The Whole World Is Waiting for Me and My Ex-Girlfriend to Remarry (Entertainment Industry) - Chapter 11

“Would you rather see news reports of yourself being photographed at my doorstep?”

It’s just adding her back on WeChat to make contact easier, Zhong Qing thought to herself. Don’t take it too much to heart; don’t overthink the drama.

When they resumed filming her shot, something mysterious seemed to flow through the emotions after her conversation with Dong Huaci. It was as if Zhong Qing had been enlightened; she finished the scene in a single take. Although the shot itself wasn’t difficult—just Zhong Qing reading a letter sent to the female lead, appearing for only a few seconds on screen—the assistant director’s shout of “OK, everyone, wrap it up” made Zhong Qing realize, with a sense of hindsight, that she had transitioned from her character’s state back into reality.

So, this was the nature of her work.

This was what Dong Huaci had been doing ever since her days in the girl group.

It wasn’t exactly joy she felt, but rather a sense of sudden realization and relief. Zhong Qing deliberately avoided looking in Dong Huaci’s direction. She thanked everyone on set, changed her clothes, and upon returning to the lounge, the first thing she did was check her WeChat messages.

Dong Huaci hadn’t added her back yet. Zhong Qing pursed her lips unnaturally. In the chat interface, she inevitably saw the last few messages she had sent to Dong Huaci years ago. Every line was a testament to a deep affection that, back then, had bordered on an absurd obsession.

The text content included, but was not limited to: “Take care of yourself,” “Eat on time,” “Don’t always drink ice water to lose weight.” Near the end, around the time of the breakup, she seemed to have lost her mind, sending several silly, sour, and—in hindsight—completely useless and undignified remarks. For example: “Don’t fall in love with anyone else, okay?”, “I can quit the industry for you, just come back,” and “Why do you care about others? Why don’t you care about me?” These were the kinds of strange words that looked like they could only be sent by someone no older than sixteen.

These “brilliant” musings were frozen coldly before a red exclamation mark. There was even a period of time after confirming that Dong Huaci had blocked her when Zhong Qing used the chat page as a sort of diary or “tree hole.” For some reason, she had sent photos of her meals for a long time—photo after photo of food.

Simple ones, like bento boxes; beautiful ones, like Japanese cuisine; and dishes she cooked herself at home—greens, reds, a kaleidoscope of colors.

Zhong Qing scrolled further. She had forgotten what had happened late one night, but the screen showed she had sent several consecutive messages saying, “I hate you so much.” Oh, that time, she had been injured. How many years ago was that? Zhong Qing continued to scroll down: I’m injured, it hurts so much, but I hope you never feel bad for even a single day. I can’t wish you happiness every day, because being happy every day makes happiness seem unremarkable, but I wish for you to never feel bad. To never feel bad every day—that is what it means to be happy every day.

She couldn’t look anymore. Indeed, a person cannot even empathize with their past self.

…So why hasn’t she added me yet?

Irritation rose within Zhong Qing, and she snapped her phone shut. After idling in the lounge for a while, she took her script and left the room, only to realize that Dong Huaci still had a scene to film up front.

Dong Huaci was naturally unaware that her simple sentence, “Add me back on WeChat,” had triggered so much psychological activity in Zhong Qing. She had just finished her solo shot and was currently sitting happily with her assistant, Qiao Yi, eating not far from the set. The production crew provided a generous meal allowance. Although Dong Huaci was no longer that eighteen-year-old girl who had first arrived in Shanghai with no friends or family, she never wasted the subsidy, nor did she like wasting food. Not many actors in the crew ordered as little as they did. Many ordered Japanese food without restraint; she and Qiao Yi shared theirs. If they really couldn’t finish, she would have Qiao Yi pack two portions—one for herself and one for Qiao Yi to help put in the hotel fridge.

Zhong Qing didn’t have her manager with her today. In the acting circle, she was in the same state as the eighteen-year-old Dong Huaci had been in Shanghai—”without friends or family.” Her only acquaintance, pitifully enough, was Dong Huaci. She silently watched Dong Huaci finish her scene, pretending to play with her phone while observing her and that new assistant girl. Ignoring the looks from others, they buried their heads in their food for a long time. Only then did Zhong Qing pretend that her takeout had arrived and returned to the lounge, where she began to pick at a salad alone.

For some reason, she was particularly hungry today. In the past, her habitual appetite meant she couldn’t even finish a single salad, but today, her desire for food had subtly returned. She was hungry, and a bit thirsty.

On the other side, Dong Huaci truly loved to eat. The food was genuinely good. That was the one good thing about filming—the food was well-managed. Eating takeout made her more content than eating a grand feast because she didn’t have to sit and exchange pleasantries with strangers.

In the afternoon, the first formal scene between Dong Huaci and Zhong Qing was about to begin. This scene was about how the Princess would repeatedly make things difficult for the General on the way to her wedding, while the General remained silent, treating the Princess as if she were nothing, aiming to gradually wear down the Princess’s hope until she collapsed.

There was a moment where the Princess, unable to restrain herself, raised her hand and slapped the General.

Zhong Qing and Dong Huaci were each wearing three layers of costumes. During the break, they stood in a position that was nearly side-to-side—a subtle angle where they were facing each other without actually being face-to-face. In the scene, they were close. Zhong Qing had already entered her character; her eyes were as cold as a glacier. She was no longer facing a princess of a nation, but a trapped beast struggling in vain. Finally, seeing the General’s lack of respect, the Princess lost her temper and raised her hand to slap her.

The description in the book went like this: “The slap was crisp and loud, immediately leaving a red mark. The Princess’s hand even stung slightly, and she felt a flicker of regret, fearing the man might make things difficult for her on the road.”

It was awkward, uncomfortable, and they desperately hoped no secret cameras were filming.

Dong Huaci took a deep breath, and then another. The psychological preparation she had done with Qiao Yi during lunch was starting to work. “Just think of her as a big block of wood that can talk,” Qiao Yi had said while stuffing a piece of sushi into her mouth. “A talking block of wood is scary, but it has no lethality. Just think of it that way, Cici.”

Right. A talking block of wood.

For some reason, even in the heat of summer, Dong Huaci broke into a cold sweat the moment she got close to Zhong Qing. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, making a show of preparing. It wasn’t until the assistant director shouted “Action!” that she abruptly looked up and gave Zhong Qing a “slap.”

To call it a slap was an exaggeration; at most, it was a “pat.”

The second unit director was clearly dissatisfied and immediately called Dong Huaci over. “My dear Princess, I know you’re supposed to be an overbearing royal scolding a general, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with him. It’s too light, way too light. Look at me.” The assistant director was a young man; he slapped his own thigh heavily, which almost made Dong Huaci laugh and helped her relax. “Slap like this, okay? This is the right intensity.”

Dong Huaci nodded haphazardly, putting on an act as if she completely understood. When she took on that posture, you knew she didn’t understand at all and was, in fact, in great pain.

On the other side, Zhong Qing waited in place. Her lowered head and the way she avoided eye contact were almost identical in their practiced naturalness to Dong Huaci’s movements earlier.

After a few more instructions, the sweat on Dong Huaci’s back had soaked through the inner layer of her costume. She returned to her position. The camera rolled, and there came another “slap.”

The force was better this time, Zhong Qing thought as her head tilted with the impact.

Actually, the director was entirely wrong.

The first slap was like a kitten scratching; the second was more like a lover’s playful spat.

Can’t bring yourself to do it, Little Tree?

Before the director could shout a reprimand, Zhong Qing suddenly turned her head back and gave herself a heavy slap.

“PA—!”

Everyone was stunned. Dong Huaci froze right where she stood.

“This intensity,” Zhong Qing said flatly, appearing as though she were simply maintaining a professional persona. “Every time you fail once, I will hit myself once.”

In that moment, only Dong Huaci understood that Zhong Qing was forcing her hand—a familiar tactic of hers that never failed. Dong Huaci’s voice was so quiet it was barely a whisper: “Zhong Qing, why must you do this…”

Even the assistant director was somewhat intimidated by the scene; the entire set fell into a dead silence.

“You are wasting everyone’s time and my patience,” Zhong Qing smiled, meeting Dong Huaci’s gaze directly. “I’ll count to five. If you don’t give me a proper slap, I’ll hit myself again.”

Fine. Fine.

In all these years, she hadn’t remained completely without progress. When the cameras rolled again, Dong Huaci channeled all her past resentment and current grudges into her strength.

Before Zhong Qing could react, while she was still in a daze, Dong Huaci bit her lip tightly. Her eyes were slightly red, and a faint fragility cracked through her arrogant tone: “This barren wasteland… this Princess will absolutely not marry into it.”

Yes, this connected perfectly to the scene they had performed during the audition.

The sun blazed overhead, the sand created a desolate atmosphere, and sweat fell faster than tears. Sweat became the shackle and the shell, so the tears would not fall again. Zhong Qing’s lips quivered as if she wanted to say something, but she remained silent. Dong Huaci looked her in the eye. This kind of opportunity—where the two could meet without turning away, without sighing, frowning, or stealing glances—was strangely abundant in the scene. It felt as extravagant as a pauper suddenly striking it rich, facing an infinity they didn’t know how to handle.

It wasn’t until she heard the shout of “Cut!” that Dong Huaci snapped out of her overwhelming anger and fragility. She realized the next line was supposed to have been hers.

What are you waiting for?

Dong Huaci and Zhong Qing hadn’t finished their scenes for the day, but several battlefield scenes for Zhong Qing were up next. The assistant director had agreed to Zhong Qing’s request to “get familiar with the shooting process by doing solo scenes first,” so their dual scenes—or scenes involving Zhong Qing and others—were pushed back a few days.

After finishing work, both of them felt as if they had just suffered through a major illness.

At night, in her hotel room, Zhong Qing had just showered. Wearing a bathrobe, she went to check her phone messages as usual.

A contact with an unfamiliar nickname: 【Little Tree】.

Zhong Qing’s hands still had traces of water on them; she nearly dropped her phone several times.

Little Tree: Are you in your room?

Little Tree: I want to talk to you for a bit about the scenes. Is that okay? (Emoji)

Dong Huaci had added her. Because Zhong Qing had never deleted her, the request went through seamlessly. If it weren’t for the red, scar-like exclamation marks above, Zhong Qing would have almost thought that the years of stranger-like avoidance had never happened—as if the years tortured by news, speculation, contracts, the ears and mouths of the public, and mutual accusations had never existed.

All of the past seemed to blur the moment those two messages popped up.

What hit her now was a sense of overwhelming anticipation.

The doorbell rang. She didn’t even have time to put on her old slippers. She went to the closet by the door, crouched down, and dug out a pair of new slippers that were still in their plastic packaging. On one hand, she hoped she was overthinking it; on the other, she felt a faint—yet actually intense—longing for something. That “something” was absolutely not to be spoken of. Zhong Qing couldn’t bear the disappointment if that “something” fell through, so the matter remained hidden under a veil of ambiguity.

The door opened.

Dong Huaci was waiting with her head down, her long brown hair hanging over her chest. She hadn’t expected Zhong Qing to open the door so quickly. She froze for a moment, then her sharp eyes caught sight of the white slippers Zhong Qing had prepared for her. She repeated herself in near panic: “Zhong Qing, no, no, no, I’m not coming in. I just came to…”

Before she could finish, Zhong Qing had already grabbed her arm. This sudden physical contact left Dong Huaci unable to finish the words she had rehearsed for so long. Her heart drummed against her ribs. Even after all these years, she still blushed, lost her composure, and felt her heart race at Zhong Qing’s forceful, unquestionable physical gestures—gestures reserved only for her. Zhong Qing was naturally familiar with Dong Huaci’s reaction. She arched an eyebrow.

“Come in. Would you rather see news reports of yourself being photographed at my doorstep?”