Chapter Fifteen: Each Has Their Own Thoughts

Chen Siyang had only half-guessed the movie’s ending. The male lead did remain in the world of the painting, but someone from within replaced him in reality. In fact, ever since that watch first appeared, the male lead had been trapped inside the painted world, and in the real world, he had already become someone else. Looking back with this in mind, a subtle dread crept in—a detail that made the film all the more successful. The exclamations from the audience made it clear this was a triumph, even though Tianhe had been relatively low-key this time, and the promotional campaign had been subdued.

When the credits rolled, Chen Siyang didn’t immediately rise, nor did Tang Zhichu. Tang Zhichu was noting the names of the film’s creative team, including those responsible for the special effects. Comparing the two worlds, it seemed the film industry in Huaguo was considerably more mature here. Judging by the special effects alone, they were consistent from start to finish, aesthetically pleasing, and never jarring.

“Do you still have the ticket?” Chen Siyang asked suddenly.

Tang Zhichu nodded.

“Should I congratulate her?”

“Who?”

“He Jin.”

Tang Zhichu glanced at the big screen just in time to see He Jin’s name appear—she’d played a policewoman with a fair amount of screen time. She was a former teammate of Chen Siyang, also a member of the Planet Girl Group; Tang Zhichu remembered this from an article he’d read when looking up Chen Siyang’s background. Now that Tianhe had signed Chen Siyang, they had three members of the Planet Girl Group on their roster, and fans were clamoring for them to just sign them all. In other words, Tianhe now had three artists from the group, including Chen Siyang.

Tang Zhichu pulled out the movie ticket and handed it to Chen Siyang. “If you think you should congratulate her, then do it,” he said.

Chen Siyang nodded, took the ticket, and snapped a photo with her phone. She wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling—she simply wanted to reach out to an old friend, and this movie gave her a reason. After she finished editing the message and sent it on WeChat, the two finally left the cinema.

...

Where the two rivers met, dusk fell thick and heavy. The undulating city skyline, studded with neon lights, was reflected in the vast waters, each mirroring and enhancing the other—both magnificent and dreamlike. This was the mountain city’s charm. Basking in the winds that swept across the water from all directions, Chen Siyang leaned back comfortably in her chair. They were at an open-air riverside restaurant, with a perfect view of the city’s surreal 3D nightscape.

Tang Zhichu raised his glass. “Since we’re here, let’s do it properly. Tea instead of wine, shall we?”

Chen Siyang let out a little laugh, clinking her glass with his. When they’d ordered, Tang Zhichu had admitted he didn’t like alcohol, but the setting called for it. So, with the server a little perplexed, he’d asked for wine glasses and a pot of tea instead.

Chen Siyang thought Tang Zhichu seemed to have a touch of extroversion about him.

She sat a little more upright, hands in her lap, body leaning forward, lifting her fisherman’s hat. “I didn’t expect you didn’t drink.”

“Is that so surprising? There are plenty of guys these days who neither smoke nor drink.”

“It’s not that. I just thought a chef would drink—especially with his own place, guests coming and going, wouldn’t you have a few?”

She figured his attention to detail might be a result of the business, dealing with all sorts of customers—one had to be attentive. Tang Zhichu thought of his father lying in the hospital; perhaps that was why he drank, though it eventually became alcoholism.

“That’s what most chefs do,” he replied.

Chen Siyang laughed. “So you’re not most chefs?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So when will I get to taste your cooking?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“And when will I hear you sing?”

Tang Zhichu shook his head. “Sing? I’m not much of a singer.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I just know a tiny bit.”

Seeing his earnest look, Chen Siyang almost believed him. If he were a good singer, wouldn’t he have sung last night?

“You’re being modest—you just don’t want to sing.”

Tang Zhichu countered, “Well, I haven’t heard you sing either.”

Chen Siyang smiled, gazing straight at him. “Would you like to?”

“Now?”

“Now!”

Tang Zhichu rolled up his sleeves. “Go on, I’m all ears.”

Chen Siyang cleared her throat and cocked her head to find the key. She sang a snippet of a song she’d performed during the girl group auditions, her own choice for the talent segment.

Tang Zhichu listened intently. Her voice was pleasant—perhaps not as bright as Zhou Yun’s, but still lovely. What surprised him was her technique—soft mix, runs, all handled effortlessly.

When she finished, she asked, “Well?”

Tang Zhichu applauded. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have bothered helping you adjust the sound yesterday.”

Chen Siyang giggled with delight. They chatted and ate, and she seemed to shed her social anxiety, her smile constant.

Only when Tang Zhichu excused himself for the restroom did Chen Siyang gaze out at the distant river, lost in thought.

...

Is a career important for a woman? This was the question Chen Siyang had asked Tang Zhichu at the cinema. As Tang Zhichu had surmised, she thought deeply about such things. Whenever she asked a question with careful deliberation, it was never simple—she was testing him.

If she sensed that Tang Zhichu genuinely believed a woman’s career was important, Chen Siyang felt she might give it her all, try to love him even if it meant delaying her own ambitions. But Tang Zhichu’s answer was that a career wasn’t important—dreams were.

To Chen Siyang, this revealed a streak of traditionalism in him. If career was unimportant, then family must be; if dreams were, then singing and acting were fine, but one shouldn’t treat them as a “career.”

She had wept in the cinema. In that moment, so many thoughts flooded her mind—why hadn’t she met Tang Zhichu sooner? Even a year earlier and she might have thrown herself into it without hesitation, drawn to his warmth and attentiveness.

But now, she felt less brave. She cried at the wrong time, and cried for how she seemed to have changed. Deep down, she must have had her hopes—so why the hesitation now? Had her career, in her heart, already outweighed any man?

...

At a corner of the open-air restaurant, Tang Zhichu lingered by the railing, watching Chen Siyang’s silhouette, not yet returning to her side. As a man in his thirties at the height of his career, he was more than aware that she’d cried in the cinema. He had chosen to pretend otherwise.

A person’s low points are often when they are forged anew. He could have gone over, reassured her—told her she was exceptional, that careers must be viewed long-term. She had the looks, the figure, the talent, and a new contract with a major company—what was there to worry about?

Indeed, what was there to worry about? Unless, of course, a bad man appeared.

So Tang Zhichu held back. He didn’t think of himself as a good man; leaving things unspoken might not be a bad thing for Chen Siyang. Walking forward on her own would serve her better than relying on a man—it would become her secret weapon in the battles ahead.

It was also Tang Zhichu’s unwillingness to be relied upon by a woman, his aversion to trouble. Loving a woman like Chen Siyang would be utterly exhausting.