I Hate You
Lu Ling quickened her movements without looking up. “There’s ice water in the fridge. The room temperature is in the kitchen cabinet.”
Before Lin Que could speak, Lu Ling had already finished her part of the task with lightning speed and left the room without a backward glance.
“Did I… get ugly?” Lin Que looked at Chu Man and asked, “Why did she look like I scared her off?”
Chu Man: “…” “You can go and ask the person involved directly.”
The realization dawned on Lin Que. “Oh, right.”
Chu Man: “…”
She looked toward Xie Qizhi, wanting to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat at the last second.
Xie Qizhi glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”
Without concrete evidence, anything she said would just be hearsay—no different from her previous posts on Weibo. Chu Man wouldn’t allow herself to make the same mistake twice.
“Nothing.”
Chu Man breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the kitchen. “Since I didn’t help with the cooking, I’ll do the dishes!”
Xie Qizhi didn’t stand on ceremony. Stepping aside, she thought of something and said, “We can divide the labor like this from now on.”
“The person who cooks doesn’t wash the dishes, and the person who washes the dishes gets to choose whether or not to join the cooking phase.”
Hearing this, Chu Man remarked in a half-joking tone, “It sounds like the person washing the dishes has more freedom of choice.”
Mo Li, who had already reached the second floor, couldn’t help but chuckle upon hearing this. Raising her voice to “spoil the fun,” she said, “A choice only truly exists if you have the right to choose neither. Besides, what kind of choice is washing dishes?”
“You can’t put it that way—”
Bang—
Before Chu Man could finish, Mo Li slammed her door.
The force was so great that the house seemed to shudder.
“That temper…”
Chu Man looked at Xie Qizhi, who simply smiled and shrugged with an air of indifference.
The staff members remaining in the living room also lowered their heads, acting as if nothing had happened.
Bizarre.
The tension between these two was utterly bizarre.
By the Shore
“You seem very afraid of me, Youyou.”
By the sea, Lu Ling stood sideways, gazing at Lin Que, her lips trembling.
She should have been thinking of a rebuttal, but her attention was uncontrollably drawn to that black necktie. The tie around Lin Que’s neck hung loosely against her collarbone; the marks beneath it looked like ruined camellia flowers rotting on the ground after a heavy rain.
Under the night sky, the seawater—its color indistinguishable—stacked and rose in layers.
Lin Que took a step forward, and Lu Ling was once again completely enveloped in her shadow.
Lu Ling instinctively wanted to take a step back, but Lin Que reached out first, catching her sleeve.
“No, it’s not fear,” Lin Que shook her head to herself, looking up into Lu Ling’s eyes again. “It’s avoidance.”
“You are avoiding me,” Lin Que let go of her hand and took a step back. “Why? Does my presence make you uncomfortable?”
Lu Ling shook her head.
“Then why avoid me?”
Lin Que watched her calmly, waiting for an answer with immense patience.
Lu Ling’s hanging hands clenched and then relaxed. It wasn’t avoidance, and it wasn’t fear—then what was it?
Like a ball of cotton soaked through with water, it filled every crevice of her brain, preventing her from thinking of an answer.
Gradually, a sourness seeped out, corroding her veins and flesh, flooding her mouth and eyes. She was being hollowed out bit by bit. At the moment the last pulsing vein was kicked loose, she suddenly reached out and gripped Lin Que’s wrist tightly.
“It’s not that.”
Her voice was tiny, nearly a whisper, her whole body swaying slightly with the howling sea breeze.
Lin Que looked down at her; she had heard it.
“It’s not that.”
Lu Ling looked up, her eyes like washed obsidian staring at Lin Que. The moon also peeked over the horizon, observing the two of them with both tenderness and cruelty.
“Lin Que, in the whole world,” Lu Ling said word by word, the strength in her hand slowly draining away, “in the whole world, I hate you the most.”
Lin Que looked down at the red marks on her wrist that had yet to fade.
Lu Ling had said this many times. It seemed to be the truth.
“What am I going to do then?”
Lin Que reached out, gently cupping Lu Ling’s face, and said one word at a time: “But I like you the most.”
The night breeze intensified without warning. The waves lapped at their bare toes one after another, and their wet pant legs clung to their calves—warmly. The seawater of a spring night acts as a safe for the day’s sunlight.
Lin Que took a step forward and leaned in. Two cool lips, like fine rain falling on a spring night, landed on her lips and vanished instantly.
On the beach, their shadows were stretched infinitely long, intertwining and tangling as they embraced and kissed.
The Genius Label
“…She is a genius, don’t you think?”
Shen Yuchu, who was currently frowning at her computer, heard this and looked at Lin Que, hesitating to speak.
In the end, she gave up on debating with Lin Que and nodded perfunctorily. Arguing with Lin Que on this matter was meaningless. Ever since a certain summer years ago when Lin Que first reached this conclusion out of nowhere, the phrase “Lu Ling is a genius” had become like a time bomb, exploding now and then.
Shen Yuchu found it hard to agree, but it was tedious to argue the point with Lin Que.
The kiss had tasted of mint.
“You will definitely go into music.” Lu Ling’s shoulders stiffened as she slowly looked up. In her hazy vision, she could feel Lin Que watching her. Lin Que’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word was incredibly certain—so certain that Lu Ling felt it was a mockery of her current self. “I don’t know when this thought started. After you moved away, the idea became even stronger in my mind. I did the magazine shoots—ROSE&GUN and FEVER—with this thought in mind, and they proved I wasn’t wrong. You are a genius, Youyou.”
Lu Ling didn’t answer. She kept her head down in silence, hands clenched at her sides, as if she hadn’t heard clearly.
Lin Que frowned and repeated, “You are a genius. I’m sure of it.”
“What right do you have to be sure? Who are you, and what am I!”
Lu Ling suddenly pushed her away, and Lin Que’s image became sharp.
She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Genius”—what a piercing and ironic word.
“Am I an object? Must I have a price tag like ‘genius’ before I can be put on a shelf?” Lu Ling couldn’t tell what she was venting; she was simply lashing out.
She tore open the side of herself she was most terrified of having recognized, right there in front of Lin Que, bloodily.
The Lu Ling who would go as far as denying herself just to refute Lin Que’s perspective reappeared in her body. “What right do you have to stand here and say these things, as you know me so well? Is my inner self, my soul, transmitted to you through the blood you sucked?”
Lin Que didn’t answer. She stared fixedly at Lu Ling, the emotions in her eyes dark. Was it pity?
Lu Ling’s chest heaved. She glared at Lin Que’s flawless face, and suddenly, Lin Que’s face began to distort.
Like skin accidentally touched by a retouching tool, it stretched and sank; her features smoothed over and vanished. Then they protruded again—the brows, the bridge of the nose, the mouth.
Blurred, then clear.
Finally, what appeared before her was a face identical to her own.
Was this another special ability of a vampire?
She drew closer, nearer and nearer.
The mint fragrance grew intense, rushing into her nostrils and filling every void in her body.
The kiss fell again.
Lu Ling cooperatively closed her eyes.
Rest. Yes, she needed rest.
She needed the duration of a dream to figure out everything regarding music, herself, and Lin Que.
Late Night Whispers
“Creak—tap—Bang!”
In the living room, Ren Hui whipped her head around. Silence, save for the curtains fluttering in the sea breeze.
Ji Yao’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did you see a ghost? Is she sitting on the stairs or the windowsill?”
“No,” Ren Hui turned her head, glancing at the staircase out of the corner of her eye. “Didn’t you hear that? The second floor.”
Ji Yao let out a breath and looked at her earnestly. “You should consider going into the horror film genre. It really suits you, honestly.”
Ren Hui glared at her. “Crazy.”
Ji Yao smiled and said, “I’m serious. If you stop filming variety shows, being a film director would be good. Just now, that bit—expand on it, what a perfect start to a horror story—”
“Xiao Yao, I’m not as great as you think.” Ren Hui looked down, the exhaustion in her voice impossible to hide. “I actually have no idea if NEXT will succeed in the end. Theoretically, it must succeed; the guest lineup alone should decide that. But what about afterward? I’m not sure, I’m really not sure.”
Ji Yao paused.
Ren Hui looked down and smiled, her fingers interlaced. This was the first time since the show’s preparation began that she had explicitly expressed uncertainty.
“When I decided to change careers, I actually hesitated. When we were filming Wild Berries, I also wondered if life would be better if I hadn’t made that choice. At least you wouldn’t be following me into this mess—if I hadn’t, you’d probably be about to finish your PhD by now, right?”
“Stop right there—”
Ji Yao sucked in a breath and said seriously, “I’m not as great as you think, either. Even if I got in, I wouldn’t have the confidence to graduate on time without an extension.”
Ren Hui beamed. “Xiao Yao, you can do it.”
“Then,” Ji Yao pulled back her smile and looked at Ren Hui, “Ren Hui, you are exactly as great as I think you are.”
Wild Berry Growth was the first show where Xie Qizhi served as producer and the first show where Ren Hui served as assistant director.
A show involves many interested parties; it’s common to make a whole meal just for a side of vinegar. To her and Xie Qizhi, NEXT was a battle they had to win.
She had to use it to prove that doing the right thing seriously wouldn’t lead to starvation.
Ji Yao looked down for a long time before looking back into her eyes. “Ren Hui.”
Ren Hui tilted her head, and Ji Yao leaned in.
“Click—”
The two immediately pulled apart, looking toward the stairs in unison.
“The second floor?”
“Yeah.”
Ji Yao stared at the stairs, her eyes dark, her nose sniffing slightly. A faint woody scent drifted in the air.
It was very familiar.
It wasn’t Lin Que, and it certainly wasn’t Lu Ling. Those two had likely fallen asleep without incident.
“Slap—”
The two looked up again.
“That was from the second floor, right?”
Ji Yao leaned back against the sofa, nodded, thought for a moment, and added, “It should be Sister Xie’s room.”
“Sister Xie? Then it’s fine.” Ren Hui breathed a sigh of relief.
Ji Yao looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Ren Hui gave a sheepish smile and said good-naturedly, “Sister Xie is a very open-minded person. And what era is this! Parthenogenesis has been popularized for how many years? Who would still—”
Ji Yao chuckled, looked at her, and interrupted: “I think Sister Xie might be in a bit of trouble.”
“Huh?” Ren Hui was stunned.
Ji Yao reached out and pinched her earlobe.
“That wasn’t Sister Xie just now.”
“It was her nemesis.”