Yan Chi’s 15th-anniversary film exhibition, held at the art museum’s screening hall in City A, was undoubtedly one of today’s top news stories. The exhibition would begin at 3 PM and be livestreamed on U Station. This was Yan Chi’s first public appearance since the live stream incident that accidentally revealed her relationship, and both netizens and the media were highly attentive, speculating whether Gu Qingtong would make an appearance at her partner’s exhibition.
When Gu Qingtong saw these speculations, she felt a pang of guilt. Of course, she would be attending—but not on stage. She’d be hiding among the audience, and there was no way she was going to let anyone find out!
She arrived at the art museum early, fully disguised, more heavily concealed than when she passed through the airport before. When she bumped into excited fans near the entrance, she pulled her baseball cap’s brim even lower, trying to hide what little of her face wasn’t already covered by her mask and sunglasses. As a result, Gu Qingtong could barely see where she was going and almost tripped several times.
When Xiao Jun came to escort her, she could hardly hold back a laugh: “Do you really need to wrap yourself up like this?”
“You have no idea how easily I get into trouble!” Gu Qingtong replied, feeling wronged as she recalled all the recent embarrassing incidents. However, she didn’t mention to Xiao Jun that, in addition to secretly being Yan Chi’s super fan, she had also infiltrated the core fan group chat of “Has Teacher Yan Eaten Yet?” Many well-known members, including top fans and content creators, had been invited to the exhibition.
Every time Gu Qingtong saw a passing fan, she couldn’t help but think they were from the group chat, making her even more focused on staying hidden. After Xiao Jun brought her backstage, she hurried off to take care of other tasks, leaving Gu Qingtong in a small, secluded makeup room. It was the perfect place to wait while she checked in on the group chat.
At this point, the chat was far more active than usual, with messages pouring in non-stop. It was obvious the members hadn’t entered the venue yet; those attending were still discussing their meetups outside. Gu Qingtong’s identity in the group was as “TT,” and she had specifically told them earlier that she couldn’t attend in person today.
After five months of maintaining this low profile, everyone knew that Sister TT had essentially retired from attending offline events, but she still helped edit photos for the group from time to time, earning her the nickname “Beautiful and Kind-Hearted Living Bodhisattva.”
Even though Gu Qingtong was quietly lurking in the group chat, it didn’t stop her from sharing their joy. Watching the other fans of Teacher Yan excitedly talk about spotting one another made her feel the same excitement from behind her screen. If not for the fact that she was both Yan Chi’s wife and a celebrity, she thought, she might’ve been just like them—one of the countless silent fans who supported Teacher Yan with admiration.
Ever since Yan Chi’s relationship was accidentally revealed, the group’s focus shifted from discussing the mysterious “Sister TT” to talking about Gu Qingtong. In Gu Qingtong’s mind, it was still all about her anyway, so there wasn’t much difference. In fact, when they discussed Gu Qingtong, the conversation became even more open, since they didn’t think she was in the group. Previously, many members had secretly shipped “Silent Gaze”, which had led to disagreements and eventually a ban on mentioning Gu Qingtong.
But after watching Gu Qingtong and Teacher Yan “feed them sugar”, the entire group had given in to the ship, fawning over the couple even more intensely than the original “Silent Gaze” fans.
[Place your bets, will Teacher Yan officially announce her relationship with Tong Mei at the exhibition?]
[Bingtang Xueli1Ice Sugar Snow Pear is what the name translates to: My gut tells me that Tong Mei will definitely come to support Teacher Yan at the exhibition. There are only about a hundred seats in the screening hall, so everyone should keep an eye out—maybe we’ll spot cute Tong Mei in the audience!]
Gu Qingtong had nearly been exposed by Bingtang Xueli multiple times, and seeing this message again almost made her heart skip a beat. Fortunately, when she chose her seat, she had carefully made sure that Xueli wasn’t sitting anywhere near her. Once the lights were off, who would be able to recognize her?
Feeling quite satisfied with her foresight, Gu Qingtong stayed smug right up until the moment she sneaked to her seat after the lights dimmed—only to suddenly stop dead in her tracks. To her horror, she realized that the person sitting next to her was none other than Xueli herself.
Gu Qingtong stood in silence for a few seconds, wishing she could turn right around and leave.
Xueli had already eagerly whispered to her: “Sit down quickly! Don’t worry, you’re not late yet—Teacher Yan hasn’t come out! She’ll probably show up after we finish watching the documentary.”
In the dark, with the seats completely filled, Gu Qingtong had no choice but to sit there if she wanted to stay and watch. Reluctantly, she resigned herself to the situation and sat down, afraid that if she stood any longer, she’d draw even more attention.
Later, when Gu Qingtong checked the group chat, she realized that the person originally sitting next to Xueli was also a group member. The person had poor eyesight and had forgotten to bring their glasses, so they worried they wouldn’t be able to see anything from the back row and ended up switching seats with Xueli, resulting in this unfortunate situation.
Thankfully, despite having missed the clues that TT and Gu Qingtong were the same person before, Xueli was as oblivious as ever this time. She didn’t recognize that the masked, hat-wearing person next to her was none other than the cute Tong Mei she adored.
Relieved that she wasn’t in immediate danger of being exposed, Gu Qingtong quietly exhaled and shifted her attention to the screen in front of her. Strangely enough, as soon as she sat down, the long-dark screening room began to play the film. She chalked it up to coincidence and quickly became absorbed in the meticulously crafted documentary.
This documentary had been in the works for a year, created by Hua Yan, who had carefully collected many old video clips. It was arranged chronologically, compressing every one of Yan Chi’s films from her 15-year career into short features, all connected through the imagery of a projector. Initially intended to be a gift for the fans, the documentary was planned for online release. However, when Yan Chi agreed to hold the 15th-anniversary exhibition, they decided to premiere the documentary at the event.
Not only did it feel like a nostalgic re-screening of her films, satisfying the fans’ long-held desires, but it also provided a chance to see behind-the-scenes interviews and rare footage from the production teams. Even though Gu Qingtong had seen those movies countless times, the moment the iconic, timeless shot from Yan Chi’s debut film appeared on screen, accompanied by the stirring background music…
It suddenly brought Gu Qingtong back to the first time she saw Yan Chi on television. At that moment, she stared blankly at the person on the screen, her mind only filled with one thought: that was her fairy sister.
Now, fifteen years later, she was still gazing at Yan Chi on the big screen, her thoughts unchanged—this was her wife.
As she watched the once somewhat inexperienced Yan Chi, nearly everyone felt the passage of time, and their eyes grew misty. For fans who deeply loved Yan Chi’s work, this was undoubtedly the best gift.
But Gu Qingtong found it strange that the restored and edited film scenes seemed to carry a cold tone, different from the colors ingrained in her memory from countless viewings. Each film appeared increasingly desaturated, gradually losing color, as if sinking into a silent, viscous dead sea, becoming grayer with every frame.
When it came to the film “Drowning Sands,” which had been born amid numerous plagiarism controversies, the images finally turned black and white. Fans who had experienced Yan Chi’s “plagiarism storm” were immediately reminded of that time when she was ridiculed and deeply mired in controversy, as if their hearts were being painfully tugged.
Gu Qingtong certainly remembered that year—she decided to retake a year of studies to try for the China Film Academy, which everyone thought was nearly impossible. People assumed she was acting impulsively out of frustration with the online trolls. But only Gu Qingtong knew that she wanted to pursue Yan Chi, to become an actress who could also touch and change people, just like her.
At that moment, Yan Chi had nearly vanished from public view for years. Gu Qingtong didn’t even know if she was too late or if she would ever have the chance again…
During that initial period, it felt like all her efforts were in vain, and Gu Qingtong’s life seemed stuck in a quagmire. The only way she found relief was during her rare free moments, when she repeatedly watched Yan Chi’s films and wrote reviews about them. At first, these reviews were just for herself, until Yan Chi unexpectedly returned with “Drowning Sands.”
Gu Qingtong was overjoyed and went to see it on the premiere day. This film was completely different from Yan Chi’s previous themes; it was ordinary and quiet yet depicted the unnoticed “chronic death” of being “drowned in sand.” It mirrored how everyone experiences the gradual fading of all passion when trapped and constrained.
Yet, Yan Chi’s performance drew life from the boundless darkness, striving to break through the soil to see the light. It was like a beam of light shining in her life, which felt like a dead, muddy swamp.
Gu Qingtong felt as if she had found a precious treasure, following that ray of light. Every time she watched the film, she cried uncontrollably, overwhelmed with empathy. Yet, in order to write a review that captured every detail and emotion, Gu Qingtong watched it over and over again, more times than she could count.
She had found her way out, but Yan Chi had sunk deeper. Gu Qingtong’s precious treasure was being wantonly slandered, dragged through the mud. Those hypocritical people seemed eager to leave a stain on the flawless gem. Having admired Yan Chi for ten years, Gu Qingtong knew better than anyone that she was like a radiant moon, untainted by any mire.
Watching the overwhelmingly negative public opinion online, the only thing Gu Qingtong could do was wait. In the meantime, she posted her simple yet heartfelt review on a newly created Weibo account, hoping to offer Yan Chi the smallest token of support.
That was the origin of TT’s account.
Everyone believed that Yan Chi’s decision to render “Drowning Sands” in black and white was a reflection of that scandal. But at that moment, the screen went completely black, and the entire theater plunged into darkness.
Moments later, a single beam of light illuminated the stage in front of the screen, revealing Yan Chi dressed in a fishtail evening gown. Her makeup was flawless, her hair elegantly pinned up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck and shoulders. Under the cold light, her skin appeared almost translucent, and the soft glow cascaded down the hem of her dress, exuding a serene and dignified aura. As she slowly opened her eyes, all the light seemed to gather in her pale-colored irises.
Though Gu Qingtong knew Yan Chi couldn’t see her in the darkness, she distinctly felt as if those eyes were gazing in her direction from afar.
Yan Chi raised the microphone, and in the next moment, her familiar cool voice echoed through the speakers around the theater.
“…The film you just watched is one you are all likely familiar with, “Drowning Sands”. However, what you may not know is that even while I was pursuing my studies, I never once considered retiring from acting. But during the time I returned with “Drowning Sands”, I became lost.”
She smiled lightly, as if recounting something casual, “Of course, it wasn’t because of the plagiarism scandal, but due to my own reasons. At the time, I had long been wavering—what was the purpose of my acting? What meaning was there in continuing to portray others’ emotions and lives?”
“The scenes gradually lost their color, reflecting my state of mind. I tried to immerse myself in “Drowning Sands”, a work that deeply resonated with me, but once again, I failed.”
Gu Qingtong’s heart skipped a beat. It turned out that the fleeting cold detachment she had once sensed in Yan Chi’s past performances had been real all along.
At that time, Yan Chi had no idea about the cause of everything. In this new life, Yan Chi paid the price of awakening her self-awareness, holding up this world, granting every character the right to break free from the constraints. However, Yan Chi herself was still repeating the life written in the book, not even aware of the emotion of confusion—just numb, playing the roles of others.
This applied both in her life and in her acting. That’s why she took the initiative to step away from the film industry for years, but she never found what she was seeking in her academic pursuits.
“Drowning Sands” seemed to be the best reflection of Yan Chi’s own life. For the first time, she felt an impulse to try acting based on her true emotions. However, what disappointed her was that her genuine feelings were drowned by the usual falseness. Even when she rewatched it, she couldn’t find the authenticity she had felt.
That was the closest Yan Chi ever came to retiring from acting, so close that Hua Yan had already prepared her retirement announcement. But Yan Chi knew better than anyone that quitting acting wasn’t the solution to her numbness. She was just hastily blaming her career in the entertainment industry.
“By chance, I read a fan review. At the time, it was one of the few voices supporting me. Looking back now, the review seems a bit naive—foolish and earnest. In a sea of accusations of plagiarism, this person was naively trying to analyze every detail and hidden clue in the film, even searching for the genuine emotions that I myself had lost.”
Yan Chi had long since committed it to memory. As she spoke, a gentle smile appeared in her eyes, “I wonder how many times she must have watched it to piece it all together.”
“She said, ‘I’m so glad to see that you’ve finally started playing yourself.'”
The words “playing yourself” were like a key, unlocking Yan Chi’s long-hidden, authentic life. In the end, she didn’t retire from acting. Instead, filming one movie per year became her way of expressing and releasing her emotions.
Most of the time, Yan Chi acted as the true leader of Hua Yan, patiently expanding the entertainment empire over the past five years.
Until it surpassed the shadow cast by the Yan family, what Yan Chi had created finally became greater than what had originally existed. At that time, Yan Chi still didn’t realize that what she truly wanted to do, deep down, was to protect those she cared about. She would never again let herself or Tongtong fall into the same dangerous and passive situation as in their previous life.
From the moment Yan Chi began telling this story, Gu Qingtong’s heart felt as if it had sensed something, slowly tightening with anticipation. But it wasn’t until Yan Chi spoke the words, “I’m so glad to see that you’ve finally started playing yourself,” that Gu Qingtong was able to confirm—the review Yan Chi referred to was her own.
She bit her lip tightly, and in the dim light, her eyes flickered with an unknown emotion. Never had she imagined that the review she had written as a way to relieve stress and support Yan Chi would be seen by her back then—let alone change Yan Chi during such a confused and painful time.
Before Gu Qingtong could process this, she heard Yan Chi continue, “Not long ago, by chance, I came across this review that means so much to me in a fan’s Weibo post. This was the first time I realized who had written it.”
Gu Qingtong’s eyes widened abruptly. Did Yan Chi click through TT’s account?!
“The author of this review is indeed my fan, and yes, a bit silly. Her posts are filled with my name, my photos. She sees me as a goal to chase but always imagines me far above, unreachable in the clouds.”
“But what she doesn’t know is that the growth and change she brought to me are no less than what I brought to her.”
As Yan Chi said this, her soft tone gradually became firm, her eyes locked onto a shadow in the corner, as if she could see only that one person. When Gu Qingtong met Yan Chi’s gaze, her heart, which had gone blank, suddenly felt a burning warmth.
“Many people here probably know her name better than I do,” Yan Chi sighed, as if something had occurred to her. “She’s done everything perfectly—how could she be so silly as to think she could never catch up to me?”
“Her online alias is TT.”
As soon as those words left Yan Chi’s lips, the majority of the audience in the theater let out gasps of surprise. Who hadn’t seen TT’s incredible photos of Yan Chi? In just a few months, TT had become Yan Chi’s most famous fan station sister.
Especially when scrolling through her posts, it’s hard not to be moved by her earnest and somewhat silly efforts.
Bingtang Xueli, the biggest TT fan, turned to Gu Qingtong beside her, exclaiming excitedly, “Ahhh, sister TT is the best in the whole world!!” But the moment she looked clearly at Gu Qingtong’s face, she froze, and the rest of her words got stuck in her throat.
Earlier, Gu Qingtong’s heart had been burning with heat from focusing solely on Yan Chi. Now, however, it was filled with a soft warmth from countless tender emotions.
When Yan Chi mentioned TT, Gu Qingtong’s tightly clenched hands slowly began to relax. Sensing something, she stretched out the hand that had gone pale from gripping too hard and removed her baseball cap and mask, revealing her bright and beautiful features.
Yan Chi’s usually calm voice seemed to tremble slightly as she continued, “At my personal invitation, she’s here with us today. But now, I want to introduce everyone to another identity she holds.”
“My wife, Gu Qingtong.”
“Tongtong.”
The last two words Yan Chi said into the microphone—”Tongtong”—sounded like a tender love confession. The way her tongue softly touched the roof of her mouth, gently speaking forward, was something only the two of them could truly understand.
After finishing, Yan Chi handed the microphone to the staff. She lifted her gown, shimmering like flowing light, and took deliberate steps toward the highest corner of the theater.
Gu Qingtong didn’t stand frozen in place. Bravely, she stood up in front of everyone’s gaze. She was no longer afraid. Though her cheeks flushed with redness, her eyes sparkled with unwavering determination as she moved toward the love she had yearned for so long.
They had never been one-sided in their pursuit of each other. It had always been a mutual journey, moving toward one another.
Gu Qingtong and Yan Chi met halfway on the steps. It was impossible to say who moved first, but the moment they embraced and kissed, the screen that had been pitch black behind them lit up again.
The image of “Drowning Sand” reappeared, but this time, the black-and-white was finally infused with color, just like the vibrant hues that had blossomed in their lives after Tongtong and her “big sister” found each other.
