She Wants to Divorce Me

Damp hair still dripping water quickly soaked the bedding. The room had only one bed, meaning she and Chang Yu would share it. Ji Yaoguang ran her fingers through her long hair, her heart pounding. Despite their many intimate moments, she could only see Chang Yu’s back. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped out from under the covers, put on a robe, and went to look for a hair dryer. Ji Yaoguang disliked blow-drying her hair, preferring to sleep with it damp. However, Chang Yu would always pull her out of bed, saying it would cause headaches.

The hair dryer’s noise suddenly filled the room. Ji Yaoguang stole a glance at Chang Yu, seeing her gaze fixed on the script, unaware that Chang Yu’s thoughts had long since wandered. Eyes slightly narrowed, fingers running through her hair, Ji Yaoguang recalled Chang Yu drying her hair, a warm feeling spreading through her body. Though right in front of her, they were now more distant than strangers. Ji Yaoguang dared not speak, fearing it might change Chang Yu’s mind, turning her soft heart beneath that cold exterior to stone.

Since Ji Yaoguang entered the room, Chang Yu couldn’t focus on the script. The usually professional actress was annoyed at her own lapse, something that hadn’t happened even during their arguments. Tossing the script aside, she pressed her temples, scenes from the past flashing before her eyes. The determination and decisiveness with which she had presented the divorce papers had vanished; all her resolution had been mere emotional impulse. Fatigue once again engulfed her body and mind. Struggling to control her anger towards Ji Yaoguang, she got up, took clean clothes, and entered the bathroom.

What if Ji Yaoguang had changed? The thought involuntarily surfaced. Chang Yu looked at herself in the mirror, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. Who knew if this change was just momentary compromise? She still remembered Ji Yaoguang’s sarcasm, her uncontrollable jealousy when Chang Yu dined with directors or showed slight intimacy with co-stars. Each time like an unreasonable child, so different from the frank, composed, slightly lazy Ji Yaoguang of the past. Her finger traced “Ji Yaoguang” on the cold mirror surface. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, all chaotic emotions had vanished.

Compared to Chang Yu’s tumultuous thoughts, Ji Yaoguang’s mind had gradually settled. She began planning her next steps. Today’s events had shown a glimmer of hope in endless darkness. Didn’t it mean Chang Yu was reluctant to let go, willing to accept her? As the hair dryer’s noise faded, replaced by the sound of running water, Ji Yaoguang took a deep breath, pushing aside all flights of fancy. She crawled under the covers, only her bright eyes visible, staring at the ceiling. Back to three years ago, it had been ongoing for some time. Ji Yaoguang hardly considered it a dream; perhaps those three years had been a long dream, covering her heart with guilt, allowing her to be less impulsive upon waking, choosing the most suitable path. From small personal matters to the whole world, nothing had developed as she remembered. She still needed to live cautiously. If anything had changed, it was her more steadfast love for Chang Yu.

As her mind gradually emptied, Ji Yaoguang didn’t notice when sleep came, only that it arrived swiftly, plunging her into dark dreams before she could react. When Chang Yu emerged, she saw only the figure curled up on the bed, wrapped entirely in the blanket like a cocoon. Fearing noise might wake Ji Yaoguang, she towel-dried her hair and approached the bed to look at Ji Yaoguang’s sleeping face. Whatever she was dreaming, her furrowed brows betrayed deep unease. Besides her slightly red cheeks, Chang Yu noticed a small bruise on her forehead, likely from the earlier thud, though she hadn’t mentioned it.

Because of Ji Yaoguang, Chang Yu had sighed countless times today. She didn’t want to bother with her, but as she was about to lift the blanket on the other side of the bed, she suddenly withdrew her hand, glaring at Ji Yaoguang before searching for the ointment. This careless person seemed intent on using up the entire tube in one day.

“Who is she… Chang Yu! No divorce, I don’t want it!” Fragmented sleep-talk emerged from the sleeping figure. A hand suddenly shot out from under the blanket, flailing wildly, grasping the nearest thing and refusing to let go. Chang Yu’s heart was struck hard at this moment. Her expression fluctuated before she slowly pried Ji Yaoguang’s fingers open, freeing her wrist. The ointment on Ji Yaoguang’s forehead wasn’t fully absorbed, but Chang Yu had lost the will to continue. She washed her hands and turned off the lights, instantly enveloped in darkness.

Ji Yaoguang dreamed again of Chang Yu embracing that strange woman, still without the right to reproach in her dream, as all ties between them had been severed. When Ji Yaoguang woke, she lay in bed recalling for a moment before rubbing her sleepy eyes. The bedside clock showed nine o’clock; daylight streamed in, and Chang Yu was gone. After all, unlike her, Chang Yu played the lead role, with scene after scene to film. Howling winter wind whistled outside as Ji Yaoguang licked her dry lips, reluctant to leave the warm bed. She had grown increasingly lazy lately; the days of rising at dawn for engagements had flown by, leaving only a blurred imprint in memory.

Opening WeChat on her phone, a flood of messages poured in.

Bian Yuting: How are things with Chang Yu?

Bian Yuting: ???? Don’t tell me you’re too busy with a passionate night to reply?

Bian Yuting: Want to change your mind? Do you really want to play an insignificant maid? It would have been better if you’d let me be your manager back then.

Su Ci: Quick, check Weibo!!! Big news. Look, but don’t reply rashly!

⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱⊰⋆⋅⭑⋅⋆⊱

These were messages sent last night; replying now seemed somewhat— Ji Yaoguang’s fingers hovered over the screen, watching words appear in the chat box before slowly deleting them. Never mind, one word might lead to countless questions. Exiting WeChat, she remembered Su Ci’s words and opened Weibo. Overnight, the trending topic had changed to #LiYaoyaoQuitsRole#, stemming from an official statement by the “The Treacherous Courtier” production team.

“I knew my Goddess Ji wasn’t that kind of person!”

“The production team is awesome!”

“My goddess’s judgment is as good as ever. Those calling Ji Yaoguang a vase, can you look as good as her? Living off your looks? And those calling Ji Yaoguang illiterate, haven’t you heard of Z University? It’s a top institution, and she entered as the top-scoring student in the national college entrance exam!”

“May I ask timidly, if Li Yaoyao quit, who will play Princess Pingyang?”

Most comments were from her fans, with occasional discordant voices quickly shouted down by the majority. While she disliked such keyboard warrior arguments, it would be a lie to say her mood wasn’t affected. Ji Yaoguang only glanced briefly before clicking into Li Yaoyao’s Weibo. Pinned at the top was a post from early this morning, already with hundreds of thousands of reposts and comments.

Li Yaoyao V: I’ve let everyone down, let the teachers down. It’s my own lack of skill, unable to grasp the script’s meaning. Though my time with the production was short, I learned a lot. Leaving is regrettable, but it will only motivate me to move forward. Thank you again for everyone’s support.

Ji Yaoguang disliked Li Yaoyao’s perfect white lotus act, especially after being slapped by her. Any perceptive person could see it was intentional. With almost no interaction between them, this inexplicable slap had greatly angered Ji Yaoguang. Li Yaoyao’s fans dominated the comments, comforting her while not forgetting to smear Ji Yaoguang, saying all sorts of unpleasant things. Was it because of the internet’s anonymity? Did they think this was freedom of speech? Ji Yaoguang frowned as she finished scrolling through recent Weibo updates. Just as she was about to get up and go to the set to see Chang Yu, another message came in from Qiao Xi: “When you have time, ask Cheng Henian if she’s willing to sing the theme song for ‘The Treacherous Courtier’.” Chang Yu had just mentioned this name yesterday; this message was likely at her suggestion.

Ji Yaoguang replied: “Alright.” She then searched for Cheng Henian’s Weibo, which was verified as “President of the Face to the Yellow Earth, Back to the Sky Association,” with several hundred thousand followers. She only followed one person: Lu Yusheng. Ji Yaoguang was puzzled, feeling something strange. She scrolled through Cheng Henian’s posts, mostly sarcastic comments and announcements about radio dramas. Curiosity piqued, she clicked on one, only to be startled by suggestive sounds, nearly dropping her phone. She hurriedly exited, her face flushed red, thankful no one else was in the room.

“Weirdo,” she muttered, but still clicked follow. Soon, Weibo chimed; Cheng Henian had quickly followed back and sent a private message: “Hi, fallen for my voice?”