The Whole World Is Waiting for Me and My Ex-Girlfriend to Remarry (Entertainment Industry) - Chapter 20

An eighteen-year-old exclusive fancam photographer devoted to Zhong Qing.

“So, who is she?”

Eighteen-year-old Dong Huaci was determined to reclaim her dignity in front of nineteen-year-old Zhong Qing after that embarrassing moment. Their dynamic at the time had already begun to take a vague shape: Dong Huaci would be in the wrong, Dong Huaci would provoke her, and Dong Huaci would be desperate to save face. She relied on the fact that Zhong Qing seemed exceptionally indulgent toward her—people have feelings, no one is a fool, and eighteen-year-old Dong Huaci seemed particularly gifted at sensing emotions. Thus, she fixated on this question, repeatedly pestering Zhong Qing with a query that seemed unreasonable, but was, in fact, entirely unreasonable.

Zhong Qing played dumb. “Who? Who is ‘who’?”

“The one who’s in a legal battle with the company. Your friend.” As Dong Huaci spoke, she unconsciously ground her teeth, completely unaware of it herself. “You always refuse to mention her to me.”

“Why should I? She’s not even at the company anymore,” Zhong Qing replied gloomily. “Are you going to dance or not? You were the one who insisted I teach you.”

At the entrance of the dance studio, Dong Huaci suddenly crouched down. Outside, another roar of thunder rumbled. The delayed grievance of being in a foreign place without friends washed over her. Her new friend was both kind to her and yet utterly oblivious, leaving Dong Huaci to wipe away tears in silence.

Zhong Qing was likely deeply confused; her expression was particularly strange. Dong Huaci thought to herself: She must be thinking I haven’t even practiced the dance yet, so why am I crying? With that assumption, Dong Huaci cried even harder. She sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, unable to wipe her tears away fast enough. When she finally looked up, she found Zhong Qing, with her cold, beautiful face, sitting right there on the floor beside her.

“I don’t want to pressure you; I’m not a teacher,” Zhong Qing hesitated, deliberately softening her voice. “It’s just that the first rookie evaluation is next week. You said you were afraid you couldn’t keep up, so why are you…” The rest of the sentence remained unspoken.

Being comforted by a roommate who usually seemed difficult to approach felt surprisingly good. Dong Huaci thought silently. She hadn’t yet realized why she was so full of internal drama. She asked, “So, who is she? Did you come to this company for her? Do you want to stop training? Are you leaving soon?”

The question marks above Zhong Qing’s head grew larger. She tried to comfort the mysterious “tearful person” without letting her smile show too clearly, though the corners of her mouth kept twitching upward. Finally, she said, “The person who had your original bed was in my trainee class. We used to be close. She didn’t want to dance anymore and wanted to go back to school, but the company wouldn’t let her go, so they’re in a lawsuit. I just don’t understand—why are you so obsessed with finding out who she is?”

Dong Huaci gave one of her classic replies: “I don’t know either.”

Sometimes Zhong Qing and Dong Huaci were like this—unable to explain logic, crying without reason, or failing to understand others even when things were logical. Zhong Qing simply sat there, stretching her legs out quite candidly. “Then stop crying first. Tell me more—why would I leave?”

Dong Huaci gave another answer that Zhong Qing had no way of countering: “I feel like you’re very rich. With your lifestyle and habits, why would you come here to suffer?”

This was a point that couldn’t be easily refuted. Zhong Qing could eat the same meals as everyone else and buy clothes on sale, but she couldn’t hide the underlying mindset of someone who would spend money to save time, hire someone to solve a hassle, or take a temporary loss for long-term gain. In short, Dong Huaci had long noticed that Zhong Qing’s logic followed a different path—a path nurtured by a wealthy family’s poise. Her money wasn’t spent explosively or used to show off pretty clothes; instead, she used it to solve difficulties. It was as simple as being willing to buy a thirty-five yuan temporary transparent umbrella on a rainy day because of the straightforward logic: It’s raining, I don’t have an umbrella, I’ll catch a cold, buy an umbrella at the nearest place, and see if I can catch a taxi.

In Dong Huaci’s words: She would choose to go back to the dorm to get an umbrella and then run to the bus station.

Zhong Qing listened to the analysis of her own social class with great interest, occasionally nodding along. Eventually, Dong Huaci stopped crying. She grew more confident as she spoke, finally reaching a very “elegant” conclusion: Zhong Qing was a rich person experiencing “real life,” and one day she would change back to her real name and go inherit her family fortune, leaving poor Dong Huaci behind at Xingtu to suffer through dance classes.

It was truly a situation where words were useless. After a pause, Zhong Qing gave a very slow answer: “There’s still He Xizi, isn’t there?”

She was their other roommate.

Dong Huaci started crying again, behaving exactly like a child. Though, in terms of age, how can an eighteen-year-old be fully defined as an adult? “But she already has a best friend!”

Zhong Qing: “But I haven’t left yet? And I don’t plan on resigning. As for being fired… based on my progress in dance class, I don’t think I’m the one who needs to worry. Xingtu pays me a base salary of 3,500 a month when there are no performances or outside jobs. With their attitude, why wouldn’t they be able to afford that?”

Dong Huaci stopped crying again. “You get a 3,500 base salary too?” She seemed to find instant balance. Although her face was still red from crying, her mood clearly improved. She wiped her tears away forcefully and finally broke into a smile. “Alright, fine. Let’s hug.”

“A hug? That’s… not convenient…” The room was likely very hot, as Zhong Qing’s face began to turn red as well. She quickly added, “I’m not targeting you, I just don’t really let people hug me.”

“Are you a lesbian or something? Why can’t you be touched? It’s just a hug; it’s not like we haven’t hugged before.”

Dong Huaci spoke with total candor, her hometown dialect slipping out, but the meaning was clear enough for Zhong Qing—who had been cramming Henan dialect—to understand. Her arms were already reaching out, but Zhong Qing’s face suddenly turned even redder. She retreated almost clumsily, using her dancer’s superior balance to snap to her feet. She said, “But how is that the same?” Her Shanghainese accent came out—usually a sign of significant emotional fluctuation for Zhong Qing. “Last time you pounced on me; I can’t let you get your way this time.”

Fine then—a hug, and you act like I’m taking advantage of you. Dong Huaci muttered under her breath. Dressed in a summer practice camisole, she ungracefully sat on the floor and leaned in, clinging to Zhong Qing’s leg like a small animal. She pressed her face against her leg to keep Zhong Qing from leaving, acting like a total brat. Zhong Qing couldn’t shake her off and couldn’t kick her; she didn’t feel offended, but her mood was subtle, even tinged with a complex sense of happiness she wasn’t willing to admit.

Dong Huaci’s shameless spirit fit perfectly with Zhong Qing’s emotional iceberg. Zhong Qing’s habit of masking her spending was proof that her attempt to blend in was merely to avoid trouble; she didn’t expect to make any true friends at Xingtu. Thus, Dong Huaci was certain that the former roommate was an anomaly. Lacking a sense of belonging, she had made Zhong Qing her target, determined to be that “most special, most unbearable, yet most pampered friend and roommate” to find security. Zhong Qing, of course, sensed this. She also knew about Dong Huaci’s family background; to say she viewed Dong Huaci as a complete equal in that regard would be a lie, so she was extra patient now. She let Dong Huaci cling to her calf for a long time in a very precarious position, preparing to start this extra lesson that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Zhong Qing said, “That’s enough, that’s enough! How about this: I’ll perform the dance for the next evaluation once. It’s that hit song from the new girl group; I’ve already learned the choreography. You record a ‘fancam’ for me, so you can watch it more often yourself, okay?”

Dong Huaci had played around enough and knew that continuing would be ungrateful toward Zhong Qing’s help. She took her shaky new phone out of her pocket—it’s worth mentioning that Zhong Qing had essentially half-gifted and half-sold it to her. Zhong Qing had claimed it was an old model and she had a new one coming, saying she didn’t know what to do with it; upon hearing Dong Huaci didn’t have a phone, she asked if she wanted it and took a symbolic 100 yuan. Originally, she just wanted Dong Huaci to treat her to a meal at the cafeteria, but Dong Huaci had insisted on paying. She opened the video app, ready to film an exclusive fancam for that person.

Later, this fancam was uploaded to the internet by a small account with a default avatar and a random ID. The frame only contained Zhong Qing’s beautiful figure dancing, but sharp-eyed fans spotted a pant leg and a pair of shoes in the full-length mirror. Matching them with other old photos, they became certain that Dong Huaci was the one filming for Zhong Qing. Even after Dong Huaci left the group and they broke up, the fancam remained online, reaching hundreds of thousands of views. In the comments section, Zhong Qing’s solo fans and “Zhong-Shu” CP (couple) fans occupied half the territory each, hailing it as one of the “Zhong-Shu Bibles,” a classic to be revisited.

In this dance, every one of Zhong Qing’s expressions was perfect. At nineteen, she was at her youngest, her youthful glow softening her cold aura into a semi-dazed, “tsundere” charm. Under every smile and expression, there were comments:

“Is this smile for the fans in front of the lens, for her nineteen-year-old self, or for her eighteen-year-old exclusive photographer?”

The eighteen-year-old exclusive photographer, Dong Huaci, sat half-cross-legged on the floor, holding the phone high as if worshipping a deity, aiming it at Zhong Qing’s dancing. She had already decided to upload it to a platform, adding only a “K-pop dance” tag and omitting “Xingtu Zhong Qing” just to prevent it from getting lost and to make it easy to share. Perhaps there was also a layer of feeling that the whole world should see the best performance of her favorite senior teacher and best friend.

In the final ending pose, Zhong Qing walked toward the camera, smiling shyly as she said something. The video cut off, but the reality of being eighteen continued. She crouched down, moving closer to Dong Huaci of her own accord. Blinking her eyes as if seeking credit, she said, “It’s over. You didn’t even move your hand; aren’t you tired?”

Dong Huaci, however, had forgotten the summer gloom and the sudden rain. Every time she saw Zhong Qing move close, the storm in her heart made the rest of the world fade into gray. Sweat was dripping from Zhong Qing’s forehead, her hair half-damp. As if possessed, Dong Huaci reached out to wipe it and said, “Zhong Qing, so much sweat. Well, then I’ll count it as you having cried with me.”