In the span of a few short moments, his emotions had soared and plunged like a roller coaster, plummeting to the depths before rocketing into the clouds.
Wen Chaosheng clutched his chest, where his heart still raced out of control. He couldn’t quite calm down yet, and even his legs felt weak and unsteady beneath him.
Xi Zhui’s figure had already disappeared down the corridor. Wen Chaosheng didn’t dare chase after him rashly and instead sank onto the nearest chair.
He pinched his trembling fingertips and accepted the friend request from Xi Zhui.
Ding ding.
Verification passed.
To keep his first greeting from feeling too stiff, Wen Chaosheng sifted through his emoji collection and selected an adorable little avatar bowing politely before sending it over:
【Cute Little Character Bowing Greeting.JPG】
He waited a moment, but Xi Zhui didn’t reply.
Wen Chaosheng had expected as much and felt no discouragement.
Being added back to the man’s private account was already a delightful surprise beyond his wildest hopes.
Wen Chaosheng tapped on Xi Zhui’s unchanging black-gray avatar and found that his WeChat Moments weren’t restricted at all. Every past post was openly visible.
“…”
The sheer surprise left Wen Chaosheng dazed, and he straightened up without thinking.
Xi Zhui wasn’t one for frequent sharing. His Moments over the years numbered barely a dozen—far fewer than his promotional Weibo posts—but these private updates revealed the real him, stripped of his “actor” persona.
Wen Chaosheng pored over every caption and photo with deep appreciation, as if doing so might help bridge the five or six years he’d missed. But as he scrolled, one thing dawned on him—
When they’d been together, Xi Zhui had posted a few subtle Moments that appeared ordinary to outsiders but carried private meaning just for them.
Like that snow bear sculpted in Berlin’s snow, or the fireworks on their first anniversary.
But now, those posts had all vanished.
“…”
Deleted?
Of course. They’d broken up—who kept mementos of an ex? This was perfectly normal for Xi Zhui.
Wen Chaosheng drew a deep breath, forcing down that irrational pang of sadness, and scrolled through the Moments several more times.
He longed to like every single post, but he worried a flood of notifications might disturb Xi Zhui or earn his displeasure.
After agonizing over it, Wen Chaosheng shelved the idea of liking them. Instead, he opted for something more discreet—
He secretly screenshotted every Moment and saved all the photos to his phone’s private album.
That way, even if Xi Zhui ever restricted access or they lost touch again, these screenshots would carry him through several more long, dark nights.
Footsteps echoed from the doorway.
Song Ting walked back in. “Chaosheng, why are you still sitting here? I’ve been waiting downstairs for you forever.”
Wen Chaosheng came back to himself a beat late. “Huh?”
Song Ting caught his bewilderment and prompted him helplessly. “Lao Qin and I are meeting Manager Yang from Hengcheng Scenic Area. It’s nearly dinnertime—you’re not coming with us?”
The production had already dressed the sets for the film’s early scenes, but a few later ones required on-location scouting and scheduling coordination.
Wen Chaosheng was exacting about locations, insisting they align perfectly with his script vision. Many decisions thus needed his personal sign-off.
“I’m coming!” Wen Chaosheng snatched up his backpack. “Cousin, let’s go now. I’ll drive.”
Song Ting took in the genuine eagerness lighting up his face and lifted a surprised brow. “Hit the jackpot or something? You’re in high spirits.”
Wen Chaosheng halted mid-stride. “Am I?”
“You are. Normally you’re always pressing your lips together, looking all brooding.”
Song Ting eyed him with a teasing squint. “See? Your mouth’s ticked up two pixels. You’re smiling.”
“…”
Wen Chaosheng was at a loss for words.
He discreetly smoothed away the telltale curve of his lips and sidestepped Song Ting toward the exit.
…
After the core creative meeting wrapped, Xi Zhui faced extra duties that night: finalizing the makeup and costuming for his role as Yao Yi, plus shooting the film’s character stills.
The team hustled through several outfit trials and the photo session. By the time they called it, it was past eleven.
Xi Zhui climbed into his dedicated van and massaged his throbbing temples. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him.
Xiao Chao handed him a bottle of water right away. “Brother Xi, tough day. Your luggage is already up in the hotel room. Straight back?”
“Yeah.”
Xi Zhui took a couple of sips and gestured with his free hand.
Xiao Chao understood instantly and passed over the phone he’d been safeguarding. “Brother Xi, here. No calls came in the whole time!”
He truly admired Xi Zhui for it—
Over the years, whenever the man took on a filming job, he’d ditch his phone entirely, sealing off all external distractions to immerse fully in the role.
His longest stretch had been two or three months without checking messages or socializing. For true emergencies, the team passed on word.
“Yeah.”
Xi Zhui acknowledged him with a neutral expression.
In reality, his fingers flew across the screen, unlocking it and diving straight into his private WeChat Moments—
Utterly barren.
Not a single red notification dot for likes anywhere.
“…”
Xi Zhui’s expression went utterly flat.
Xiao Chao, beside him, perked up like he’d spotted uncharted territory. “Brother Xi! Weren’t your private Moments set to three days visible? When did you open them fully?”
No mention was fine. Bringing it up only fueled his irritation.
Xi Zhui slanted a glare at the beaming assistant. “None of your business. Such a motormouth.”
“…”
What?
What had he even said?
Xiao Chao took the stray shot with wide-eyed innocence and clammed up.
Four or five seconds later, Xi Zhui asked abruptly, “We get tonight’s stills?”
Xiao Chao replied straightforwardly. “Yep, the studio work group uploaded a bunch of raw shots. Our studio reviews and edits them first.”
Xi Zhui pulled up the 99+ team group and scrolled back.
He selected a raw still he felt captured “Yao Yi” best, drafted a long-dormant Moment, and posted it publicly—
New role.
[Photo]
Barely thirty seconds later, notifications bloomed.
Xia Fengyi struck first and sharpest: “Whoa, what gives? Dropping your role pic out of nowhere? Peacock preening for whose benefit?”
Even Shen Zhaoye, perpetually swamped and scarce, surfaced. He skipped liking or commenting on Xi Zhui’s post, instead replying to Xia Fengyi: Not for us anyway [thumbs-up emoji]
“…”
Pair of nerve-graters.
Irritation mounting.
Xi Zhui inhaled deeply, reining in the impulse to block his two lifelong buddies. He returned to his chat list and retapped the “Little Turtle” avatar.
The fresh chat window stood empty except for that initial greeting emoji.
Earlier, lingering frustration had made him ignore it on purpose. Responding now would smack of contrivance.
The more he mulled, the more vexed he grew. He tapped the chibi avatar and zoomed in for a closer look—
Silly. Clumsy. Eerily reminiscent of Wen Chaosheng.
“…”
Rendered speechless.
Why add a cute emoji to act adorable?
As if he’d buy it.
Xi Zhui scowled in brooding silence, yet his fingers moved on instinct: long-pressing to pull up the full chibi pack series, then snapping up the whole set without a second glance.
—
The production had booked out the entire hotel, with the core team’s floor being the topmost and quietest.
Wen Chaosheng wrapped up with the Hengcheng Scenic Area manager, returned to the hotel, showered immediately, fine-tuned some storyboard frames on his laptop, then checked his phone—and there was Xi Zhui’s fresh Moment.
In the still, Xi Zhui sported a white embroidered dress shirt, fastened to the collar, radiating the austere allure of high-society restraint.
Half-gold wire-rimmed glasses bridged his aquiline nose; his lips curved mildly, but the gaze beneath the lenses gleamed cold and aloof.
A straightforward portrait, yet it matched the script’s Yao Yi to perfection.
“…”
Wen Chaosheng stared, transfixed, a pang of timeless emotion stirring within him—
Once, Xi Zhui had brought the script’s Tang Yu vividly to life before his eyes. Now, he did the same for Yao Yi.
The countless characters he’d dreamed up night after night with Xi Zhui in mind, now incarnated by him—how could that not be a stroke of fortune, a quiet joy?
Wen Chaosheng saved the photo, wavering on whether to like or comment, when Jian Jinzhao’s like and words popped up below:
“Handsome as hell. Nailed the character vibe. Chaosheng’s casting eye never misses.”
“…”
Jian Jinzhao had name-dropped him—the director—boldly in the comments.
Wen Chaosheng froze for two beats, but the mention sparked his resolve. Seizing the moment, he liked the post right after.
Content at last, he let his lips curve as he mused inwardly:
Of course it’s handsome.
Xi Zhui shone in any role.
…
Rather than turn in right away, Wen Chaosheng perched at the foot of the bed and waited in silence until faint sounds stirred in the corridor, followed by a door clicking shut—Xi Zhui must be back from wrap.
Their rooms faced each other directly across the hall.
Reassured, Wen Chaosheng delved into the deepest pocket of his backpack for his meds.
Depression and anxiety had steadily eroded his sleep over the years; now he needed pills every night to force it.
He washed one down with water.
Then he retrieved the jacket Xi Zhui had scorned, rolled it into a compact pillow, switched off the light, and slipped under the covers.
Darkness enveloped the room, but the familiar, soothing scent from the jacket cradled in his arms lingered faintly.
Wen Chaosheng nuzzled the soft fabric a little greedily, fooling himself into believing it was Xi Zhui there beside him as he drifted off. “Good night.”
The medicine’s effects quietly took hold, pulling him into another cycle of empty dreams.
…
Dawn broke abruptly, faint birdsong drifting in from beyond the window.
Wen Chaosheng woke groggily and checked his phone. It was only six o’clock. He had a camera meeting with the crew at ten that morning, leaving him a full four hours.
After gauging the time, Wen Chaosheng didn’t laze in bed as he usually did. Instead, he pushed through the lingering dizziness from the drug’s aftereffects, hurriedly dressing and freshening up before slipping on a mask and heading out the door.
It was still early, and the rest of the crew was fast asleep.
In the first-floor lobby, the manager who had just come on the early shift spotted Wen Chaosheng. “Good morning, Director Wen. You’re up awfully early. Heading out somewhere?”
Wen Chaosheng froze mid-step as he prepared to sneak away, his gaze flickering evasively for a split second. He wasn’t close with the duty manager, but he replied courteously all the same. “Good morning. I’m just going to pick up a few things.”
Without waiting for a response, he darted out the hotel’s side entrance, successfully dodging any further small talk.
…
The minute hand on the lobby clock had swept around three and a half times by the time Wen Chaosheng returned from outside, cradling a bag in his arms.
The hotel manager was still on duty.
He flashed his standard polite smile, ready to greet Wen Chaosheng, but their eyes never met. Wen Chaosheng kept his head down and hurried straight toward the elevators.
“…”
The manager faltered, watching as Wen Chaosheng stepped into the elevator. A flicker of curiosity arose in his mind:
What on earth had he gone out to buy?
It had taken so long, and he had been so secretive about it.
The elevator halted at its floor and the doors slid open.
Wen Chaosheng made his way back to his room door and glanced down at the still-warm item clutched in his hand. After a two-second hesitation, he reached out and rang the doorbell of the room across the hall.
Footsteps sounded promptly from inside. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Mind opening up?”
Wen Chaosheng had been psyching himself up the entire way there, but the moment he spoke, his nerves made his tongue go numb.
The next instant, the door swung open.
Xi Zhui had just rolled out of bed and was still in his pajamas, his features carrying the cool detachment of someone not yet fully awake.
Caught off guard by Wen Chaosheng’s unannounced visit, he paused in surprise, any remnants of sleepiness vanishing from his face. “I thought the script read-through wasn’t until this afternoon.”
Xi Zhui lifted a hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, and quickly schooled his expression into calm composure. “What brings you here this early, Director Wen?”
“It’s nothing major—this—”
Wen Chaosheng thrust forward the item he had traveled far to fetch, glossing over his early start and the effort it had taken. “I passed by this morning and grabbed an extra one. For—for you.”
