Wu Man’s heart skipped a beat for no reason, then she heard Zhui Ye lazily add a patch: “There’s a gap from the Deng Lizhi I imagined when I first read the script. It’ll affect my immersion in the role. Bit troublesome.”

Her heartbeat returned to normal, replaced by a vein throbbing on her forehead.

Inwardly she chanted: A prime minister’s belly can hold a boat; don’t stoop to the level of youngsters.

Before filming began, Director Wang had them walk through the general positions, confirmed the camera angles and shot compositions, then officially started.

The slate clapped, and the camera began rolling.

The rain prepared by the props team poured down from the sky, instantly soaking Zhui Ye’s white shirt. Water droplets clung to the short spikes of his hair tips, like a homeless little hedgehog.

This damp little hedgehog crouched under a rolling shutter door by the street to escape the rain. The surrounding crowd hurried by; no one stopped for him.

He lowered his head, untying his shoelaces, then tying them up again, then untying them again, tirelessly entertained.

After untying them who knows how many times, a pair of hands faster than his grabbed the shoelaces.

Chen Nan, played by Zhui Ye, looked up in astonishment to see Wu Man—that is, Deng Lizhi—with a gray umbrella tucked under her shoulder, crouching down to tie his shoelaces for him.

Her clothes, like the umbrella, were also drab gray. The hem was dampened by the slanting wind and drizzle, washing away the cooking oil smell from her body. What she smelled of was an intoxicating dampness.

Neither of them spoke. Chen Nan stared blankly at her hands tying his shoelaces. Originally very beautiful hands—slender, soft—yet covered with old calluses from years past.

That was evidence of having lived many more years than him.

He said sullenly, “Why tie such a complicated knot?”

“This way, next time you untie it, you’ll probably have a kind of puzzle-solving pleasure?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not going back?”

“I don’t need to ask. I understand very well…” Deng Lizhi paused. “Sometimes after buying groceries on the way home, even though it’s clearly mealtime and I should go back to cook, I just suddenly stand at the roadside waiting for the red light to turn green then turn red again…”

“That’s just you being lazy.”

Deng Lizhi smiled. “If that’s what you want to say, that’s fine.”

Wang Cheng, who had been watching the main monitor, picked up the walkie-talkie. “Hold on a moment.”

The props team stopped the rain. The two of them stood up and looked toward the director. Wu Man asked somewhat uneasily, “Was the emotion not quite right just now?”

Wang Cheng turned to ask her, “Where do you think it wasn’t quite right?”

On set, Wang Cheng seemed like a different person—not a trace of superfluous expression. Though shorter than Wu Man by a bit, he radiated an overwhelming sense of pressure.

Eyes from all directions fixed on her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what to say.

It had been too long since she’d been interrupted while filming, then had someone point at her nose and imply “your acting isn’t up to par,” making her lose face on the spot.

So Wu Man truly couldn’t process it for a moment. Her mind was a bit dazed and a bit chaotic. One moment she was thinking about what attitude Deng Lizhi should use to say this part, the next moment thinking how embarrassing it was with everyone watching, the next moment wondering if she was really quite useless for making a mistake on the very first take.

The atmosphere grew cold. Zhui Ye suddenly sneezed.

“If we drag this out, I’m going to catch a cold. Director, wait for me a moment—I’m going to stick on two more heat packs.” Having said this, he swaggered off, leaving everyone behind.

Wang Cheng said, “Perfect timing. Everyone take a break.”

The suffocating atmosphere lifted. The set became noisy and bustling again.

Wu Man also returned to her folding rest chair, pulling her script into her hands, staring at that line muttering, “Deng Lizhi finishes tying the shoelaces, looks at Chen Nan, and with a calm expression tells him…”

“Do you think this calmness is truly calm?”

Wang Cheng suddenly sat down opposite her. His eyes caught a glimpse of her script covered densely with annotations, and his expression softened slightly.

“It’s not.” Wu Man blurted out, then slowly elaborated. “She knows her life is terrible, yet she keeps up appearances. But to comfort Chen Nan, she still reveals this part to him. But she feels this is shameful, because the deeper reason behind it is a sexless marriage, which for a woman is very humiliating, so she can only feign calmness.”

“Your understanding of Deng Lizhi is still too one-sided.” Wang Cheng shook his head. “Like you said during the audition, she’s been able to endure this kind of life for a full eight years—partly because she suppresses herself, but when suppression reaches its limit, have you thought about what happens to a person?”

Wu Man said hesitantly, “…They would develop self-loathing?”

“No, it’s identification. A certain part of her character has already been assimilated. She’s not only shackled in a passionless marriage, but even more so shackled within her own dead soul. And all of this usually happens imperceptibly. Without a catalyst, some people might never understand it until they die. So Deng Lizhi’s calmness isn’t feigned—it’s a kind of unconsciousness.”

Wu Man’s heart was inexplicably pricked by a needle. That feeling was very strange, like a whale on a lonely island crossing vast spans of time to hear some kind of call. In this moment, her soul resonated with Deng Lizhi’s.

“Thank you, Director. I think I understand a bit now.”

Before the second take, Wu Man stood at the street corner, just standing there quietly, brewing her emotions.

All around were people coming and going—local extras who, while filming hadn’t started, were busy secretly taking photos, gossiping, whispering to each other. But Wu Man was completely oblivious.

Her gaze was vacant as she looked at the road, the red traffic light at the intersection. Around the corner was a large seafood market where she often bought fish, then carried it home alone. Along the way, the wall corners always had black mud that never got cleaned, a half-broken brick in the tactile paving that remained scattered there. In the lackluster street scene, a stroke of white suddenly appeared, brightening the world.

It was that white-shirted youth, Chen Nan, head lowered, quietly curled up in front of the old rolling shutter door.

Wu Man didn’t remember when Wang Cheng called “action.” She only felt the night sky suddenly begin to rain, pattering down onto her opened umbrella. She thought to herself: so this person also looks as lonely as I am.

She went against the flow of people, walking through the rainstorm to stand before him, seeing him amusing himself playing with his shoelaces. Her body moved faster than her consciousness. She crouched down, breaking through his loneliness.

Chen Nan looked sullenly at her movements and said, “Why tie such a complicated knot?”

“This way, next time you untie it, you’ll probably have a kind of puzzle-solving pleasure?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not going back?”

“I don’t need to ask. I understand very well.” Deng Lizhi’s tone was very calm. “Sometimes after buying groceries on the way home, even though it’s clearly mealtime and I should go back to cook, I just suddenly stand at the roadside waiting for the red light to turn green then turn red again…”

Hidden within this calmness was an imperceptible bewilderment. As she spoke, her voice trailed off.

“That’s just you being lazy.”

Deng Lizhi paused. “Is it?”

She hadn’t followed the script, instinctively asking these two words in response. Having said it, her heart jumped in alarm, but Wang Cheng didn’t call cut.

Filming continued. This scene passed smoothly.

Wu Man didn’t immediately snap out of it, still crouching in place savoring her state just now.

That kind of uncontrolled performance—though perhaps only a few short minutes—gave her more of a sense of accomplishment than standing on that stage at the Hong Kong Cultural Centre. This was something she’d never experienced in all her years of filming.

Zhao Boyu hadn’t been wrong. If she wanted to break through her own bottleneck, she had to rely on good directors, and also… good scene partners.

Zhui Ye’s performance just now had absolutely no trace of stiffness. Even his accent carried hints of Hong Kong Mandarin. His back was slightly hunched unconsciously—the physique that comes from years of sitting hunched over in classrooms. In reality, his own posture was perfectly straight, with no postural issues whatsoever.

So impressive that Wu Man couldn’t help but feel a trace of admiration rising from her jealousy.

However, even someone as impressive as Zhui Ye couldn’t immediately switch out seamlessly. He was also still crouched in front of Wu Man, staring at her without blinking.

The surroundings were very noisy. The crew was preparing to shoot the next scene, needing to change locations, with lighting equipment having to move along. Everyone was frantically busy. No one noticed that the two leads were still crouched in front of the rolling shutter door, lingering in the moment. Especially once the lights moved away, the area they occupied was like a stage play after curtain call—”snap”—plunged into darkness.

Neither of them moved, maintaining the distance from the just-finished shoot, close yet distant in the darkness.

Wu Man noticed Zhui Ye’s gaze wandering around her lips. His eyes were very focused—completely different from the casual indifference when he usually spoke with her.

In the distance, stray cats were caterwauling in heat—once, then again. Scratching at one’s nerves irritatingly.

She thought: Zhui Ye is probably still immersed in Chen Nan’s character. Because the next scene to be shot was the kissing scene.