jiang Yitong’s cold heart; she couldn’t help but want to sigh at the coldness of the world…

“Although we didn’t win this award, your acting and your work are recognized by so many viewers. Everyone wants you to win…so, let the regrets pass.”

“Hmm…”

Feng Man rambled on, and Jiang Yitong listened earnestly, responding with a muffled sound. She then opened the partition blocking the view and turned to look out the window again. She understood it all. She had been in the industry for ten years; how could she not understand this logic? Besides, she was emotionally stable—it was just that regret was unavoidable.

The black clouds remained, but the plane they were on traveled through them, breaking through clumps of mist. Jiang Yitong suddenly wondered: if Jiang’er saw what was in her heart, how would she respond? Would she comfort her? “Yitong, look, aren’t these clouds just like those regrets? The plane is mercilessly breaking through them for us, so don’t be unhappy.

When there’s a chance, I’ll make dessert for you. Dessert makes us happy, and the process of making it is also very healing. We can do it together. Yitong, you must still believe: what is meant to be yours will eventually be yours…”

Her focus shifted back, and the black clouds filled her eyes again. She pulled the shade down and finally put on her eye mask. The light before her was completely extinguished. Leaning back in her seat, she asked herself why she had suddenly thought of Jiang’er again. Twice now, thinking of Jiang’er for no reason. Jiang Yitong, have you noticed it yourself? Your state today is so wrong.

After this self-reproach, Jiang Yitong realized that her thoughts should stop there. She shouldn’t let them wander, nor should she question herself, because the name “Jiang’er,” if repeated, would be remembered repeatedly. In reality, it should just be cut off—don’t listen, don’t ask, don’t think.

Feng Man, watching Jiang Yitong inexplicably shaking her head slightly, as if denying something, was puzzled. She didn’t know what kind of problem the other woman was having, but since she had already put on her eye mask and was preparing to sleep, it wasn’t good to ask more. Let Jiang Yitong sleep; when she wakes up, the filming will continue as usual, and her seemingly endless film crew life will go on.

Yet, Feng Man often wondered: when will someone walk into Jiang Yitong’s heart to let her rest? Both her body and her spirit needed a dwelling where she could stop and settle down from time to time.

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