Saturday night at nine, the inspirational acting competition show On the Screen officially premiered on Fruit TV, with simultaneous streaming on the network’s video platform. The production team had already built hype online, throwing out two hot topics in advance: “Ye Su’s post-baby comeback” and “Lu Lincheng’s wife Liang Yan joins an acting competition.” By the time the show aired, plenty of fans and onlookers were already waiting, TVs and apps open right on schedule.
Watching online meant viewers could follow the live barrage of comments. So at exactly nine, Liang Yan set up her iPad in her apartment, yogurt carton dangling from her lips, her mood tense as she waited for the opening.
The host appeared first to warm applause, exchanged a few pleasantries, then the camera cut to the judges’ panel as a VCR rolled through their resumes and achievements.
The barrage exploded when Ye Su was introduced.
[Ye Su looks stunning tonight! Love the outfit!]
[How is this someone who just gave birth? Her recovery is insane.]
[Yeah, she’s the youngest judge, but she’s holding four Best Actress trophies. Stay mad, haters.]
[A queen with trophies in hand can laugh at the barking dogs.]
…
Liang Yan watched Ye Su’s VCR with open envy. On recording day, she hadn’t even dared to greet her backstage—convinced that a film queen would be impossibly aloof.
The show moved on. After introducing the rules and sponsors, the host finally raised his hand and announced: “Let’s welcome tonight’s first pair of contestants—Liang Yan and Xu Jiafan!”
Hearing her name, Liang Yan’s stomach clenched. Online, the moment her name was called, the comment feed turned vicious.
[WTF, she’s the very first one? I’m out, can’t watch this trainwreck.]
[Sexy Liang Yan, here to embarrass herself live, lmao.]
[The producers only invited her for the trending topics. Ever since that CP stunt with Yan Zhun, she’s been buying hype nonstop.]
[Uh… who’s Xu Jiafan?]
[FFS, why is Liang Yan everywhere? Every time I see her, I remember Lu Lincheng actually married this woman. Makes me sick.]
[When is Lu Lincheng finally dumping this leech?]
[Have some dignity, Liang Yan. Clinging to Lu Lincheng like this—is it fun? Look at yourself. Even in your next life, he wouldn’t give you a second glance.]
A few voices tried to defend her:
[Say what you want, but you can’t deny Liang Yan’s looks.]
Which immediately got shot down:
[Please. She’s never even dared post a childhood pic since debut. Look at that nose and chin—it’s all plastic. Head-swap bimbo, why not share your surgeon’s contact while you’re at it?]
Liang Yan, watching the flood of insults, pinched her nose and chin unconsciously.
Her whole life, she hadn’t so much as touched a drop of filler. The only reason she’d never shared childhood photos was because they were painfully plain, miserable even—and worst of all, they’d expose her past as a weightlifting athlete.
Liang Yan’s chest tightened when she saw the two barrage comments actually speaking up for her. A wave of warmth swept over her—maybe they weren’t fans, just passersby, but she couldn’t let even those few people down.
[It was Lu Lincheng who chose to marry Liang Yan. Why is all the hate aimed only at her? Attacking a woman like this is way over the line.]
[Heh, please. Lu Lincheng’s such a career-driven man—then suddenly, at the peak of his fame, he marries a nobody like Liang Yan? You expect us to believe she didn’t pull strings or manipulate him? Yeah, right.]
[Exactly. Good thing Lu Lincheng pushed through the backlash. Everyone thought his career would tank after the marriage announcement, but he only got more popular. The man’s a legend.]
At the mention of Lu Lincheng, Liang Yan lowered her eyes, forcing herself to dig back through those three missing years.
Nothing.
She clenched her head in frustration, pounding lightly against her temples—until the host’s voice echoed through the iPad, jolting her back. She realized her and Xu Jiafan’s performance was already starting.
The curtain rose. The stage transformed into a high school classroom. On the blackboard beside the podium: Class 2–7, Today’s Schedule. Both Xu Jiafan and Liang Yan wore the baggy, shapeless uniforms of ordinary Chinese high schoolers, seated one behind the other at their desks. The cameraman zoomed in for close-ups.
First: Liang Yan, with her hair tied in a low ponytail.
Live comments scrolled across the screen:
[…Is her makeup too light? Did she even put any on?]
[Who plays a high schooler in full glam? Stop overreacting.]
[Say what you want, but her skin looks amazing in that close-up.]
[Foundation plus post-production filters—everyone’s skin looks flawless.]
[Her lashes are so long.]
[Pretty or not, still a fake face. Ugh.]
The camera shifted from Liang Yan to Xu Jiafan. A newcomer to the industry, his agency had sent him to the show to hone his craft and get his name out there.
Unlike Liang Yan’s extreme close-up, Xu Jiafan’s shot was pulled back further: the school uniform hanging loose on his shoulders, an empty workbook tossed carelessly on the desk. He sat with one leg propped up, twirling a pen between his fingers. His dark eyes lingered on the girl in front of him, bent earnestly over her exercises, and his lips curved into a grin.
That single frame set the barrage alight:
[Holy crap, he’s handsome!]
[That smile… I’m in love.]
[This is totally the campus heartthrob archetype—the guy who skips homework, fights after school, but somehow every girl swoons. I’m weak.]
[Where did they dig up this rookie? Amazing.]
In the industry, every male star had his own style. Compared with Lu Lincheng’s icy elegance, Xu Jiafan’s unruly, youthful energy was a fresh burst of color.
After those back-to-back close-ups, Liang Yan quietly switched off the barrage.
It was also the first time Liang Yan had seen the program after editing. The reason she was glued to the livestream tonight was to properly evaluate her own performance on screen. The script assigned to her and Xu Jiafan was an original short campus play—the classic “top student softie × rebellious school tyrant” setup.
Unlike the rumored backstabbing among other contestants, her rehearsals with Xu Jiafan had gone smoothly. He was a newcomer, polite and humble, while Liang Yan was easygoing by nature. They’d even exchanged WeChat contacts by the end.
Liang Yan watched their performance with full attention. Playing a high schooler wasn’t especially difficult, but the trick was getting the balance right. If the emotions were too restrained, the subtle undercurrent of teenage affection wouldn’t come across on camera; if too exaggerated, it would veer into urban-drama territory, losing the hazy sweetness unique to school romances.
With the barrage comments turned off, it felt much easier to breathe. She watched the whole segment in one sitting. At the very end, when her studious character lay on her desk and Xu Jiafan’s “campus tyrant” leaned over awkwardly, fumbling for a way to sneak a kiss on her cheek, she found herself chuckling.
It took her a moment to realize—she was laughing at her own scene. Touching the corners of her lifted lips, she wondered if this was what people meant by that infamous “auntie smile from too much sweetness.”
Aside from her marriage to Lu Lincheng, Liang Yan had never dated in her life. Now her heart was racing, replaying the scene in her head, her chest bubbling with giddy warmth.
She was fairly satisfied with her and Xu Jiafan’s performance. The only flaw might have been that they stuck a bit too closely to rehearsal, with little improvisation. But as a finished product, it looked fine—just as Ye Su had commented during filming, they’d captured the most important quality of all: naturalness.
Still, Liang Yan didn’t dare check the audience’s reactions. The barrage from earlier had already left her rattled.
She hesitated for a long time, her hand hovering, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to turn the comments back on.
Just as she was wavering, her phone buzzed with a WeChat notification.
Xu Jiafan: [Liang Yan, tonight’s episode just aired. I followed you on Weibo. Can we follow each other back? (covering-face emoji)]
Liang Yan smiled and replied: [Sure.]
She opened Weibo, followed him back, and now their names appeared side by side with twin arrows pointing both ways.
Glancing through her following list, she saw mostly fellow industry contacts. And at the very top sat “Lu Lincheng,” quietly occupying the first spot.
The corner of the screen read “Followed.” Not “Mutual Following.”
Liang Yan puffed out her cheeks.
No wonder people mocked her, saying she’d get dumped sooner or later. Lu Lincheng hadn’t even bothered to follow her back on Weibo after their marriage.
Her face twisted in discomfort. She thought of the empty contact entry saved under his name in her phone, of his tightly guarded WeChat account—an account she wasn’t even qualified to add. She bit her lip, glanced around the room as if someone might catch her, then, like a thief, decisively tapped Unfollow on his profile.
Unfollowed.
Watching the lonely arrow vanish from his name, Liang Yan put her phone down and exhaled deeply, as though a weight had been lifted.
From now on, if he had anything to say to her, he could send it through a message in a bottle.
***