Time flew by quickly. After wrapping up his filming work in Guangzhou, Ding Yuxi rushed off to the next production crew, as if stuck in a loop—either on set or on his way to one. Work was always this busy and bustling.
At 25 years old, it was no small feat for Ding Yuxi to have climbed his way to assistant director on a production crew at his age.
But Ding Yuxi still occasionally found things about his job that didn’t quite sit right with him. He wasn’t all that fond of shooting TV dramas, especially idol dramas—what he truly wanted to shoot was films.
As a directing student, who hadn’t dreamed of making a film that would take the world by storm? Unfortunately, reality was cruel. The graduation project The Train, which Ding Yuxi had collaborated on with his classmates, was eliminated in the first round at every exhibition and competition they entered.
But it wasn’t entirely without gains. His mentor, Director Zhang Zui, had discovered him from one of his short films.
Because Ding Yuxi had a knack for capturing people—in his lens, both men and women could showcase their own unique temperament. That was a kind of talent in itself.
For his graduation internship, he started working as a director’s assistant on Director Zhang Zui’s TV drama crew.
In the few years since graduating, the work had been tough, but the rewards were plenty, and he grew quickly. In particular, the idol drama The 1001st Heartbeat he shot under Director Zhang, with its exquisite visuals and stunningly good-looking leads, became the breakout hit modern romance drama of 2019.
Once his name gained recognition, besides Director Zhang Zui’s crew, other production teams would occasionally invite him to serve as assistant director on their shoots. Of course, most of those were still TV drama projects. As for films—there were some, but mostly web movies.
There was no helping it. The moon hung in the sky, but people still had to eat. Ding Yuxi dutifully picked up the sixpence on the ground.
2020 really was a magical year. That year, the female celebrity Ding Yuxi despised, Yu Shuxin, actually skyrocketed to fame through a talent competition show. Well, it wasn’t entirely fame—more like half fame, half infamy. Some people hated her, some loved her, but at least she was no longer a nobody with no name.
On the second day after her group debut, Ding Jiaxin called Ding Yuxi and sobbed her heart out.
“What am I supposed to do, big brother? Yu Shuxin debuted as second place in the group.”
Ding Yuxi had no idea how to comfort his poor little cousin. When someone you view as a rival takes a leap forward in their career while you’re still stuck in place, it stings no matter who you are.
What’s more, at the beginning of the year, Ding Jiaxin had also received an invitation to appear on Youth and You. But when she heard Yu Shuxin was going too—the two of them had already been pitted against each other as a comparison pair on Freshman Year—she knew that if she went on Youth and You, she’d inevitably be compared again.
Ding Jiaxin chose to give it up and went off to the deep mountains to shoot a film instead. It was already the end of September, and she was still up in the mountains feeding mosquitoes.
Life was like that—choices mattered more than effort. And before fate revealed the answer, no one knew whether their choice was right or wrong.
Thinking back to the debut night, Ding Yuxi felt a twinge of guilt. He comforted her, “It’s okay. You’ve already done an amazing job. Shoot the film well, and next year, aim for a Best Supporting Actress nomination.”
Ding Jiaxin knew complaining wouldn’t do any good either. After crying it out to her brother, she felt much better. “Mm! Thanks, big brother. You work hard too—become a big director soon, and make me a big-budget film that sweeps Best Actress at both domestic and international film festivals.”
The two of them spent a good while painting each other grand visions of blockbuster movies and A-list stardom before finally hanging up.
…
Time flew by, and before they knew it, October had arrived. Ding Yuxi was packing up his autumn clothes. Soon he’d be heading to his third film set of the year—still a TV drama project, still a modern romantic idol drama.
Moonlight Waltz.
Starring: Zhouchuan, Yu Shuxin.
Ding Yuxi met Yu Shuxin at the script read-through.
They say fame nourishes a person. Though this year’s explosive rise to stardom had been a storm of both thunder and blood—applause and criticism flying side by side—Yu Shuxin looked to be in good shape entering the production. She already carried the aura of a true star, though she seemed a bit more reserved than before.
Sitting primly in her seat in the conference room, Yu Shuxin had a braid draped over her chest and wore a pink cap. The pink cap made her fair skin and delicate features stand out even more, like a luscious, dewy peach.
Yu Shuxin knew how to handle people. Today, she treated everyone in the room to coffee—after all, when you’re at work, a cup of coffee to perk you up is always welcome.
When the coffee arrived, she and her assistants handed out cups to the crew members.
Ding Yuxi went over to grab one too.
With a radiant smile, Yu Shuxin handed him the iced Americano. “Director Ding, hope we have a great time working together in the coming days! Please take good care of me!”
Ding Yuxi felt a little disappointed—well, not exactly disappointed, just a tiny pang of something. After all, to her, he was just a stranger who’d taken two photos of her.
…
The first photo was of a female celebrity arriving at the airport late at night.
The second photo Ding Yuxi took of Yu Shuxin was in May, at the finale night of Youth and You in Chimelong, Guangzhou.
While in Guangzhou, Ding Yuxi was buried in production work—he’d have happily crammed 32 days into a month of shooting. It was his first time filming a Republican-era drama, so he’d crammed a lot of related knowledge, sometimes staying up after late-night shoots to review historical material.
Zhang Zui was a workaholic to the extreme. Being an assistant director under him was a true trial by fire, and Ding Yuxi felt like he was being ground down to dust.
After wrapping the Republican-era drama, Ding Yuxi wanted to give himself a proper break. As luck would have it, his college classmate was working as a PD on the Youth and You crew, and by a stroke of chance, got him a ticket to the debut night.
The Youth and You invitation—seeing that ticket, Ding Yuxi didn’t know why, but he thought of that Weibo account he’d left dormant for so long: “silence | Yu Shuxin.”
By now, Youth and You had already aired. Calling it a household name might be a stretch, but anyone in the entertainment industry kept a close eye on trends, and most people knew that this year had produced a sweet, coquettish “little drama queen” named Yu Shuxin.
That account of his counted as one of Yu Shuxin’s earliest “veteran-level” fan-station accounts, created right before she entered her first production.
Many new fans who discovered her would use the photo silence had taken—of Yu Shuxin with a cold, aloof expression—to recommend her. The photo was too beautiful, too unique, completely different from her “little drama queen” persona. Fans felt it showcased the versatility in Yu Shuxin, unlocking more styles, so they’d always include that photo in their recommendation posts.
When he logged on today, “silence | Yu Shuxin” had actually surpassed ten thousand followers, with a crowd of people eagerly waiting below, asking when silence would come back and post new photos.
Ding Yuxi scrolled further down, finding fish fans analyzing his camera language and composition techniques. Because he hadn’t updated in so long, there were even fan accounts that mimicked his photography style, specifically capturing cold-faced shots of Yu Shuxin—but alas, they could copy the surface but not the essence.
Combined with the rough-and-tumble of training camp, the occasional aloofness and detachment in Yu Shuxin had become increasingly hard to capture. Whenever she was in front of the camera, she always appeared full of energy and vitality.
silence’s iconic shots were being elevated to legendary status.
Ding Yuxi scrolled a few more pages through the comments, feeling that he might have truly made a mistake.
The cold-faced photos, originally produced by an anti-fan—
Had instead become the ultimate tool for promoting Yu Shuxin.
Ding Yuxi didn’t actually dislike Yu Shuxin all that much. Perhaps because he was now working a job, the love and hate of an adult were muted—he couldn’t muster the energy to hate someone so distant, living behind a screen.
Now his Weibo was filled with fish fans eagerly waiting, leaving comments and private messages asking if he was going to the debut night, whether he was too busy with real life, and offering to send him a ticket if he needed one—just as long as the master could produce iconic shots.
Ding Yuxi: “…”
This was the first time he had so intensely and directly felt that burning, unconditional love fans had for their idol.
The hope that the idol would be seen by more people, and the willingness to contribute their own effort toward that goal.
Ding Yuxi put down his phone and pulled out the DSLR that had been sitting idle for months while he was filming on set.