Chapter 34: Sky, Twelve Cities

Miss Qiao said, as casually as if she were discussing the weather: “This is just a few lines. Their scripts run into thousands—adjustments alone could fill up to ZZ…”

Oh, right. Totally got it.

Before boarding the plane, Ling told Jingjing some devastating news: one of the films had pulled out at the last minute.

*Black Eyes* squeezed in at the eleventh hour—definitely good for the movie, and the production team promised to accommodate Jingjing’s schedule as much as possible. But…

“Fourteen days. Twelve cities. Jingjing… can you even handle that?”

Whether she could or not was uncertain—but Qiao was *devastated*. Utterly devastated. Her voice message to Yutu was thick with sniffles: “I only get to stay in Beijing for a day and a half…”

“I can’t go to Jia Suo. I can’t make it to Wudaokou…”

“Wuuu… Yutu…”

I had everything planned for us these days—things I wanted to do with you. And now none of it’s possible…

Pei Pei was always diligent, relaying every juicy rumor to Jingjing—like the high school class group chat, the core circle of “Crystal Dumplings,” insider commentary from the directing world, and so on.

Too much. When Jingjing was busy, she’d miss it all. After all, gossip wasn’t exactly life-or-death.

But once the plane took off, Pei Pei sent another message, dripping with exclamation points: “Jingjing, something feels… off. You two have been together forever, right?”

“What does that even mean now?”

She circled a spot in the screenshot—the reply from Xia Qing to another classmate: “Turns out, what we couldn’t beat wasn’t just time… but reality.”

Jingjing swiped up. The previous post from earlier that morning: Xia Qing’s WeChat Moments. “Late night. Can’t sleep. Reading a book.”

The photo showed a desk lamp glowing softly, a stack of books, and one open copy of *Vanity Fair*.

Below it, dozens of classmates left comments—some reflective, others subtly probing:
“Beauty scholar, you’re the last person who should be wallowing in nostalgia…”
“Jingjing… she didn’t say anything, but it’s loaded. Everyone gets it.”

“Pei Pei, yesterday, Xia Qing went to see Yutu.”
“Wait—while you were gone? What did he say?”
“He told her straight: we’re getting married.”

“Whoa. So she *was* helping after all. No wonder she’s so bitter. Now I get it.”

Yutu never checked WeChat Moments. Didn’t care. Had no time.

Li Ming, the self-proclaimed King of Gossip, knew his habit well. But seeing the class group chat go quiet while private messages lit up like fireworks, he couldn’t resist giving his friend a nudge.

“Yutu, check Xia Qing’s Moments. A bunch of people are talking about your old times.”

From Li Ming’s memory, it had always been Xia Qing’s bestie announcing updates. Xia Qing herself had answered questions publicly, matter-of-factly: “Yutu has a short semester, won’t be back. I’ve got an internship too. Too bad we won’t see everyone this summer…”

If it hadn’t been for that Lunar New Year during their senior year—when Yutu finally admitted, under pressure, that they’d broken up—Li Ming might’ve thought the whole relationship was just a dream.

Yutu glanced at the screen. Then, without hesitation, he posted a message in the class group:
“This year’s reunion still on the fourth day? @Li Ming—can you invite Mr. Li from Geography? He used to lead the astronomy club. And of course, our old homeroom teacher.”

Li Ming replied fast: “Mr. Li became academic dean last year—busy, but holidays should be fine. I’ll ask early. Old teacher’s probably okay.”

It was past 1 a.m. when Yutu finally reached Jingjing. Following Yutu’s advice, Ling had arranged a hotel—Manlan. Direct transfer from the airport, close to today’s meeting with Director Guo. Tomorrow’s screening venue was nearby too. In Beijing’s traffic, that meant at least two extra hours of rest for Jingjing.

Inside the room, Yutu gently coaxed the girl clinging to him into the bathroom. “Go shower. You barely slept last night—your hair’s still pinned up!”

After washing and blow-drying, Jingjing leaned against him, drowsy. He carried her to bed, where she fell asleep instantly.

When she woke, the room was dark. What time was it? Where was Yutu?

He was in the living room, studying her itinerary, cross-referencing it on his phone. Jingjing tiptoed over, lunged forward—and landed right in his arms.

“Why didn’t you sleep longer?”

“You don’t have work today?”

“Got ahead of schedule. Took a half-day off.”

“Oh…”

Yutu pulled her toward the bedroom.

“Jingjing… are you tired?”

“Tired? I need Tang僧 meat.”

Tang僧 meat tasted amazing—and required almost no effort. Qiao took a quick nap, woke up refreshed. Yutu was already leaving.

“Didn’t you say it was just a half-day?”

Now it was the *caramel-filled* kind.

“It’s too far. Beijing traffic—it’ll take nearly two hours.”

His hand patted her back comfortingly.

“See Director Guo this afternoon. Look your best.”

“I’ll probably be back around eight tonight. Don’t wait up for dinner.”

The producer of *Huangdi* had known Director Guo since college—and genuinely admired Jingjing’s grounded intelligence and sharp instincts.

Plus, she’d worn that astronaut-grade thermal suit. The producer pushed hard on her behalf, speaking highly of her in every conversation.

And Jingjing herself had shined. At the farewell, Director Guo said: “You should practice wearing a qipao.”

The producer warned Ling to keep it under wraps. Big directors hated leaks. Ling was sharp: “Director Guo definitely has other candidates. Jingjing, we’re entering an observation phase. Keep it low-key. *Really* low-key.”

“But the qipao…”

“What if the world finds out who this mysterious character really is?”

Yutu returned after 8 p.m. Jingjing and Xiao Zhu were watching *In the Mood for Love*. When Maggie Cheung walked across the screen, Jingjing unconsciously mimicked her steps.

Yutu met her at the entrance, swept her up in one arm, laughing as she giggled: “Director Guo said I should practice wearing a qipao!”

There was still plenty of time tonight.

The bathtub was huge—flanked by bird’s nest ferns and prayer plants, their leaves drooping gracefully toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The angle cleverly blocked three sides of view. The only thing it couldn’t hide? Each other’s eyes.

Jingjing felt like a small boat rocking on waves. Yutu was the oarsman, rowing with steady strength.

Then she became a surfer—Yutu her board, her sailboat, her ocean liner.

Later, they dried each other’s hair, swayed together to a melody Jingjing loved, speculated about the mysterious role, and made a promise: “We’re going full throttle from now on. Tonight—we sleep.”

Even so, beneath the sheets, her fingers danced—light, nimble, everywhere.

“Jingjing… sleep well.”

“Mmm…”