Wang Fei messaged the forum moderator, but there was no response. Left with no choice, he checked Weibo and saw that Tang Yuan’s acting had shot to the top of the trending list.

Furious, Wang Fei slammed his keyboard. So, since they couldn’t find anything else to criticize, they decided to attack Tang Yuan’s acting skills?

Although Tang Yuan wasn’t a drama school graduate, she had worked hard to hone her craft after her debut. Her acting might not be award-winning, but it was far from bad.

Suppressing his frustration, he clicked on the video.

The clip showed a scene by the flagpole. Cheng Youran had grabbed Tang Yuan by the collar. After delivering her lines, Cheng Youran let go and raised her hand, as if to slap Tang Yuan.

But before Cheng Youran’s hand even touched her, Tang Yuan clutched her face and stumbled dramatically to the ground, crying out, “Why did you hit me?!”

The previously quiet film set suddenly erupted in chaos. Wang Fei could clearly hear people murmuring things like, “Is she really pulling a stunt like that?” and “Wow, what awful acting…”

At that moment, his teenage fanboy heart shattered into pieces.

In his mind, Tang Yuan had always been the confident, witty gaming streamer who cracked jokes effortlessly during live streams. How could she stoop to something like this?

Staging a fake assault with Cheng Youran.

And failing miserably at it.

Wang Fei slumped in defeat. No wonder the moderator had posted that cryptic update. Maybe he really wasn’t cut out for stanning celebrities after all.

He unfollowed Tang Yuan, left her fan club, and hid all posts related to her from his feed. Then, feeling disillusioned, he opened the single-player gaming section on the forum. Just as he was scrolling aimlessly, a thread title caught his attention:

— “Doesn’t anyone think Cheng Youran and Tang Yuan sound almost identical?”

Wang Fei wasn’t particularly obsessed with voices, but the post intrigued him. He replayed the video out of curiosity.

To his surprise, he noticed something odd. Apart from Tang Yuan’s slight Pingchuan accent, which made her mix up retroflex and non-retroflex consonants, their voices sounded almost exactly the same.

Wang Fei pulled up Cheng Youran’s Baidu profile. From Yucheng, currently living in Donghai City—this matched the information revealed during the livestreams of the struggling streamer trying to make ends meet.

No way.

A startling suspicion crept into Wang Fei’s mind. If this turned out to be true… He suddenly felt his cheeks sting, as if he’d just been metaphorically slapped.

…

After finishing her meal, Cheng Youran received a private message on Bilibili from a fan whose supporter badge had already reached level 17.

[Wang Da Fei]: Poor streamer… Are you… are you Tang Yuan?

Cheng Youran casually replied.

[Struggling Streamer Trying to Make Ends Meet]: Nope 🙂

A few minutes passed without any further response. He was probably having a hard time processing it.

Cheng Youran, now full, set down her chopsticks. Her gaze shifted to Lu Zixiao, whose face looked a bit pale, his brows furrowed in discomfort. She immediately sensed something was off.

“Are you bad with spicy food?” she asked, concerned.

“No,” Lu Zixiao replied, though his expression said otherwise.

Beads of sweat gathered on Lu Zixiao’s forehead as he pressed his lips together and slowly raised his eyes to glance at her.

“Sister Youran, the director is calling you,” Xiao Su said, running in with a script in hand.

“If you’re feeling unwell, make sure to go to the hospital,” Cheng Youran reminded him seriously, her gaze filled with concern.

Lu Zixiao lowered his lashes, lost in thought, and gave a soft “Mm” in response.

Only after hearing his reply did Cheng Youran step out of the RV. The afternoon scene ahead was the one she dreaded most—a crying scene.

Director Zhang Ping, noticing her apprehension, gave her a look tinged with worry and offered a simple word of encouragement: “Good luck.”

The morning scene and the afternoon scene had completely different tones. Even veteran actors sometimes struggled to switch gears so quickly.

If not for the goal of minimizing filming time, the most suitable approach for Cheng Youran would have been shooting the scenes in chronological order, progressing step by step from the beginning of the story to the end.

Yan Junze had arrived even earlier than she did. He sat in a chair, long legs elegantly crossed, script in hand. Noticing her arrival, he lifted his gaze and met hers from across the set.

“Get ready!”

“Action!”

Acting opposite Yan Junze, it was nearly impossible not to get fully immersed in the scene. Cheng Youran rose on tiptoe, looping her arms around his slender neck. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered softly, “Take my place… and live on.”

“There was only darkness in my life,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. “And then I saw a light. It was so dazzling that, at first, I thought it was friendship.”

Instinctively, Yan Junze reached out, as if to embrace her.

“Cut!”

Zhang Ping sighed and reluctantly called for a stop. He walked over to Cheng Youran and asked in a low voice, “Youran, are you having trouble with the crying scene? It’s nothing to be ashamed of—using eye drops is pretty common. I’ve got some in my pocket.”

“I want to try doing it on my own,” Cheng Youran replied, shaking her head.

Zhang Ping nodded. “Alright, let’s give it another shot.”

He returned behind the camera to closely observe her performance. Unfortunately, the same problem arose—she still couldn’t cry on cue.

Xu Chi let out a derisive snort.

Does she really think she’s an actress?

According to his fans, someone like him only needed to look stunning on screen. No one actually cared about acting skills.

As early summer set in, the weather grew increasingly hot. The refreshing breeze that lingered in the morning had turned into scorching waves of heat by the afternoon.

Cheng Youran’s back was almost entirely drenched in sweat, her delicate shoulder blades faintly visible beneath the damp fabric. Yet, she persisted, choosing to redo the scene again and again.

The first time, Xu Chi scoffed.

The second time, he ignored her and casually chatted with others.

…

By the twenty-eighth take, Xu Chi had fallen silent, his expression shifting as he watched Cheng Youran, who seemed tireless and undeterred.

For the first time, he realized something. Though people often mocked him, calling him the “male version of Cheng Youran,” she was nothing like him. Not at all.

“Cut!”

Zhang Ping let out a sigh.

Acting was a brutal craft. Among the younger generation, strong acting skills were rare. For some, it wasn’t that they didn’t want to perform well—it was simply that they lacked the talent.

Some actors won the Best Actor award with their very first film. Others spent their entire lives merely playing versions of themselves.

“Take a break.”

But as he looked at Cheng Youran, her clothes soaked with sweat, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything more.

Cheng Youran accepted the water bottle that Xiao Su handed her and took a couple of sips. She didn’t know what was going wrong. She couldn’t reach the emotional depth of the character, couldn’t find that connection, that resonance.

“Try recalling a memory,” came a sudden voice.

Before she could react, Yan Junze stepped up beside her and pulled her into an embrace. Her head bumped against his chest.

She tried to pull away, but the man gently pressed her head down, his cool, distant voice drifting from above, carrying a hint of detachment.

“Have you never cried in your life? Maybe for family, maybe for friendship… or maybe… for love.”

His voice lingered slightly on those last two words.

“You can try imagining those moments.”

Then, without waiting for her response, he released Cheng Youran and turned away, his movements surprisingly more awkward and uncertain than hers.

“…Thank you,” she said softly.

Cheng Youran bowed to him, feeling as if Yan Junze’s words had cleared the fog in her mind. Suddenly, she seemed to understand how to handle her emotions for the scene.

Yan Junze, however, merely paused, without turning back. His right hand rested over his chest—the spot where she had leaned against moments ago. His heart was burning, and for a fleeting second, he felt dazed.

“Let’s continue.”

After a brief break, Zhang Ping clapped his hands. As his voice echoed through the set, the crew sprang back to action like a well-oiled machine, and every gaze turned toward Cheng Youran.

Including Xu Chi’s.

He didn’t know why he felt nervous for her. Maybe it was because she had already delayed the shoot so much that his own scenes had been pushed to the evening. That’s what he told himself, anyway, to justify the unease stirring within him.

“Action!”

When Zhang Ping gave the cue, he couldn’t help but glance at Cheng Youran. According to the schedule, they were supposed to film at least three scenes that afternoon.

But because so much time had been spent on this one, he wasn’t sure anymore if they’d even manage to wrap up the entire film within a month.

He watched the footage on the camera monitor, breathing heavily. Cheng Youran’s performance was flawless—up until the moment of the embrace.

That hug wasn’t just any hug. It was a pivotal scene where the female lead sacrifices her chance to survive, giving it to the male lead.

And Cheng Youran couldn’t cry.

Zhang Ping sighed in frustration. Unlike an art film, a commercial movie didn’t demand as much emotional depth. The audience would accept slightly exaggerated, theatrical acting.

So, he had only one requirement for Cheng Youran: cry. It didn’t matter if the tears seemed a little fake—if she could just cry, the scene would pass.

But she couldn’t do it.

On-screen, Cheng Youran wrapped her arms around Yan Junze and said softly, “…That light was so dazzling. At first, I thought it was friendship.”

Tears welled up in Cheng Youran’s eyes, but she still didn’t let them fall. Yet, at the exact moment she turned away, a single tear slid silently down her cheek.

Stunning.

The moment was so breathtaking that Zhang Ping momentarily forgot to call “Cut.” That detail—the tear falling as she turned—wasn’t in the script. The script only described the female lead shedding tears after the embrace, which meant that Cheng Youran had improvised the entire moment.

“Perfect! That’s a wrap!” Zhang Ping shouted excitedly. His mind was already set—this scene had to make it into the trailer. Nearly thirty failed takes had led to this one flawless moment, and it was worth every second.

At some point, Lu Zixiao had stepped out of the car. He stood quietly, watching Cheng Youran, his gaze unreadable. When he heard Zhang Ping call “Cut,” his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, and he arched a brow. “Let’s go.”

“…The hug wasn’t necessary, though,” Lu Zixiao murmured softly.

Gao Qiao chimed in with a smirk: “In the original book, it was… a kiss.”

Cheng Youran finally let out a breath of relief, leaning wearily against the ginkgo tree.

Xiao Su was on the verge of tears herself. “Sister Youran, you were amazing! The moment you cried, I couldn’t help wanting to cry too.”

“I just thought of something, and the tears came,” Cheng Youran said, glancing in Yan Junze’s direction.

“What was it?” Xiao Su asked curiously. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted it. Anything that could make Cheng Youran cry on command was probably a heartbreaking memory.

To her surprise, Cheng Youran answered without hesitation.

“I remembered a time when Lu Zixiao confiscated my phone and wouldn’t let me play games. My eyes turned red instantly. Just thinking about it made me want to cry right away.”

Xiao Su: …Well, that truly is… a devastatingly tragic memory.

“Next scene, get ready!” someone shouted in the distance.

The first day on set passed just like that. By the time Cheng Youran got back to the car, it was already 10 p.m. She was so exhausted that she could barely keep her eyes open. After a quick wash, she collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

The next morning, when she woke up, she realized that Lu Zixiao was sick. His complexion looked even paler than the day before, and there was an abnormal flush on his cheeks.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Cheng Youran placed her hand on his forehead and, sure enough, he had a fever. His forehead was burning hot.

“No,” Lu Zixiao replied, his eyes still closed, his voice hoarse.

“I’ll ask Gao Qiao to take you to the hospital,” Cheng Youran said firmly. She no longer trusted Lu Zixiao to go on his own—Gao Qiao was the more reliable option.

“Not going.”

Lu Zixiao shook his head.

Cheng Youran: ……

Considering that he was the patient, Cheng Youran tried to be patient. “You’re sick. You need to go to the hospital if you want to get better. You’re a grown man—I shouldn’t have to explain this, right?”

“I saw you hugging him.”

Suddenly, Lu Zixiao opened his eyes, turned his head, and fixed his dark gaze on her. His expression was unreadable, but—was it her imagination, or was there a hint of grievance in his eyes?

Cheng Youran hadn’t expected him to bring that up. She froze for a few seconds before quickly explaining, “That was just for the scene.”

“Then why didn’t you hug me?” Lu Zixiao muttered sullenly.

=^_^=