Chapter 31

*The Moon Runs to Me*
In the fifth year after graduation, Qin Sang had actually seen Xie Yuncheng once—but only from afar.
Light spilled through the gaps of the city at night. Someone called his name in the crowd. She’d looked up just in time to catch his back as he walked away.
He hadn’t seen her. Just as in all those nights before—always going forward, never stopping.
—
She’d always thought of herself as lucky. Just when she’d believed her life would rot where it lay, she’d met Sister Wen.
Two months after the gaokao, she was still working the register at the cafe. A crew for a high-school film came to scout locations and ordered over a hundred cups of coffee. It happened to be her shift—and she was alone.
While she rushed through the order, a woman came in from outside, signing the receipt with one hand and clutching her phone with the other.
“Have you lost your mind?” the woman snapped into the receiver. “You walk off *now* and how am I supposed to explain it to the crew? I just ordered coffee and afternoon tea as apology. Get back here, apologize to Director Lin properly, and we can let it go.”
She put the call on speaker, annoyed at holding the phone to her ear.
On the other end, a sugary voice whined, “Sister Wen, it’s not that I don’t want to act. The director’s too much. You heard him. ‘If you can act, stay; if you can’t, get out.’ I’ve never been treated like that. Even my daddy doesn’t yell at me. Who does he think he is? Some third-rate director.”
“He humiliated me in front of everyone. I’m supposed to crawl back and kiss his shoes?”
The woman pressed at her temples, clearly fighting her temper. “What actor hasn’t been yelled at? Lin is picky. He’s harsh on everyone, not just you. Every single person in his films gets scolded bloody. If you want to go far, you hold on.”
“Please. Who is he to me?” the girl scoffed. “Sister Wen, you’re confused. Why did you accept that project in the first place? You’re telling *me* to endure him? People will think *you* work for him.”
“Anyway, I’m not going back. He can find someone else. My darling said he’ll get me an even better movie to make up for it.”
“Are you insane?” Sister Wen bit out. “You trust Money-CEO’s promises? I told you—if you want a real career, don’t take shortcuts. When this blows up, do you know how ugly it’ll be?”
“So what? You’re getting old, Sister Wen. In this business, it’s not about talent; it’s about who has backing. If I don’t ‘rely on someone,’ someone else will. Why should I be the idiot who suffers?”
Sister Wen nearly laughed. “Tang Xiaoxiao, let me give you one last chance. Either you come back, finish this film honestly, or we cut ties. Go find someone else to manage you.”
“Fine,” Tang shot back. “We’ll cut. With your control issues and constant sulking, I don’t want you either. Who’d work with you? Go change jobs, Sister Wen. Without me, you’re nothing.”
“Don’t forget,” Sister Wen said coldly, “I’m the one who dragged you out of that pit at Mei Yi. Without me, you’d still be ‘working the floor.’ If I can make you, I can make someone else. We’ll see.”
Mei Yi had been a gilded den, not a real “modeling” agency. Tang had gone there with eyes open, sold herself for a while, then climbed toward richer clients when she got bored of the nouveau riche.
Now she’d latched onto Money-CEO after a ribbon cutting, blinded by his wealth and blind to the fact he was old enough to be her father—and that his son was her age.
“Money-CEO’s wife isn’t someone you toy with,” Sister Wen said flatly. “If you don’t want to end up stripped and thrown to the street, keep a low profile. But from now on, your life has nothing to do with me. Live or die, that’s your fate.”
She hung up, jaw tight.
Qin placed the last lid and ventured softly, “Ma’am, do you still want all these delivered?”
Sister Wen had momentarily forgotten she was in a cafe. Only one girl was on shift. Hearing the question, she looked up—and paused.
The girl in checkered shirt and black work pants looked very young—barely out of school. Her features were still soft with youth, but the beauty in them was already striking, the kind that stood out in any crowd.
“Send them, yes,” Sister Wen said, then asked, “Why are you alone here?”
“The boss is on leave. The other girl had a family emergency,” Qin said.
“You look young. Just graduated?”
“Yes,” Qin said. “This is the total—4,575 yuan. Here’s your receipt. Do you need an invoice?”
“Issue one,” Sister Wen said. “Are you working here to pay tuition?”
“No. This is my job. I’m not in school anymore.”
That gave Sister Wen pause. “Working here is a bit of a waste…”
She’d already made up her mind. “You heard my call just now. You know what I do. If you’re willing, I can sign you. I won’t promise you instant fame—but it’ll be better than this.”
Lots of people dreamed of the spotlight—of glittering stages and endless attention.
Before she could finish her pitch, the girl thought for a second and asked, “Can I make a lot of money?”
“You short on cash?” Sister Wen asked bluntly, then answered herself. “It sounds like you are. Then yes—come with me. You can earn. But you’ll listen to me. No shady shortcuts.”
“Okay.”
Almost without hesitation, Qin agreed.
Sister Wen really had been her benefactor—the one who lit a small lamp in her dark, barren days.
She’d been obedient. And she’d worked hard.
The film Tang Xiaoxiao had refused ended up landing in her lap. At first the director hadn’t wanted her—too young, no training, no experience. Only Sister Wen’s persistence made him relent and give her a trial.
The female lead was a deaf-mute girl who communicated only through sign. Director Lin was a stickler; he’d fallen out with Tang precisely because she’d ignored his demand to learn sign language.
But Qin already knew some.
She’d picked it up over the years of talking with Xiao Yan.
Time was money; every day on set burned through budget. They couldn’t afford a fresh face who had to start from zero.
She’d stayed.
He’d still yelled her raw. She’d lacked even basic control—no sense of facial tension, no awareness of the camera.
But if she wasn’t brilliant, she was at least stubborn. Little by little, she improved. Shot by shot, she found footing.
“You know what matters most for an actor?” Director Lin had asked. “Not looks. Not even technique. It’s whether you can fool *yourself*.”
“If you can’t step into the role, how do you expect an audience to follow you? Have you ever liked anyone? Do you know what a secret crush feels like?”
“It’s the hand you want to touch but don’t dare. It’s the glance you steal in a crowd. It’s a war in your chest that no one hears. It’s a letter you never send. No one knows. No one asks.”
“You have to taste that. An unripe lime—sour with a trace of sweetness. Only the sweetness isn’t clean. It’s threaded with bitterness.”
She’d said she didn’t understand then.
Much later, she would.
She’d slogged through the extras circuit in Hengdian. Sister Wen had pushed her to retake the art exam, had practically shoved her into the Central Academy of Drama. She’d studied by day, worked by night, running from crew to crew, scraping together tuition and living costs.
Her career hadn’t been smooth. *A Letter from Afar* had not cracked the mainland market. She’d started late, and the money pressure never let up. There were debts from her father, Xiao Yan’s schooling, her mother’s monthly medication.
She’d lived in a basement for years—never seeing the sun, walls patched with damp, black mold in the corners.
Days were simple. Wait for notices. If there was a job, go. If there wasn’t, pick up odd gigs.
The year she graduated, she took a private job—door hostess at a new hotel. The place was near Qingda. The young owner was a rich kid. Guests thronged the lobby; firecrackers boomed.
It was winter. She wore a red high-slit qipao at the entrance. The wind cut through silk and skin; her hands and feet went numb in high heels. She stood from morning to night. Her face muscles cramped from smiling. The backs of her heels bled.
She clenched her jaw and straightened anyway.
Then, through the howl of the wind, a name drifted past her ear.
“Come on, Xie shidi. You’re free anyway. Stay a bit longer.”
A few people hurried out of the bar, chasing someone ahead.
The man by the curb turned slightly, waiting for a car. Even in profile, she recognized him at once.
It was him.
She stared, dazed. The boy she remembered had shed his youthfulness, become leaner, more composed. Blue-violet neon washed over his face and sharpened his edges.
“I went to all this trouble to invite those freshmen from next door,” someone behind him wheedled. “They’re all here *for you*. If you leave, how do I explain that?”
“That’s your problem,” he replied, voice cool.
“Fine, fine, tricking you into a mixer was my bad. But you’re always shut up in labs. It’s boring. With a face like yours, you could at least *date* someone,” Zhou Yihong half-joked. “That Beida lit major junior’s not bad. Pretty, gentle, always fussing over you.”
“Senior.”
A girl in an apricot coat hurried out. She was delicate and soft, eyes full of shy affection as she looked at him.
“Speak of the devil,” Zhou laughed. “I’ll leave him to you, Sun. I tried. The rest is up to you.”
He winked and vanished back into the bar, leaving the two at the roadside.
Under the dim streetlight, Qin watched the girl edge closer. Standing together, they looked like they fit. Whatever she said, it made his brows lift. The ice at his mouth thawed; he looked down, the corner of his lips quirking ever so slightly.
He looked softer then—still cool, but achingly, carelessly attractive.
“Here’s your pay,” the hotel supervisor said, appearing with an envelope. “Thanks for today. And this.”
He held out a brown teddy bear.
“The young boss’s family used to own a toy factory,” he said. “They made these themselves. Every guest and staff gets one. This one’s yours.”
She took it blankly.
By the time she looked up again, the two figures were already walking away. He kept moving forward, never once looking back, until the night swallowed him whole.
She stood there in the wind, clutching the bear.
The lost toy was “found” again—yet she felt no joy at all.
Her heels throbbed with every heartbeat. A bitter taste spread in her mouth.
She would never know what that bear thought.
She wasn’t brave enough.
That winter night, she had gained a bear.
And, in some small, quiet way, she’d completely lost it.