Chapter 5
Just then, my phone started vibrating madly. It was Maya calling, her voice urgent. "Candice! Look at what I just sent you! Quick! My friend Lisa just saw this! I think you need to see it!"
A strong sense of foreboding instantly seized me. Trembling, I opened the pictures Maya sent.
They were a few blurry but readable screenshots of chat logs.
The poster seemed to be a friend of Maya's friend:
[Major awkwardness live observation note. Tonight at the New Wave film festival at Downtown Independent, saw this really good-looking couple. The guy seemed pretty into it, but the girl was on her phone the whole time, looking bored, and kept whispering complaints like 'When will these movies end?', 'So boring, can't understand', 'Not a single celebrity.' Really don't know why this kind of person comes to an independent film festival...#wastingmoneyticket#]
My blood seemed to freeze instantly.
The attached picture was a dimly lit corner of the theater, seemingly taken sneakily, a bit blurry. But the flash might have accidentally gone off.
One photo clearly illuminated the side profile of a girl in the front row and that familiar, carefully curated "artsy" dress.
It was Berenice. She was looking down, the light from her phone screen clearly reflecting the unmistakable boredom and impatience on her face.
"This... this can't be..." I muttered, my fingers icy, almost unable to hold the phone.
Another message from Maya quickly followed, another more detailed screenshot from some small group chat:
[My friend's friend was sitting right behind them! It was like a live broadcast! The girl seemed completely lost, even asked this massively cringe question: 'What's cinematography? Does it mean it's very linguistic?' The guy's face practically turned green on the spot, but he had to stay polite and endure the disgust to explain it to her.]
[After the show, heard her complaining in the café about why they didn't go to a Michelin-star restaurant for the date, and said her favorite artist was some Instagram influencer filter blogger... The guy looked really upset in the end, made some excuse and left first. Heard the guy is some pretty famous producer? This girl is too...]
I couldn't read the rest.
My phone slipped from my utterly strengthless hands, falling to the floor with a "thud."
The world seemed to spin and collapse around me.
So... this was her so-called "overall vibe was great"?
So... Adrian left "looking really upset"?
That dangerous thought I had been desperately suppressing with guilt and self-blame finally broke through all the self-built cages, screaming madly in my mind, loud enough to deafen me:
I knew it! I knew it would be like this!
She doesn't get it at all!
How could she possibly truly love these things? She only loves Adrian's status and wealth! She can't even manage the most basic disguise! It's so flimsy!
Memories of my past life flooded back like a broken dam, but this time, they weren't sweet nostalgia; they turned into sharp, piercing sarcasm, stinging me fiercely—
The light in Adrian's eyes when we discussed Song of the Immigrant... Our heated yet mutually appreciative arguments over an underestimated independent film... His surprise and delighted admiration when he saw I truly understood the film's deep metaphors...
"Cinematography is the soul of a film," I had said to him so seriously in my past life. "Sometimes it hits harder than dialogue, expressing the director's deepest heart." The way he looked at me then, that startlingly bright joy of finding a soulmate...
That light, that joy, was never meant for an outsider who could only recite lines, complain about movie length, and ask such ridiculous questions about "cinematography"!
No! That never belonged to me! I can't think about this anymore! I'm a thief! I'm a traitor!
I shot up from my chair, my whole body shaking violently.
I rushed into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed my face frantically with cold water. Then I looked up, staring at the pale, wet, pain-stricken, tear-streaked face in the mirror.
"Candice, what are you thinking?" I silently screamed at the wretched reflection in the mirror, my nails digging deep into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped red marks.
"In your past life, you stole the opportunity from the sister who protected you since childhood! You caused all the tragedy! In this life, you absolutely cannot make the same mistake again! Even if she is acting, even if she doesn't love him at all, it's her choice! It's her freedom! You have no right to judge! All you need to do is atone! Quietly atone for your sins!"
But tears still welled up uncontrollably, mixing with the cold water on my face, splashing onto the sink.
Why?
Why does everything still feel so suffocatingly painful, even after starting over?
Why, after choosing so-called "letting them be", do I have to watch everything head towards an obvious, vulgar disaster?
Why does my atonement seem more like another form of, even crueler, harm to Adrian?
I returned to my room distractedly, picked up my drawing tablet again, and almost vindictively forced myself to keep creating.
But the charcoal pencil in my hand trembled violently uncontrollably, scratching a deep, despairing, unerasable ugly mark across Maria's strong, beautiful face.
The nightscape of LA outside the window was dazzling, neon lights flashing illusory and bewildering light. It so resembled countless nights in my past life, when we would sit in a small corner café, watching the city's kaleidoscopic strangeness through the glass, sharing our purest love for art, weaving blueprints of dreams...
My phone screen lit up again suddenly, especially glaring in the darkness.
A new notification. Someone had commented on my latest The Dreamers post.
I glanced at it subconsciously, tears quickly blurring my vision again.
The comment read:
[Your work sincerely touched my heart. This kind of creation that focuses on social reality and is full of humanistic care is especially precious in this frivolous era. I truly hope more people who understand the essence of art and respect creative original intent can see it.]
I looked at the comment, tears falling even harder.
Would he like my work now? Could he understand the struggle and hope in Maria's eyes? Could he feel the crushing, nowhere-to-tell pain between the brushstrokes that was about to overwhelm me?
No! I don't deserve to!
I turned my phone face down on the desk sharply, as if it were something scalding that would burn me. Then I buried my face deep into my cold arms, my shoulders shaking violently, emitting suppressed, silent sobs.
Just then, the faint sound of Berenice video-calling a friend came from the next room, cheerful and proud, penetrating the thin wall:
"Jessica, my date with Adrian today was super successful! He was completely conquered by my artistic insights and deep thinking. We talked so much about the core of filmmaking; he especially admired my unique perspective..."
She was lying.
So blatantly, so full of holes, even somewhat laughably.
But were these lies to maintain her own glamorous image in front of her sister? To deceive Jessica on the other end of the phone?
Or to deceive... the pathetic me who could hear it clearly, who knew the truth, but had to play along in her performance?
I didn't know.
And I didn't want to know.
Because even if I knew all the answers, I could do nothing.
I could only be here, listening to her false victory song, and, silently, shatter into pieces.