Chapter Thirteen: Why Are You Crying?

Chen Ling’s hometown was in Zhongzhou City, a drive of about ten hours under ideal conditions, but with the Spring Festival travel rush, it was already good fortune to make it home in twenty. As expected, the highway was jammed with traffic. Chen Ling set out on the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth lunar month and didn’t reach home until the afternoon of the twenty-eighth.

After arriving in Zhongzhou, Chen Ling didn’t head straight home. Instead, he went to the mall to buy gifts for his parents. His mother and father had already returned the day before, having sent off the factory workers for their holiday, arriving a day earlier than Chen Ling.

His parents had left for the south when he was very young, venturing out for over a decade. By chance, they’d started a factory, which had grown into a successful business. They could be called entrepreneurs, yet the distance meant they rarely spent time with their son. He remembered several New Years when his parents couldn’t come home, and he had to celebrate at relatives’ houses.

Because his parents were often absent, Chen Ling had attended boarding school from primary school onward. It was fortunate he hadn’t gone astray, turning into a dyed-blond delinquent. By the time the factory was stable, their son had grown up. Realizing this, his parents felt a lingering guilt for his lost childhood that could never be made up.

This guilt was why Chen Ling could persuade his parents to give him four million yuan with just a few phone calls. Otherwise, no matter how much they doted on him, they would not have handed over so much money so easily. At the very least, they would have made the trip to Beijing themselves.

At the mall, Chen Ling bought a watch, a tie, and a belt for his father; two handbags for his mother. He knew nothing about cosmetics, so he left those aside. The gifts cost over a hundred thousand yuan in total. After investing three million in a film project, he still had a million left from his parents, plus some pocket money, so he felt little pressure making these purchases—his parents would never have indulged themselves so.

When Chen Ling rang the doorbell at home, his mother opened the door and was overjoyed to see her beloved son. In the living room, Chen Ling handed the presents to his parents, who were so delighted they couldn’t stop smiling, repeating that their child had grown up. Though he’d spent their money, they were still happy; what mattered was his thoughtfulness.

The next day, Chen Ling received an invitation to a class reunion. With nothing else to do, he joined a few old classmates for a meal and to catch up. They’d just started university, and their high school bonds were still fresh. The gathering was simple—just eating and reminiscing, with no one showing off or posturing.

The only memorable moment was when they went to sing karaoke after dinner. Chen Ling’s performance astonished everyone, and they remarked that he’d hidden his talents too deeply in high school, only revealing himself at the art exams. Now, being classmates with celebrities at the Beijing Film Academy, his future seemed bright. His female classmates’ eyes sparkled with admiration, but compared to his beloved Sweetie, they paled, so Chen Ling paid them little heed.

Someone sang Chen Ling’s own “Key Words,” a song that had become an internet sensation after being performed as a duet by Zhang Jie and Xie Na at Mango TV’s New Year’s Eve Gala. The gala’s ratings had dominated for years, and such exposure was a huge boost for any song. None of his classmates realized the original singer was sitting right beside them.

At this point, Chen Ling was clearly in the category of “the song is famous, but the singer is not.”

Originally, his parents had planned to visit their ancestral village for the New Year, the first since Chen Ling had been admitted to university—a moment of pride for the family. But everyone returned late this year, so they postponed the trip until next year instead.

Even without returning to their rural roots, the holiday was lively. Classmates, family friends, and relatives from Zhongzhou all gathered—the house was never empty. At Chen Ling’s request, no one mentioned his film project; after all, the movie hadn’t been released yet, and he didn’t want idle gossip to dampen his parents’ spirits.

Still, Chen Ling received endless praise—not only from his parents, but from their guests and relatives as well. His family had prospered in recent years, and some relatives were eager to curry favor. Joyful, bustling days passed quickly.

In Chen Ling’s hometown, there was a tradition called “breaking the fifth”—meaning that those who went away couldn’t leave until the fifth day of the New Year had passed. So, on the morning of the sixth day, after setting off a string of firecrackers downstairs, Chen Ling and his parents departed—his parents to the south, where another factory waited for them, hundreds of employees expecting their return.

Chen Ling returned to Beijing. Though the new term hadn’t begun, he wanted to get an early start on editing his film and had promised his girlfriend to begin recording her album. Glancing at the fading outline of his neighborhood in the rearview mirror, he knew he wouldn’t be back until next New Year—the summer break would be too busy.

Perhaps by next New Year, they could move into a bigger place. The old neighborhood was over a decade old and showing its age. If not for the money he’d invested in the film, they would have bought a new home this year. But that didn’t matter—if he earned enough, he’d buy an even bigger one. Having lived a second life, surely he wouldn’t let things regress.

Back in Beijing, Chen Ling first visited his homeroom teacher, Mr. Lin, bringing gifts as a gesture of respect. It was the season for New Year’s visits, and Mr. Lin had always looked after Chen Ling, whether at school or during film shoots, treating him almost like a protégé. For now, Chen Ling could only repay him with holiday visits.

Apart from his teacher, there was no one else in Beijing he needed to visit. What about going to Jing Tian’s home? That didn’t seem appropriate; after all, Chen Ling was no troublemaker nor a smooth talker. After calling Jing Tian to announce his return, Chen Ling plunged into the editing room at school.

Editing a film was tedious work—a feature-length film for theatrical release might run just over a hundred minutes, but those minutes were distilled from thousands, even tens of thousands of minutes of footage. Different editors could create entirely different films from the same material, which is why directors with artistic ambitions insisted on having final cut—control over the finished work.

The initial stages were monotonous and dull—just one person in the editing room, alone with the footage. But things quickly improved when Jing Tian arrived. With a beautiful companion, even the dullest task became enjoyable, especially when that companion was caring and affectionate—sometimes even calling him “big brother” in a soft, playful voice.

Since Jing Tian’s arrival, Chen Ling’s routines grew more regular—she would bring him meals, always on time; bring him warm tea when he was thirsty. Often, she would curl up in his arms, or sit quietly at his side, watching him work with unwavering attention.

People cannot fully appreciate happiness while living it. Only years later, looking back on this time—this early spring before the snow had melted, before the new semester had begun, when most students had not yet returned—did Chen Ling realize how comfortable and precious these days spent in the small editing room of the Beijing Film Academy truly were. They were memories etched in his heart, though at the time, they seemed perfectly ordinary.

Chen Ling edited quickly, since the original film played out in his mind from another timeline; he simply had to assemble the footage accordingly. During this period, Dou Xiao called with good news: he’d been cast as the lead in Zhang Yimou’s new film, “Under the Hawthorn Tree.” Dou Xiao was ecstatic—who wouldn’t be, landing a role in a Zhang Yimou film?

Chen Ling was genuinely happy for his friend, but he cautioned him to sign with Zhang Yimou’s own studio, not New Picture. Chen Ling couldn’t explain that Zhang Yimou and New Picture would part ways after two more films, but he could at least steer his friend away, so he wouldn’t go down with a sinking ship.

Though Dou Xiao didn’t quite grasp Chen Ling’s meaning, he trusted his friend—Chen Ling never spoke without a reason. Unable to make sense of it, he simply followed Chen Ling’s advice. Anyway, he was closer to Zhang Yimou’s studio than New Picture.

Soon, the film’s editing was nearly complete, and it was time for the soundtrack. Chen Ling planned to have Bad Monkey Films handle the music—pay the fee, get the job done, as they offered such services.

He arranged a time with Master Fan, and brought Jing Tian with him to Bad Monkey Films. They had two objectives: first, to arrange the film’s score; second, to begin recording the album Jing Tian had been pestering him about throughout the New Year. Since they were there, Chen Ling decided to record two songs first.

In his plans, he would pursue both directing and acting, while singing would remain a sideline—straddling film, television, and music was too exhausting, though not difficult for someone with his knowledge. Having lived another lifetime, Chen Ling simply didn’t want to work himself to death. Still, he had promised his girlfriend the album, and singing could sometimes be a way to impress.

For example, at a gathering with friends, when you’re drunk and pick up a guitar to sing, while your friends, equally drunk, can only hold your hand and say, “Listen, let me tell you…” The contrast speaks for itself. And whether singing is a good way to win a girl’s heart—one glance at Jing Tian answers that question. Had it not been for his song “Just Once,” he might have had to work much harder to win her.

Back in the Bad Monkey recording studio, Chen Ling first settled the film’s music—this was easy enough, since the soundtrack for “Love is Not Blind” was simple. With that out of the way, he prepared to record two songs, both carefully selected, neither of which Jing Tian had heard him sing before.

Both were released in 2015: “Ten Miles of Spring Wind” by Deer Xiansen Band, and “Accompanying You Through the Long Years” by Eason Chan.

He recorded “Accompanying You Through the Long Years” first. He’d thought of many possible reactions Jing Tian might have upon hearing it for the first time, but he hadn’t expected her to cry—really, to sob her heart out.

When he finished, Chen Ling left the recording booth, pulling the weeping girl into his arms, feeling a surge of tenderness as he saw her tear-reddened eyes. In their time together, they had become deeply important to one another.

“Why are you crying like this?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know, I just wanted to cry,” Jing Tian replied, rubbing her eyes, a little embarrassed.

“Accompanying you is the deepest confession of love. I’ll always be by your side,” Chen Ling replied, borrowing a line from the lyrics.

“I’ve also prepared two duets for us to sing together. And the film’s ending song—I’ve already written it, and I want you to sing it.”

Jing Tian nodded vigorously in his embrace.

Then Chen Ling took from his pocket the song he had written, “If Love is Forgotten,” and handed it to her. He hadn’t intended to include an ending song, but with so many unused songs stored in his memory, it seemed a waste not to use one.

In the end, he chose a somewhat melancholic love song, which would one day become a classic gift from singer 7v to his girlfriend, and now he was giving it to Jing Tian. Having the leading lady sing the film’s closing theme was fitting, and years later, it would make for a beautiful shared memory.

But after reading the lyrics, Jing Tian cried even harder, her tears flowing without end.