GV – Chapter 91

The premiere of Huan Le Song arrived as scheduled. Before this, all sorts of news, both old and new, about the film’s director had stirred up a storm of public opinion online. Paired with photos of her often dressed in black with a cold expression, everyone tacitly agreed that this young director was probably a fierce woman, even if no one said it outright.

However, this fierce woman had shot a particularly light and gentle film. Its cinematic language was full of—it felt so strange to say the word—love.

The moment the movie ended, amidst the applause of the entire audience, Director Song’s steely demeanor once again shattered people’s baseless fantasies about her. She stood on stage as rigid as an iron sculpture, making people worry that her sharp edges might injure the actors around her.

She was probably lost in thought, her perfunctory answers to various questions so obvious it was awkward.

“Director Song, do you have any plans for a new film?”

“Ah, no.”

“Director Song, what are your box office predictions for this film?”

“As long as it doesn’t lose money.”

“Director Song, do you have any explanation for the recent controversies?”

“No.”

In the end, Song Zhiqing simply stated that she was mentally drained from overworking on the film and left the stage early.

The lie was so transparent that no one had the heart to expose it, so Song Zhiqing was able to leave in a grand fashion.

But after leaving, she had no idea where to go. The process of making this film—the shooting, the post-production, the final cut—had been fulfilling. But now, as it was being pushed out to be sold as a cultural commodity, she felt a sense of loss.

Like a mother watching her child go out into the world to make a living.

Song Zhiqing didn’t know how to be a mother, so she fled the scene, driving around aimlessly, from the warm lights of countless homes to the dazzling neon of the city’s nightlife.

Thinking about the film, she realized there wasn’t much true self-creation in it. It was just the story of her and “Song Zhiqing.”

A world-weary girl who intended to save the villainess got together with the villainess.

But the reason it could be considered a happy story was that it didn’t show the second half: the world-weary girl was the villainess herself.

It was too ridiculous, too unsettling.

It felt like walking down a lightless alley, gloomy and oppressive, each step weighing her down further.

Like the audience, Song Zhiqing also liked the happy first half of the story. That was why, even now, she still hadn’t gone to see Shen Wei.

She couldn’t be bothered to confirm the truth of that story about the reborn true and false daughters. To her, her own world was far more real than this one. Song Zhiqing gave up on walking down this alley, with no intention of exploring whether there was light ahead. She was waiting for the moment she would faint and see stars—then, her fantasy would grant her light.

But, at the same time, she was very lonely. She was tediously biding her time, wearing down her own fragile spirit.

Because she refused to accept this world, Song Zhiqing was unwilling to leave herself any room for retreat. What was originally real, she would make false; what was originally false, she would grant truth.

But she was so lonely.

She had distanced herself from all her friends.

Did Ye Mo think of this day when she decided on the treatment plan? Song Zhiqing couldn’t help but wonder, then clicked her tongue. Ah, why did she suddenly think of her?

Her feelings for Ye Mo were complex—so complex that the moment she realized she was unconsciously thinking of her, she stopped the aimless wandering that had lasted for six hours.

Song Zhiqing glanced out the car window and found herself near a movie theater.

What a coincidence. It should be playing in all the major cinemas by now.

Song Zhiqing parked the car, walked into the theater, bought a ticket, and grabbed a bottle of Coke to cool her hands.

She sat in the last row. Without the noisy crowd and dazzling lights of the premiere, Song Zhiqing rediscovered the simple pleasure of the film itself. Watching the light, shadows, and characters she had deliberately recreated, the hard shell she had built from the fragments of exhaustion and anger gradually fell away. If Ye Mo were here, she would have been shocked to realize that this person had returned to her Ye Yuhuan state.

But, as it happened, Ye Mo was here.

She was sitting in the row in front of Song Zhiqing. It was clearly a sweet, even slightly chuunibyou, teen film, yet she was crying as she watched it.

It was very conspicuous.

So Song Zhiqing noticed her.

It seemed this woman had come to the cinema just to cry. She even had a large pack of tissues prepared on her lap, and a bag by her feet that, Song Zhiqing glimpsed, was more than half full.

She raised an eyebrow slightly, guessing to herself, Heartbroken?

Her brow quickly furrowed. For some reason, that guess made her instinctively unhappy.

Ha, so that was the source of the complexity.

Song Zhiqing inexplicably always felt a sixth-sense-like closeness to Ye Mo, and the possessiveness that this closeness triggered.

If this was a fledgling’s imprinting after waking up, it had been two years. The fledgling should have learned to fly by now.

How strange, she thought. Soon, her head began its cycle of pain—a damnable side effect of the medication—and she stopped thinking.

Leaning her head on her hand, she stopped watching the movie and watched the woman cry instead.

She was quite pretty when she cried.

The movie wasn’t over yet, but Ye Mo had run out of tissues. She was in a dilemma. On one hand, the ending was approaching, and the ending was the only part of the film she couldn’t predict. She had experienced all the events before it. She was curious how Song Zhiqing would arrange the ending—would she reveal the truth, or create a sweet but hollow soap bubble?

On the other hand, as a woman approaching thirty who had spent years in society, Ye Mo had naturally developed certain principles of self-image management. And leaving a movie theater with tears and snot streaming down her face, no matter how you looked at it, was not very dignified.

Just then, a snow-white hand solved her problem. In it was a pack of tissues. Though there weren’t many, it was enough to get her through the next ten minutes.

Mindful of her image, Ye Mo didn’t dare turn around. She just said a grateful “thank you.”

Her voice was still thick with tears.

The hand didn’t move, remaining in her peripheral vision. It exuded a hint of familiarity—no, it was extremely familiar.

Every blue vein, the line of every bone—she had once deeply caressed and felt them all.

Though it was in that dream that felt so close to reality.

Ye Mo whipped her head around.

She saw the protagonist of her story, her head tilted, observing her with great interest. In Ye Mo’s vision, Song Zhiqing’s brown irises, under the dim light of the theater, hadn’t absorbed enough light to become translucent, appearing instead as a mottled black.

Like a vortex, about to suck in someone’s soul.

Ye Mo’s mind roared. “You, what are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that, Dr. Ye, who’s supposed to be on a business trip?”

Being caught in a lie to her face would naturally make anyone squirm, but Ye Mo believed that in her relationship with Song Zhiqing, all the beautiful parts were built on lies. So, her expression didn’t change. “I came back early. Couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night, and I thought of your movie. Since I had to watch it anyway, I figured I might as well do it now.”

Song Zhiqing pointed to the considerable pile of used tissues. “Crying like this?”

Ye Mo stubbornly refused to back down. “Psychologists have very strong empathy.”

“Oh, I see.” Song Zhiqing tapped her chin thoughtfully, then pointed at the big screen. “Then please, continue.”

Interrupted like that, Ye Mo’s intense emotions sank into the earth like a river that had been cut off, vanishing without a trace.

In the movie, the ring was placed on Song Zhiqing’s hand.

Oh, so it’s a soap bubble, Ye Mo thought, both disappointed and satisfied.

Of course, in the movie, Song Zhiqing wasn’t named Song Zhiqing. After all, naming the protagonist after yourself was a form of almost arrogant narcissism.

And outside the movie, Song Zhiqing was no longer Song Zhiqing either. She had lost her disguise, and with it, her right to the name.

Ye Mo gathered her things, handed the unused tissues back to Song Zhiqing, and with a “thank you” that served as a veiled farewell, she stood up to leave.

Song Zhiqing stood up too, following behind her.

Ye Mo tried hard to ignore the footsteps that were too close, but the owner of those footsteps spoke after they left the cinema. “Did you drive?”

“No.”

“Shall I give you a ride home?”

“…No, thank you. I live nearby.”

“Then I’ll walk you home.”

She seemed to be rather insistent.

Ye Mo turned around, putting on her calm mask. “Is there something you need?”

Song Zhiqing’s eyelashes were half-lowered. Because the black of the night was deeper than the black she wore, her dazzlingly beautiful face was not overshadowed by her signature color. Instead, she looked like a jewel on black velvet, making it impossible to look away.

“Nothing. I just don’t want to be alone.”

As if possessed, Ye Mo agreed.

Then, as she walked side by side with Song Zhiqing, she felt as if her hands weren’t her hands and her feet weren’t her feet. Even the summer night breeze began to feel bone-chilling. She walked to her apartment building in a state of near agony.

Just as she had said, Song Zhiqing was merely walking her home. She didn’t say a word the entire way, maintaining an expression that, to Ye Mo, seemed profoundly inscrutable.

The ordeal was about to end, and Ye Mo breathed a sigh of relief. She really didn’t know how to interact with Song Zhiqing outside of her role as a psychologist, but putting on a doctor’s airs when someone was walking you home was just too pretentious.

“Thank you for walking me here. Good night.”

“And, the movie was very good.”

Song Zhiqing was acting very strangely tonight. At this point, they had no connection other than their doctor-patient relationship. But she glanced at the shadow of a tree by the streetlight, as if she had gleaned some truth from it, and then said, “I haven’t eaten in half a day. I’m very hungry.”

Ye Mo swallowed and suggested softly, “Then you should find a restaurant to eat at?”

“I’m very hungry,” Song Zhiqing emphasized.

Ye Mo was going crazy. What was all this?!

“I can’t cook.”

“It’s fine. I can.”

And so, Song Zhiqing followed Ye Mo into her home.

Ye Mo’s home had a lot of books.

And almost as numerous as the books were all sorts of dolls.

Seeing Song Zhiqing give her the exact same look she had in the movie theater while watching her cry, Ye Mo’s scalp tingled.

What on earth did it mean?!

She walked quickly to the refrigerator and opened it. Inside, there was nothing but snacks and fruit.

Ye Mo fell silent. She pulled out a few bags of instant noodles and some luncheon meat, and before Song Zhiqing could speak, she preempted her, “I can’t cook, this is all I have in the house. Everything else is too cold, and eating it this late isn’t good for your stomach.”

“This is fine.”

Song Zhiqing took the food. Her fingers accidentally brushed against Ye Mo’s, startling her so much that she immediately pulled her hand back.

Song Zhiqing looked at her in surprise. Ye Mo smiled and ignored her gaze, saying, “I’ll go cut some fruit for you.”

But she walked away without taking any fruit.

Then she came back to get it.

“Hahaha.”

Ye Mo let out an awkward laugh as she squeezed past Song Zhiqing, who was still standing by the fridge. She held a watermelon in one arm and grabbed two dragon fruits with her other hand, walking resolutely to the kitchen.

Of course, the moment her back was turned, she desperately wanted to hide.

Song Zhiqing… has she figured something out?!

Song Zhiqing… had indeed figured something out.

For example, Ye Mo’s walking posture was also very similar to “Song Zhiqing’s.”

In just half a month, she had found three similarities. So why hadn’t she noticed any in the previous two years?

Song Zhiqing lowered her eyes in thought.

Then, she thought she had found the answer.

In the kitchen, Song Zhiqing was cooking noodles while Ye Mo cut fruit. Steam billowed between them. In that moment, Song Zhiqing said, “Are you deliberately imitating Song Zhiqing?”

Her voice was as calm as if she weren’t exposing a malicious deception, but rather proclaiming the doctrine that the world would eventually end. “Dr. Ye, taking an unorthodox approach doesn’t mean you should go this far. Besides, I wouldn’t advise you to sacrifice yourself to save someone who has nothing to do with you.”

As she spoke, the knife slipped and cut Ye Mo’s hand. Blood flowed out—red, but it blended in quite well with the red flesh of the watermelon and the red-hearted dragon fruit. Ye Mo pressed down on the wound, the corners of her mouth drooping helplessly.

She tried her best to control the muscles around her eyes. Ah, could one even control the muscles around their eyes? Never mind, it didn’t matter. The most important thing was not to cry.

Explaining would be too much trouble.

What if Song Zhiqing asked her again why she cried like “Song Zhiqing”?

Ye Mo tried to remind herself: She is a patient, and she is my patient, so don’t get angry.

“I’m no longer your attending physician.”

And so, Ye Mo’s deadlock was broken.

Song Zhiqing’s world, too, had reached its end.