Chapter 4
A few evenings later, I buried myself in the comic studio, trying to use frantic creation to suppress the growing unease inside me.
The new chapter of The Dreamers almost flowed out on its own—Maria struggling to survive on the streets of LA, her eyes a mix of longing for the future and resilience against injustice.
I poured all my confusion, pain, and nowhere-to-go cries fiercely onto the page with my pen.
"Every dreamer deserves to be understood, but understanding shouldn't be built on lies."
I subconsciously captioned the latest pages with this line when I posted them on Instagram. Likes and comments from fans came quickly, but one unfamiliar comment made my fingertips turn icy:
[Candice, your work reminds me of the movie Song of the Immigrant, it also sincerely focuses on life at the bottom. I heard Mr. Adrian Mitchell particularly appreciates this kind of deep artistic work. It's a pity so many people nowadays only chase glamour and don't appreciate true value...]
Adrian Mitchell... The name was like a tiny ice pick, piercing precisely into my heart.
In my past life, our first deep conversation was about Song of the Immigrant. He said true art should show care, should give voice to neglected groups, should possess the power to move people... Things Berenice would never understand, might even scorn. She would only find them "boring" and "unprofitable."
"What's wrong? You look awful," Maya said, walking over with coffee and immediately noticing my distress, her eyes falling on my paused pen. "Still thinking about your sister and that 'soulmate' of hers?"
"Nothing, just..." I hesitated. The question that had been tormenting me day and night, nearly bursting out of my chest, slipped out uncontrollably again. "Maya, do you think... if two people are together, but one of them... is constantly trying very hard to act out the version the other likes, instead of being their true self... can they really be happy? Can it last?"
Maya frowned, putting down her coffee cup. "Acting? Candice, that sounds not only exhausting but terrifying. That's not love; that's more like a... carefully planned scam!" She suddenly looked at me alertly, lowering her voice. "Wait... you're not talking about Berenice and Adrian, are you?"
I instantly regretted it, feeling like my most secret thoughts had been exposed. I hurriedly looked down, pretending to organize my drawing papers.
"No! It's not that... I was just... asking randomly, for a plot point. I just hope they are... suitable." My voice grew smaller, the last few words almost mumbled, unconvincing even to myself. This was the pathetic lie I had to uphold.
Maya's frown deepened. "Candice, frankly, it's hard for me to imagine someone whose mind is full of designer bags and social media likes having any real common ground with someone who genuinely loves art and discusses deep topics. How much acting talent would that require?"
"Maya! Don't talk about my sister like that!" I stopped her almost reflexively, my voice carrying a hint of blustering severity.
But deep down, every word Maya said was like a poison-tipped needle, striking my deepest fears with pinpoint accuracy.
I remembered the printed materials I saw through the crack in the door in the early hours, the emotionless lines she recited to the mirror, the impatient tone when she complained "so cheesy"...
Could she really understand Adrian? No, she was just executing a strategy, a guide on how to catch a billionaire.
I shook my head desperately, as if to shake out these "treasonous," betraying thoughts. Guilt washed over me again like a tide, nearly drowning me.
I quickly and flusteredly gathered the drawing tools on the table, my trembling fingers dropping a brush once. "I'm not feeling well, a headache. I'm going home early."
"Candice..." Maya looked at me worriedly, her eyes full of confusion, but she finally just sighed. "If you need to talk, I'm here. Don't keep everything bottled up."
When I got home that night and opened the door, that familiar, suffocating feeling hit me again.
Intermittent sounds came from the next room—still that textbook-recitement flat tone, but tonight, it was clearly mixed with more irritation and lack of confidence:
"The cinematography of independent films... uh... is very deep... its narrative structure often breaks traditional linearity..." Berenice's voice carried the obvious mark of rote memorization, with long pauses in between, accompanied by the rustle of turning pages, as if she was anxiously trying to recall the next line.
I froze in the entryway, my heart feeling like it had been plunged into ice water, sinking fast.
Again? A second date? Did Adrian ask her to an independent film screening?
Adrian in my past life was indeed obsessed with various art films. We once stayed up late discussing the meaning of a certain shot in an obscure experimental film, that excitement of souls colliding I still remember...
And now my sister was painfully chewing on those term explanations as if tackling her most hated subject.
No! I can't compare! This is my fault! I shouldn't remember these things!
I almost ran back to my room, slamming the door shut hard, as if that could completely block out the despair-inducing recitation and page-turning sounds.
I picked up my drawing tablet again, almost scratching lines onto the paper with a self-punishing intensity.
Draw, Candice, you only deserve to draw! Fill yourself with work, don't think! This current pain is part of your atonement, it's what you deserve!
The next night, I curled up at the small desk in my room, continuing The Dreamers. Only by completely immersing myself in Maria's world could I get a moment's respite.
My phone screen suddenly lit up, showing a new message.
From Berenice.
[The date's over. Adrian said something urgent came up at his company, so he left first. But the overall vibe was great!]
I stared at the message, my fingers hovering over the screen, trying hard to muster even a tiny bit of happiness for her, but found my heart completely numb. In the end, I only dryly replied with one words: [Okay.]
But after the message sent successfully, my heart felt like it was weighed down by a huge rock, heavy and suffocating.
Why did the result I personally pushed for make me feel so stifled and... fake?