Her tone was obedient and polite, showing no hint of resentment for Rulian’s earlier cold command to “get out.”
Fang Rulian kept her head down, leaning against the door as if she could hardly remain standing. She tried her best to keep her voice flat and calm. “Not yet. What’s wrong?”
“You left your power bank in the living room, Sister. I brought it to you.”
Outside the bedroom door, Fang Zhiniang leaned against the wall, her shoulder blades pressing against the greyish-white surface. In one hand, she held the power bank that served as her excuse; with the other, she traced the side of her neck where her sister’s breath had just set her skin ablaze.
She heard the soft padding of footsteps inside the room and the hurried rustle of a wardrobe being opened, the vibrations muffled by the door against her back.
“Just leave it on the living room table! I’ll come get it in a bit!”
The window had been left open again. Rulian’s voice was thinned out by the noisy traffic outside, forcing her to speak louder, which gave her voice a strangely lingering raspiness.
The door remained tightly shut.
Fang Rulian felt a sudden sense of trance, as if she were physically barring Zhiniang from her life.
In their past life, after they had become entangled, Rulian had always been eager to show Zhiniang everything. There were rarely times when she shut her out. Most of the time, she wouldn’t close the door when changing or showering; she’d even wander out halfway through a bath just to tease Zhiniang, who would be reading in the living room.
The result of such teasing was usually Zhiniang turning red with indignation, grumbling about her clothes getting wet while she crossly dragged the slippery, loach-like Rulian back to the bathroom.
Steam would instantly fill their vision. Rulian would grab the hand that had just let go of her, hooking her leg to kick the glass door shut with a “click,” blocking Zhiniang’s exit.
She would smile at Zhiniang with the look of a successful prankster. “See? You came in yourself.”
Arms like water snakes would wind around Zhiniang’s shoulders, squeezing until her breath hitched, nearly suffocating. Rulian would lean in to kiss her, her voice like a ghost: “Is it only your clothes that are wet?”
…
The first time she had truly shut Zhiniang out was after the assault scandal hit the trending searches, leading to her public apology and retirement.
To this day, Rulian didn’t think she was wrong for hitting that person. That so-called apology was merely a negotiation tactic to lower her contract termination fee to the minimum.
During that time, she was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Her temper was so volatile that everyone looked like an enemy—she wanted to hit the hypocrites at the agency and kick every dog that passed her on the street. She went mad at the office without restraint, making a hideous scene. Finally, her long-time manager, unable to watch any longer, stepped in to negotiate with the executives, bringing the penalty down to an amount she could afford. In exchange, she bowed her head and apologized.
Without a job, she didn’t want to go out. She stayed home all day. Strangely enough, while she was a maniac at the office, she was docile at home.
Both their mothers were gone. Zhiniang was still a student and very busy, only returning at night. In that massive house, Rulian was alone, the space feeling as empty as a haunted mansion.
Rulian became eerily quiet. She woke up early to read, sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows to soak in the sun, and began learning to cook from online tutorials. She made beautiful but terrible-tasting meals, waiting for Zhiniang to return in the evening.
Zhiniang came home earlier than she expected. She would praise the food for looking pretty and bring small gifts—sometimes a bright bouquet of sunflowers, sometimes odd little trinkets, and occasionally thank-you letters from patients at the hospital.
Zhiniang would hold them out to her carefully, eyes curving into crescents, asking if she liked them. Upon receiving a nod, Zhiniang would smile and gently tell her about the interesting things that happened that day.
As the city lights filtered through the glass, Rulian would sit cross-legged on the floor, observing her little gifts with great seriousness. Before long, she’d hear Zhiniang ask: “Sister, do you want to go for a walk tomorrow?”
Rulian would lean against Zhiniang’s legs, staring at the toy in her hand with a beaming smile. “No, I’m lazy.”
A heavy shadow would loom over her, blocking the sterile white light from the ceiling. Zhiniang’s falling hair would tickle her; she’d giggle and try to turn her head away.
In the next second, her cheeks would be tenderly cupped. Zhiniang would lower her head, her nose brushing against Rulian’s cool tip.
Rulian’s palms were wet; she was clearly crying.
Yet she made no sound. Her eyes remained curved, her lips fixed in a perfect, beautiful arc. Only her glistening pupils reflected Zhiniang’s reddened eyes.
Her sister’s pitiful tears fell onto her face with a heavy sound, like rain hitting a window—patter, patter—melting Rulian’s heart.
After a long silence, she reached up to poke Zhiniang’s cheek. “Is my cooking really that bad? You’re crying like this.”
Her finger was caught after two pokes.
With a slight tilt of her reddened nose, Zhiniang suppressed a sob in her throat and leaned down to kiss her.
Softness against softness, an embrace where even their breaths merged. Rulian tilted her head back, looking at the ceiling lights through the gaps of Zhiniang’s hair.
Cold. Without warmth.
The light stung her eyes, so Rulian closed them, throwing herself wholeheartedly into the soft kiss.
Zhiniang’s scent enveloped her, permeating every pore. She tasted the salty tears on Zhiniang’s face and laughed softly. Before the laugh could end, it was swallowed by Zhiniang, stirred back into Rulian’s teeth.
Zhiniang rarely initiated kisses, much less embraces. Rulian thought through her gasps: Zhiniang is such a good child.
A flash of agony crossed her face. Zhiniang is such a good child.
Love is a source of pleasure; the more painful it is, the more pleasurable it becomes.
She trembled under Zhiniang’s deliberate provocations. Her hair splayed across the floor mat. A flush rose on Rulian’s cold, pale face, as vivid as peach blossoms. Every shiver caused by the brush of Zhiniang’s hair against her neck seemed to pull directly at her heart.
Her ragged breathing turned into intermittent gasps. A white mist blurred Rulian’s vision, and whimpers escaped her throat. She called out like a pouting child: “It hurts…”
It didn’t really hurt. How could it?
But Zhiniang stopped.
Feeling as though she were suspended in mid-air with no rescue, Rulian restlessly shifted her body, actively pulling Zhiniang back to continue the waves that were crashing against her consciousness.
…
The pleasure passed, and the pain followed.
She gasped in a daze while Zhiniang held her damp body, licking from her chest to her neck like a puppy. Rulian loved this kind of comfort; she tilted her head back to make it easier for her.
Until Zhiniang’s lips moved to kiss her again. A sharp, piercing ringing suddenly shrieked in Rulian’s ears, stabbing through her brain and piercing her chaotic thoughts.
She remembered something far too late and jerked her head away.
“Gag—”
She pushed away Zhiniang’s support, staggering to her feet and covering her mouth as she ran to the bathroom. But her legs were too weak; she fell back into Zhiniang’s arms before she could make it.
Zhiniang hooked an arm around her waist and steadied her trembling shoulders, practically carrying and dragging her into the bathroom.
Rulian gripped the toilet and vomited until the world went dark. She vomited until her strength was gone and her stomach ached from being empty.
Her damp bangs stuck to her cheeks. She knelt before the toilet, gasping, weakly commanding Zhiniang to stay away. Then, with a peripheral glance, she noticed the ambiguous red marks on her body.
Those marks were exceptionally piercing against her pale skin, burning slightly with a secret sting, like a reading of her crimes. Her stomach churned again; she leaned over once more, dry-heaving until it felt like her bile would come up.
She didn’t dare look back. She simply flushed the toilet with trembling fingers and weakly told Zhiniang to change the rug in the living room and mop the floor.
Zhiniang didn’t move. “I’ll do it in a bit.”
Rulian closed her eyes. When she turned around, a perfect smile was back on her face, her voice intentionally light. “It seems my cooking really is terrible—not even edible. I have no talent for that.”
She was lying. She hadn’t eaten a single bite of dinner.
“Go out and clean up. The smell will get bad if you wait.” She maintained her breezy tone, waving her hand toward the door. “I want to take a shower.”
She stood under the spray, scrubbing the marks on her body with near-masochistic intensity. The hot water turned her skin red. Wherever her fingers passed, angry welts rose, nearly oozing blood. Those intimate marks were finally buried under more shocking swelling, looking like the result of torture.
Yet, Rulian felt a strange sense of peace.
She dried herself quickly and retreated to her room. The “click” of the lock was exceptionally crisp. Pressing her back against the door, Rulian slowly slid to the floor, not even noticing her towel falling away.
The forced calm finally disintegrated.
Pain rose like a tide, quickly drowning her. She stumbled toward the bed, sinking into the soft duvet, curling into a ball like a wounded animal to find a shred of security.
Knock, knock, knock.
She heard Zhiniang knocking, the anxious calls of “Sister” boring into her ears… but she truly had no strength left to piece together a functional expression to deal with the innocent, sincere sister outside.
In the past, she was always the one knocking on Zhiniang’s door, waiting for her to come out or forcing her way in. This was the first time she remained silent, escaping, shutting Zhiniang out.
She slept poorly that night—or rather, she didn’t sleep at all. Her consciousness tore between stupor and clarity. By dawn, her temples throbbed, but her thoughts were abnormally clear. Her body felt injected with a morbid excitement—like the final burst of energy before death.
She suddenly wanted to sit in the living room and soak in the sun. She got up and pulled open the bedroom door, only for something to roll onto her foot.
It was Fang Zhiniang.
Zhiniang sat up on the floor, bleary-eyed, looking up at her. After a second or two, she seemed to wake up and suddenly reached out to hug Rulian’s calf tightly.
Rulian’s head throbbed. She shook her head and looked at Zhiniang in disbelief. “You stayed outside the door all night?”
Zhiniang didn’t answer. She just pressed closer to her, her grip on Rulian’s leg tightening. “I’m sorry… Sister.”
Why are you saying sorry… Rulian’s vision blurred. She suddenly wanted to laugh. She was clearly the one who should be saying sorry.
She reached down to pull Zhiniang up, only to hear her gasping for breath, saying through tears: “Sister, let’s go see a psychologist… okay?”
…
It wasn’t that long ago, yet when Rulian thought back on it, it felt like another lifetime.
She thought for a moment and corrected herself: It truly is another lifetime.
She picked out a random set of clothes from the wardrobe. In her heart, she thought: Back in that summer after Zhiniang’s exams, when I first had those delusions about the sister I raised, I should have seen a doctor then.
Her phone buzzed. Rulian glanced down; it was a reminder for her high-speed train departure.
Opening the door and scanning the living room, she didn’t see anyone. Just as she wondered where Zhiniang went, a weak “Sister” came from near her feet.
The girl was squatting by the door, looking up with a faint smile in her clear eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Ready.” Rulian reached out to pull her up. “Don’t just squat anywhere. There are plenty of places to sit in this house; it’s unseemly.”
Zhiniang had been thin since childhood and often lacked energy, so she liked to squat. Mu Yunshu had scolded her countless times for it, and the house was never short on iron supplements, but Zhiniang just couldn’t break the habit.
A cool palm pressed into her own. With a tug, the girl stood before Rulian like a painting, her features bright and elegant.
“Power bank.” Rulian held out her hand, checking Zhiniang’s complexion. “What were you doing squatting by the door? Did you skip breakfast? Low blood sugar?”
“I ate.” Zhiniang handed over the power bank. “I had something to tell you. I was afraid you’d leave if I wasn’t careful.”
Rulian turned to put away the power bank. In her memory, the eighteen-year-old Zhiniang was rarely this clingy. She couldn’t help but smile. “Go ahead, what is it?”
Zhiniang leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head to watch Rulian’s back. “If I want to go to Lüwei City to play, can I find you?”
“Of course.” Rulian put on her bag and began wheeling her suitcase out.
As she passed Zhiniang, a soft “Sister” stopped her. She instinctively turned her head. The light was dim; the girl leaned against the wall, her gaze fixed straight on her.
The suitcase stood between them. They weren’t close, but for some reason, meeting those bright black eyes made Rulian lose herself for a moment.
I’ve lost my composure more than once these past few days, she thought numbly. She turned her gaze back. “Anything else?”
Zhiniang smiled and shook her head. “No.”
Rulian: “…”
The suitcase wheels rumbled, and the high-speed train roared past.
Rulian stared at the scenery blurring past the window, her chin resting on her hand as she thought of the past.
Later, Zhiniang had taken her to a psychologist, but Rulian didn’t believe she was sick. She resisted treatment and refused to confess the truth. During consultations, her answers were perfunctory. The doctor couldn’t glean much, only roughly knowing her identity; he suggested she look at fewer negative comments online and go out more. Finally, he prescribed some sleeping pills.
She didn’t want Zhiniang to worry. Aside from going out for sun, she followed the orders diligently—avoiding online discussions, reading more, exercising, and trying her best to look cheerful.
She roughly knew where the “illness” lay, so she deliberately avoided contact with Zhiniang, especially physical intimacy. They began to live like a pair of supportive sisters again, without the transgressive kisses or lovemaking.
In her idle time, she would clean the house, ask Zhiniang to buy simple flowers on her way home, and resume making beautiful but bad meals. Learning her lesson, she made very little—one bite each and it was gone—the real meals were takeout or groceries Zhiniang bought.
She began to forget the pain of that incident. She no longer had to force a smile. But perhaps she was just naturally difficult to tame, or perhaps she simply “forgot the pain once the wound healed,” because she started instinctively drawing close to Zhiniang again.
She was Zhiniang’s last and only family in the world. Naturally, Zhiniang gave her whatever she asked for. Rulian realized this, feeling both pained and shamefully fortunate, yet she refused to let go.
Since it had come to this, it seemed they could only stay together in a muddle.
Forget those things. I only have Zhiniang, and she only has me. There’s no room for turning back.
But when she held Zhiniang’s neck, pressing dense kisses onto her trembling skin, or when she kissed the small mole on the back of Zhiniang’s neck like she used to—disgust and self-loathing arrived before the joy.
It was in that tug-of-war between joy and self-loathing that she walked toward that sea.
Then, unexpectedly, she reached the end of her life.
Perhaps she had done one good thing at the end that redeemed a tiny bit of her sin, so the heavens gave her a chance, rewinding time to before all the mistakes happened.
Sunlight leaked through the window, slanting across the small table in front of her.
Fang Rulian opened her eyes and let out a long, heavy breath.
…
After returning to Lüwei City, she quickly adjusted her state of mind. The very next day, she dove into filming.
A few days later, her wrap-up coincided with the wrap-up of the production next door. Fans were chasing RVs with cameras in a chaotic scene. A swarm of people collided with Rulian; being quick on her feet, she dodged to the side.
In the confusion, a fan holding a phone tripped right in front of her, landing in a position as if she were kowtowing.
Rulian: “…?”
She had moved so far away.
The person who fell was a girl with straight bangs and black-rimmed glasses. When Rulian helped her up, she noticed the glasses were bent.
Fortunately, there were no injuries.
The girl looked toward where the crowd was running, saw the RV was gone, and let out a frustrated “Tsk.” She adjusted her glasses, her gaze landing on Rulian’s face. “Thanks.”
The motion of adjusting her glasses paused. The girl sized Rulian up, asking curiously, “Are you an actress? Which character do you play?”
Rulian figured the girl was mistaken. “I’m just passing by from the production next door.” There was no way to get info on the girl’s idol from her.
The girl nodded and moved aside. “Are you finished for the day and going home?”
Rulian nodded and walked on.
The girl followed beside her. “I’m heading home too. Thanks again for just now.”
“You’re welcome.” Sensing the girl’s constant scrutiny, Rulian didn’t mind—she had been a big star once, after all.
“My name is Xia Shiqi. What’s yours?” Realizing her staring might be rude, the girl looked away. “Um… it’s okay if it’s not convenient to tell me. You’re so pretty, I’ll see you somewhere else sooner or later anyway.”
Rulian smiled and looked at her. “Thank you.”
Lüwei City was much cooler today.
She got off the bus, and before she could even enter the small bistro, her phone rang.
Seeing the caller ID, Rulian hung up immediately. She rounded the bar and sat by the window, looking at the long-haired woman across from her. “Calling every five minutes? It seems you’re really desperate for a drinking buddy.”
Wen Yu looked up and pushed her glasses without speaking. Chen Ran, sitting nearby, laughed. “She’s not desperate for a buddy; she’s desperate for you.”
Chen Ran’s arm was nudged by Wen Yu. “Ouch!” Chen Ran covered her mouth and went silent.
Wen Yu’s black frames reflected the bistro lights. “What are you drinking?” She pushed the drink menu toward Rulian. “Chen Ran will mix it for you.”
“An Aperol Spritz, please.” After telling Chen Ran, she looked at Wen Yu. “Director Wen, did you call because there’s progress?”
“Progress is always moving forward.” Wen Yu handed her a script. “Take a look. What do you think?”
Rulian was surprised the full script was ready so quickly. Wen Yu was a professional director, so her script analysis was naturally more expert—not to mention this movie would win awards in the future.
“I can’t finish it in one sitting. I’ll take it home.” She flipped through a few pages and looked up. “So, when do we start filming?”
She needed to clear her schedule.
“Everything is ready; we’re just waiting for you.” A beautiful drink was placed in front of her. Chen Ran sat down beside her. “When do you wrap up your current project, Miss Fang?”
Seeing her serious expression, Rulian was stunned. “Really just waiting for me? Um… about five more days.”
“It’s not just waiting for you,” Wen Yu explained. “We’re also coordinating other people’s schedules and getting the prep work done.”
The three chatted idly.
Chen Ran suddenly asked, “I’m curious, why don’t you sign with an agency? Then you wouldn’t have to go around auditioning for roles. Don’t tell me no one’s looking for you; I heard Star Ring contacted you.”
Rulian said bluntly, “Isn’t Star Ring famous for being the ‘Northern Myanmar’ of the entertainment industry? I don’t really want to go there.”
“You don’t even want the Star Ring? Then where do you want to go?” Chen Ran was shocked by her audacity and said gleefully, “So many rookies would kill to get into Star Ring. I bet with that face of yours, you could eclipse everyone there. Give you a tiny bit of resources, and you’d take off.”
She couldn’t understand why Rulian insisted on swirling around in these minor roles.
Chen Ran always exaggerated, so Rulian ignored her and continued discussing the movie prep. From the conversation, she got a rough idea of when Wen Yu planned to start. The timing was tight—it would align perfectly with her wrap-up.
….
A few days passed in a flash.
The filming lately had all been morning scenes. Work started before dawn and wrapped just as the sun rose. Rulian dragged her exhausted body back to the rental, took a quick hot shower, and collapsed into bed with her hair still dripping. She fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
When she woke up, she was starving. She curled up and ordered takeout on her phone, then continued lying there spread-eagled.
Before long, the doorbell rang.
That was fast, she thought. She yawned and shuffled to the door. A reflexive “Thanks” was on the tip of her tongue, but her movements froze mid-air as she opened the door.
I must still be dreaming, she thought.
Otherwise, why would Fang Zhiniang be standing outside the door?