The Whole World Is Waiting for Me and My Ex-Girlfriend to Remarry (Entertainment Industry) - Chapter 22

Please, do not be liked by anyone else.

“Tell a story? Zhong Qing, what stories do you have?”

Dong Huaci blinked her large eyes. From that moment, Zhong Qing understood why eyelashes and butterflies—two seemingly unrelated things—had become the favorite atmospheric metaphor in novels to describe a girl. One blink, then another; it was still a slight, itching sensation. An unentered world is the most attractive, and a gaze not yet fully understood is the most inviting to explore.

The delivery food hadn’t arrived yet. Zhong Qing’s eyes continued to circle around Dong Huaci, who was dressed in Zhong Qing’s own clothes. Her voice trembled almost uncontrollably as she began to speak. Even with He Xizi sandwiched between them, Zhong Qing seemed terrified that a single glance would expose her deepest desires. Thus, she lowered her head and said, “A ghost story.”

He Xizi and Zhong Qing erupted into screams simultaneously, both crying out that they wouldn’t listen.

With this interruption, the inner drama Zhong Qing had been self-directing came to an end. After finishing the takeout, she spent a long time washing her hands in the bathroom. Suddenly and uncontrollably, she leaned over the mirror, imagining several scenes that were impossible to voice. The mirror held only Zhong Qing’s own elegant face, but in Zhong Qing’s dreams, that elegance belonged to two people. Dong Huaci was still wearing her short-sleeved shirt, but all other clothes had vanished. When she woke up that day, it took Zhong Qing a long while to pull herself together. When she went to brush her teeth, she ran into Dong Huaci again, still in her white camisole dress, squatting in front of the washing machine stuffing her clothes inside. Dong Huaci turned back, smiled at her, and said, “Morning, Zhong Qing.”

Zhong Qing almost thought she was still in the dream. She nearly lowered her head to share a kiss with Dong Huaci—one that was not so innocent—before they both tumbled to the floor, where clearly a few more pieces of clothing could have been stuffed into the wash. In reality, however, she only nodded with some stagnation and continued to squeeze out toothpaste, pretending to say good morning with indifference.

Speaking of their life together during that month, one had to admit that life at Xingtu Company was busy and disciplined. Although it was hard work, with the hope of becoming famous ahead of them, it could never be called an oppressive ordeal.

In the eyes of capital, the youth of these girls—who knew neither the height of the sky nor the depth of the water—was like the green grass of a pasture: lush today, but perhaps mowed down tomorrow. Yet, for the time being, those hands could not cut through that unbridled spirit. Unfortunately, the invisible hand would eventually carve up all commodities on some future day. The mutual sympathy between fans and stars at certain moments was not entirely an empty illusion; they shared the same empathetic pity. Thus, some fans would shout and rage on behalf of their idol over a single stage position, while an unknown idol would burst into tears upon receiving a flower from her very first fan.

Although Dong Huaci had only just touched the fringes of this circle, she seemed to have a faint inkling of what was to come. Her perpetual inability to keep up with the rhythm suggested she had no talent, yet the fact that she received her first bouquet of flowers after her very first rookie performance clearly revealed that she possessed another kind of talent altogether. Dong Huaci’s foundation hadn’t even fully worn off yet, and her eyelashes—applied for the first time—could hardly be called seamless. But the moment she received that first rose from a fan, her beautiful radiance broke through its outer shell and began to erupt recklessly from an emotional perspective. She covered her mouth, pointed at her own face, and confirmed once more: “Is this really for me?” At that moment, she naturally gave no thought to the fact that everything comes with a price. But the joy of being sincerely liked, discovered, and given to without reservation is a happiness that no one in the world can refuse.

Dong Huaci bowed to those two or three fans. Although the company ordered them not to take photos, there was no way to stop them from being filmed. She stood a long distance away from her initial fans, across a road, waving to them with red eyes and a youthful, radiant smile. From that moment, she understood that she belonged to this circle. She could change her performance, she could change her identity, but the feeling of being liked and adored was addictive. Dong Huaci loved that feeling more than ten million other things in this world. If a person must suffer in this life, then choosing to suffer for something one loves is undoubtedly a form of luck. Dong Huaci didn’t like singing, and she didn’t like dancing, but she intended to stay on that stage shamelessly and at any cost, to attract more light, to hollow herself out to give more love, and then to take back more and more love to roll through her entire youth. Regardless of the ending, she was set on walking this path.

That night, drinking a newly bought mung bean smoothie, she grandly showed off that bouquet of roses to Zhong Qing and He Xizi. Although Zhong Qing and He Xizi were also among the early batches of rookies, they had already completed several rounds of performances. While they weren’t the very first priority of the company, they were already somewhat famous with established fan bases; receiving flowers was, naturally, nothing new to them. What was new to them—specifically—was Dong Huaci’s demeanor. The happiness of receiving flowers for the first time infected everyone around her. People who knew her and those who didn’t flocked to their dormitory to congratulate her and add her on WeChat. He Xizi sat with her, laughing and chatting with the other young faces who had dropped by. But at that moment, certain traits of Zhong Qing’s personality began to emerge inopportunely.

She sat alone at the desk beside Dong Huaci’s bed, tuning her guitar. Initially, her expression had been happy as she helped Dong Huaci find a vase for the roses and organize the greeting cards. Back then, fans still called Dong Huaci “Xiao Dong”—a cliché and common name—wishing her a happy debut. Zhong Qing originally wanted to say that this fan might very well have someone else as their main bias. This was common, but the beauty radiating from Dong Huaci’s face at this moment was something no one could interrupt, and something no one could participate in. Zhong Qing had experienced similar things herself, so she naturally knew what should be said—or more accurately, what kind of emotion she should display.

Yes, she displayed a warm, soft, and considerate exterior, but her heart was sour and jealous. Zhong Qing tuned her guitar at the outermost edge of the crowd. As she was tuning, someone came to pull her, wanting her to join Dong Huaci’s “circle meeting,” but Zhong Qing refused. She shook her head with a near-freezing coldness, saying she had to finish that song today and told them to keep chatting, her tone even carrying a hint of impatience.

Consequently, a few people took the hint and left, as this was, after all, Zhong Qing’s dormitory as well. He Xizi thought it was very strange; she had rarely seen Zhong Qing put on such airs. Her own best girlfriend was there too, and though they weren’t in the same room, they couldn’t help but whisper a few words. As for the others, like layers of flower petals, they all turned back to look at the core—Dong Huaci. Her heavy stage makeup and brown curls looked like flower stamens clustering toward the morning sun. Dong Huaci put down her smoothie cup, seemingly sensing something was wrong. She pursed her lips; she had wanted to say something to see the guests out, but having never been taught the ways of the world since childhood, she didn’t know how to ask them to leave both tactfully and sincerely.

Before Dong Huaci could speak, Zhong Qing picked up her guitar and headed out.

“Zhong Qing, where are you going?”

The space was too small. When Zhong Qing passed by her, Dong Huaci, sitting on the empty bed, easily grabbed her and asked the question everyone was curious about. Zhong Qing didn’t shake off Dong Huaci’s hand. She simply said, “I’m going to find a place to test some scales. It’s nothing, you guys keep chatting.” After she finished, as Dong Huaci hesitantly let go, Zhong Qing walked out the door without looking back, followed by the gazes of everyone in the room.

The air pressure on the rooftop was low, and the moon was bright. Zhong Qing tried a few notes, but none of them satisfied her. The score was fragmented, just like the thoughts in her head. When she heard the door open and turned around, Dong Huaci was already standing alone not far behind her.

“What are you doing?” Zhong Qing spoke in Shanghainese, but her tone wasn’t as sharp as usual.

Dong Huaci also spoke in her own local dialect, knowing Zhong Qing was most vulnerable to that: “I can feel that you’re unhappy.”

Zhong Qing lowered her feet and patted the spot next to her, signaling for Dong Huaci to sit. It’s worth noting that the spot Zhong Qing chose this time was much safer, a normal seat several paces away from the edge of the rooftop. Dong Huaci sat down obediently, leaning close to her. Zhong Qing asked, “Are you finished with them?”

“Finished with what?” In some ways, Dong Huaci was both naive and perceptive. “I’m not that close to them anyway. It was about time to see them out.”

Zhong Qing gazed at her and suddenly switched to a very lyrical tone—perhaps even excessively so: “Are you happy today?”

“I am. But why are you unhappy?” Dong Huaci grew bold and gazed back at her. In Dong Huaci’s eyes, she and Zhong Qing were equals. Both of them felt this natural sense of equality. Although Dong Huaci wasn’t as good at dancing, didn’t have as many fans, lacked seniority, and didn’t have a good background, this sense of equality became one of her unique strengths. “Is it because they were too loud for you?”

No, it’s that I suddenly don’t want you to be liked by anyone else.

Zhong Qing’s feelings were complex. Naturally, she couldn’t say those words. She couldn’t say that in this month of living together day and night, she had grown used to Dong Huaci being weaker than her, being taken care of by her, clinging to her, and always seeking her out. After Dong Huaci’s first performance, she suddenly had a premonition: Dong Huaci had stepped onto a career path that was nearly untouchable for ordinary people. It was hard to say whether it was a blessing or a curse, but for Dong Huaci, under the light of this path, it would be impossible to choose any other way. It was like a guidance of fate. For ninety-nine percent of people, they struggle in obscurity, neither hot nor cold, but Dong Huaci might truly live up to her name. This was Zhong Qing’s intuition.

The night wind brushed against her face. Amidst this surge of emotion, Zhong Qing continued to gaze at Dong Huaci, suddenly struck by a second intuition: Dong Huaci would bring her great sorrow and great joy. She had that power, and she would have that destiny. The subject of the former power was Dong Huaci, but the power behind the latter destiny was uncertain. Perhaps it was Dong Huaci, perhaps it was Zhong Qing; it was precisely because they could both easily fit into that “she” that fate seemed extra-extraordinary.

During the minutes of Zhong Qing’s silence, Dong Huaci also seemed to be waiting for something, looking up at her. Until that gust of wind passed, she reached out, as if possessed, and brushed Zhong Qing’s hair.

Then, she embraced her.

This embrace was different from the first one. Dong Huaci drew close to Zhong Qing with an unquestionable posture, ear to ear, then tilting her face slightly, eye to eye, nose to nose. Finally, after sensing no resistance from Zhong Qing—but rather a deepening of her breath—under the witness of the moon, Dong Huaci closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed her lips against Zhong Qing’s.