The Movie Queen's Virtual Little Girlfriend - Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Downloading

Today is December 31st.

When mentioned as a standalone date, it doesn’t seem all that daunting, but when linked with the name of the month, one can’t help but marvel at how quickly time flies. In the blink of an eye, the end of the year has arrived.

Once this night passes, tomorrow will be the start of a brand-new year.

There are always people who live out the year to the fullest, reaping a rich harvest, feeling satisfied with the content of their year, and greeting the next with immense anticipation.

Then there are those who drift through each day in a haze, only to realize at the end that they have reached the end of the road yet again, having gained absolutely nothing.

As for New Year’s Eve, Jiang Yitong had long since lost interest. However, she had not forgotten that after this night passed, she would enter the age bracket of thirty. She didn’t feel anxious; thirty is really just the beginning of life’s journey.

There was no need to rush, she would just continue to walk firmly and steadily next year, just as she had the year before and this current one.

Every previous New Year’s Eve, while everyone else was out shopping or celebrating with lovers, friends, or family, she would choose to sit on her hotel room sofa and watch a movie alone. If she had extra time, she would read her script for a while or write down thoughts related to the plot and her character before going to sleep.

There was a film she had pre-ordered that she hadn’t gotten around to watching yet, and she had already decided to finish it tonight—letting her year begin with a movie and end with one, which felt like a sort of poetic symmetry.

Snow had been falling since late last night. At first, it was just tiny, ghostly specks drifting down, melting the moment they touched the ground or the palm of her hand. But soon, the intensity increased; in the blink of an eye, it turned into heavy, goose-feather flakes, scattering crazily from the dark night sky.

At that time, Jiang Yitong was sound asleep, her body completely relaxed as she sank into the soft, comfortable bedding. Her day of filming had left her body exhausted; she had finished her routine and collapsed into bed.

Let the wind howl outside and the snow lash against the windows, the world outside might be a dark, snowy blur, but inside the room, there was nothing but calm. It was a stillness that spoke of worldly peace, completely undisturbed by the outside world.

Jiang Yitong slept comfortably, and her biological clock woke her up at exactly 6:00 AM. Upon waking, she sat up straight and took a few deep breaths in the darkness before reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp. The light was soft; it lit up the room that had been in darkness for so long, but it didn’t feel harsh to her.

The play of light and shadow fell upon Jiang Yitong, and the warm-toned light seemed to carry its own temperature; both the glow and the warmth made her feel content. She turned to pick up the phone lying next to her, ready to unlock it.

No one knew better than she did that in these last two days, the amount of time she spent picking up her phone had indeed increased. Aside from the “old three”—the news, podcasts, and WeChat, all the extra time she had added was spent on one game.

The name of the game was A Grain of Red Bean, the very game she had previously downloaded and uninstalled.

Since returning from Xingcheng, although Jiang Yitong had returned to the busy life of the film set, she had been unable to forget the scene where she looked up at the “Xingcheng Airport” sign in the night and was reminded of Jiang’er.

Jiang’er seemed to possess a certain allure; even someone with Jiang Yitong’s temperament found it hard to escape. Aside from the game itself and Jiang’er herself, Jiang Yitong contemplated another reason: the name “Jiang’er” had been bestowed by her, so in a way, Jiang’er was not entirely unrelated to her.

To use an improper analogy: if you meet a homeless kitten on the side of the road, crouch down, and feed it a little, and it happens to be pure white, you might call it “Little White.” You feed it twice, watch it eat in silence, and suddenly feel it’s quite interesting.

But upon closer reflection, it seems meaningless—just a waste of time. By the third time, you walk past without feeding it another bite. Even if the kitten disappears from that road on the fourth day and is nowhere to be seen for days after, you wouldn’t care. Life goes on as normal; nothing changes.

But then, there is that one night when she is walking down the road feeling a sense of loss—not on the road where “Little White” used to stay—and she happens to stare at the flower beds and weeds along the roadside, and suddenly, for no reason, she recalls that little white cat she once fed. She wonders where it went.

In truth, Jiang Yitong is not someone who would specifically go out of her way to feed a stray cat. If she walked past a kitten, she wouldn’t give it a second glance, let alone look back after walking away. She doesn’t love cats, she doesn’t love small animals, and she probably doesn’t love herself.

For so many years, she had never found a reason to love herself, or a reason to feel she was worth loving. But she hadn’t given up; she was still searching for that one reason. Maybe she would find it suddenly one day, or maybe she would spend her whole life searching aimlessly like this.

When playing the game, she felt entangled in the mix of reality and illusion, which made her thoughts chaotic. When she wasn’t playing, Jiang’er’s face would inexplicably appear in her mind, and Jiang’er’s voice seemed to resonate clearly in her ears. Sometimes, Jiang Yitong would hear so much talk of her being cold and aloof that she would start to think perhaps she really should be that kind of person.

But while people called her indifferent by nature, she actually had a soft side. It was just that this side wasn’t common anymore and would never be easily revealed in front of others, to the point where even she had fooled herself into thinking she never had such a side.

People called her free and easy, yet she had a side that wrestled with things—for instance, she struggled with herself over scripts almost every day, and like now, with this matter of Jiang’er. The former was something that was supposed to be there; the latter should not exist at all.

Yesterday morning, as she listened to the morning news and stood by the floor-to-ceiling window looking out into the distance, she saw the trees shedding their leaves, the remaining dry branches and yellow leaves making a final, desperate struggle. Winter was always like this; countless lives withered in the cold.

Because of this, a thought suddenly struck her, a thought that should never have jumped into her mind. If it were Jiang’er, facing this desolate scene, what would she think? She knew Jiang’er was always optimistic and positive, so the answer was obvious, but she actually found herself wanting to hear Jiang’er express her views in her own voice.

It was this sudden thought that made Jiang Yitong make her decision in an instant. If she were going to keep wrestling with things in her head, she might as well just download the game back. And so, after the morning news, she returned to the small sofa and silently downloaded A Grain of Red Bean from the app store again.

Jiang Yitong unlocked her phone and reconnected to the network amidst the warm lighting. After a few seconds, she watched as two notifications popped up after a delay. One was from Feng Man, a WeChat message; she clicked in and found that the other party was asking her in the dead of night how she wanted to spend New Year’s Eve. Feng Man basically asked this every year, yet such a question was entirely redundant.

On which occasion had her answer ever been different? Staying in the hotel, watching a movie, reading a script—these were her “New Year’s Eve Trifecta,” and they had never changed. This year was no different. Perhaps Feng Man refused to believe it, hoping she might make a change this year and accompany her to the night market, but the reality remained that she wouldn’t. How could things one was already accustomed to be so easily changed?

Jiang Yitong sent Feng Man a message, concise and to the point. She replied with only three words: “Same as usual.” She knew Feng Man would understand what “same as usual” meant, so there was no need to say anything more.

As for the other notification, it was a push from A Grain of Red Bean.

Jiang’er: Yitong, good morning! Has it started snowing in the North?

Seeing the word “snow,” Jiang Yitong’s eyes narrowed involuntarily. She didn’t click into the game for a long time, lingering on the interface, her gaze fixed on that character. She didn’t know whether to attribute it to the game company’s intentional settings or just a coincidence, but it didn’t matter.

She had already made up her mind: it was just a game. There was no need to give her heart, and no need to think so much. Just like acting, she would simply play the role of “Player” well.

Since she had downloaded the game again, for reasons unknown—perhaps to keep her from leaving, the game would push not only a “Good morning” but also a “Good night” from Jiang’er every night, fixed at around 11:00 PM. Jiang Yitong usually fell asleep after this time, so every night before bed, she could see the notification.

She didn’t just glance at the text; she would specifically open the game and listen as Jiang’er—a hint of weariness on her face, but her voice still gentle and her smile sweet—said “Good night, Yitong” to her. Then she would type her reply, changing from the first time, a single “Hmm,” to the third time, after a two-second pause, “Hmm, good night.”

Adding just two words changed the meaning significantly. The first time Jiang’er received that “Good night” from Jiang Yitong, a flash of obvious surprise crossed her light-colored pupils. As an actor, Jiang Yitong knew that look of surprise didn’t seem faked; it was too natural and real, as if she really hadn’t expected Jiang Yitong to suddenly “blossom” and add the word “good night.”

It was too real, so real that Jiang Yitong found it hard to stay in character. In so many moments, she would forget that A Grain of Red Bean was just a game, that everything inside—including Jiang’er—was fake, and she would feel as if she were facing a living, breathing person of flesh, blood, and soul.

Immediately after, she saw Jiang’er grin and laugh sincerely. The breathy sound circled in her room and struck her chest gently. She saw Jiang’er wave to her on the other side of the screen and say the last line before falling asleep: “Then good night, Yitong! Rest early and have a good sleep!”

It was just typing two extra words, just a few extra movements of her fingertips, yet it elicited such a stronger reaction from Jiang’er. This feeling made…

Jiang’er, after saying good night to Jiang Yitong, had truly gone to sleep. Jiang Yitong could no longer manipulate the buttons on the screen, except for the information and exit keys. Jiang Yitong interpreted it as Jiang’er having gone to bed; just like someone in reality, they wouldn’t want to be disturbed. But if some players were “night owls” or only had time to play at night, and the NPC went to sleep at 11:00 PM without allowing any operations, would that setting be reasonable?

However, Jiang Yitong believed that every player’s NPC settings were different; not all NPCs were like Jiang’er, going to sleep precisely at 11:00 and locking all functions. After all, the developers couldn’t be that stupid—they wouldn’t throw away opportunities to make money.

Opening the game, Jiang Yitong waited for it to load. The screen popped up with Jiang’er’s face, zoomed in, with the background of her wearing pajamas and washing up.

“Good morning, Yitong… I’m still brushing my teeth… almost done…”

Jiang’er’s speech was unclear while brushing her teeth. Jiang Yitong was a bit surprised, but also felt pleasantly delighted. At this moment, Jiang’er seemed to have become a living person, video-calling her. Jiang Yitong waited half a minute for her, watching her through the screen, and instead of feeling impatient, she found herself enjoying it.

Finally, Jiang’er appeared on the screen with a clean face. Her background was changing; it was obvious she was moving forward, walking out of the bathroom, talking as she walked: “Yitong, I’m done! Now I can talk properly. Good morning! Today is the last day of the year. Hasn’t it been snowing in the North for a long time? Is it freezing?”

Jiang Yitong: Hmm, it has. It started yesterday.

Jiang Yitong: It’s quite cold, but it’s alright.

“Really!” Jiang’er’s voice sounded quite excited; she was clearly very interested in snow. “I’ve never seen snow from the time I was born until now. It never snows in Yue City.”

“It must be freezing when it snows. Yitong, make sure to keep warm today. Don’t catch a cold, it will be very uncomfortable.”

Jiang Yitong: Go to the North to see the snow in the future.

Jiang Yitong used the word “go,” not “come,” as if telling Jiang’er to find an opportunity to go to the North herself, rather than inviting Jiang’er to come to the North. She would act as a “tour guide” for Jiang’er, taking her to see the sights in the North, or perhaps going for walks in quiet, less-populated places together. Perhaps, at the end of the day, she was still cold and distant. But perhaps, not entirely.

She had listened carefully to both sentences Jiang’er said, especially the second one, where Jiang’er told her to keep warm and showed concern for her situation. She didn’t reply to that part, but that didn’t mean she had ignored it.

“Alright! If there’s a chance, I’ll definitely go. Yitong, if I go to the North, will you take me around? I’m completely unfamiliar with the North.”

She kept calling her “Yitong,” adding the name to almost every sentence. She didn’t feel awkward saying it, and naturally, Jiang Yitong didn’t find it annoying. It was a name she had set herself at the start of the game; hearing Jiang’er call it a few more times didn’t matter.

Besides, Jiang’er had a pleasant voice, and her name sounded good when she called it. She wouldn’t be annoyed even if she wanted to be. Rarely did anyone call her name in such a relaxed and happy tone as Jiang’er.

Jiang Yitong suddenly felt that, actually, there were many things she could learn from Jiang’er—for instance, her optimism. It wasn’t about becoming completely optimistic herself, but learning how to regulate her emotions better.

Sometimes she was just too twisted; she felt everything must be resolved on the very day it occurred. So, when she hit a dead end, she would keep banging her head against it, with an attitude of not stopping until the knot was untied, and in the end, it was only she who suffered.

But if this were to happen to Jiang’er, with her personality, she would surely try her best, and then, upon discovering she couldn’t do it yet, have the courage to say “no” to herself first.

After a moment of silence, Jiang Yitong felt that perhaps playing her own role well was also an interesting task. She would reply to Jiang’er like this:

Jiang Yitong: Jiang’er, if you come to the North, I will take you around. Of course, I won’t let you be alone. I will be with you.

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