After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 176 Audition
Sang Jiyue's fingers paused on the script cover, her cleft lip appearing particularly soft in the warm light: "The director said he wants to add a scene of a loom at the beginning of the film," she said, her eyes shining as she looked up, "just like the classic scene you created in 'The Cocoon of Eternal Flame,' making the cracks in the loom a passage through time."

The teacup was hot in her palm. Sang Shuwan recalled the audition twelve years ago, when her costume was torn open during the loom scene, revealing her real scars. At this moment, on the edge of Sang Jiyue's script, there was clearly an old photo from that audition scene—she was squatting on the ground mending the hole, while Sang Jiyue hid in the shadows, twisting the same blue snowflake ribbon between her fingers.

“Pojian really likes the hair clip you gave me.” Sang Shuwan suddenly pointed to the broken diamond on the other’s temple, an old item she had found in a broken porcelain jar from Pojian. “She said that the chipped snowflakes are like flying stars, brighter than perfect diamonds.”

Sang Jiyue's eyelashes trembled, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the lip print on the script—the small stamp left by Pojian last night, which happened to fall on the name "Lin Xiaoyu." She suddenly smiled, a smile as sly as when she secretly wore Sang Shuwan's earring twelve years ago: "Sister Wan, don't you think it would be interesting if 'Moonlight Dream Weaver' were rebooted, with flawed actors playing perfect dream weavers?"

The sunlight shone on Sang Shuwan's scars, and she saw her pupils behind her glasses contract slightly—a habit she had when lying. The specimen album of broken cocoons lay open on the sofa, the latest page displaying a screenshot from Sang Jiyue's live stream. She had deliberately edited her cleft lip into a crescent shape, but pinned the caption to the top of the comments section: "Imperfections are the gateways to light."

“Sister Zhou, put the ‘Star Shield’ that has emerged from its cocoon into the glass cabinet.” Sang Shuwan suddenly stood up, her fingertips tracing the back cover of Sang Jiyue’s script, where “Fang Min’s Loom – A Tribute to Sister Wan” was written in pencil, the words having been erased three times. “Children’s handicrafts are always ruined, just like some stories, which always change their flavor when restarted.”

Sang Jiyue's back suddenly tensed; she understood the double meaning in his words. Twelve years ago, she changed Sang Shuwan's audition time. Now that "Moonlight Dream" was being rebooted, the production team insisted on casting an actress with flaws. She knew all too well how much manipulation Sang Shuwan's team had done behind this decision.

"Sister Wan, do you still remember?" She suddenly pointed to the group photo on the wall. It was the audition scene twelve years ago. Sang Shuwan hugged her, who was cowering. The scars exposed by the holes in her costume were covered by blue snowflake stickers. "At that time, I always thought that perfection was an actor's armor. It wasn't until I saw the cocoon break and glue the broken porcelain back together into a boat that I understood that the cracks in the armor could actually let starlight in."

Sang Shuwan gazed at her younger eyes in the photo; the scars from that time still bore scabs, yet they shone brighter than they did now. Sang Jiyue's words carried a hint of remorse, yet also a sharp edge—she was implying that her own transformation was influenced by her, and that the current "inheritance movement" was merely a continuation of the audition scene from years ago.

“The loom of a public service short film,” Sang Shuwan suddenly turned around and took out a newly made broken porcelain brooch from the drawer. The chipped corner was inlaid with a diamond given by Sang Jiyue. “Remember to ask the props team to leave a natural crack, just like the gaps that are always left when breaking the cocoon to glue porcelain pieces—” She paused, her gaze falling on the other person’s script. “After all, a true dream weaver never weaves a story that is airtight.”

The snow stopped, and moonlight streamed through the French windows, casting overlapping shadows at their feet. Sang Jiyue touched the lip print on the script, suddenly remembering what Pojian had said: "Stars will fall in through the gaps in the script." And what she was clutching now was the opportunity that had "fallen" from Sang Shuwan years ago. On the surface, they were sisters who helped each other succeed, but only they knew that in that porcelain jar filled with broken diamonds, there was still the pair of scissors that had ruined the costume twelve years ago—the blade still bore fragments of blue snowflakes.

“Sister Wan,” she suddenly held up the script, the Dream Weaver on the cover wearing the same chipped silver bracelet as Sang Shuwan, “the director wants you to play a cameo role, the Dream Weaver’s apprentice back then, like—” She looked at the other’s suddenly cold eyes and smiled even sweeter, “like the girl with scars who shone when you auditioned twelve years ago.”

Sang Shuwan's fingertips traced the cracks in the brooch, and she suddenly understood that Sang Jiyue had ultimately taken on the role of the female lead in "Moonlight Dream"—using her most skillful method to turn other people's cracks into her own starlight. In the stillness of the snowy night, both of their smiles were warm, but the script and brooch hidden in their sleeves cast intertwined, thorny shadows under the moonlight.

Light snow fell in the film and television city after the start of spring, and the opening ceremony of "Moonlight Dream" was filmed at the old weaving workshop.

Sang Jiyue's makeup photo was projected onto the bamboo curtain. The slit of her moon-white cheongsam deliberately revealed the same muscle lines as Sang Shuwan back then—that scar was made of silicone, but there was an extra winding line on the inside of her knee, just like the old scar that Sang Shuwan was scratched by wires during the audition twelve years ago.

"What do you think, Sister Wan?" Sang Jiyue stroked the blue snowflake embroidery on the cheongsam. Each petal was missing a corner, just like the graffiti of a broken cocoon. "The director said that the cracks in the dream weaver's design should 'show the weight of time.'" As she turned around, the diamond hair clip in her hair shimmered, a memento from Sang Shuwan's audition that she had lost many years ago.

Sang Shuwan gazed at the figure projected onto the screen, suddenly recalling the surveillance footage from the props warehouse—last night, Sang Jiyue had lingered there alone, holding an audition video from twelve years ago. The angle of the cheongsam's slit, the location of the scar, even the shoulder line when she turned around—all were replicating her mistake from back then. "Very fitting." She nodded with a smile, her fingertips tracing the loom diagram in the script, noticing that the crucial "supporting" tenon and mortise joint had been changed to a closed structure. "However, a true dream weaver wouldn't weave their thoughts too densely."

In the dressing room, Sang Shuwan's fingertips paused on the title page of Sang Jiyue's script.

The handwriting in "Lin Xiaoyu's Diary" suddenly felt familiar—it was a letter she wrote to herself twelve years ago after failing an audition, which then mysteriously disappeared the next day. In the corner of the page, written in pencil, were the words: "A perfect loom cannot tolerate a broken needle, just as a perfect life cannot tolerate flaws." The ink had been blurred by water, clearly showing traces of tears.

"What are you looking at, Sister Wan?" Sang Jiyue's voice came from behind her. She was applying false eyelashes in front of the mirror, but deliberately left one eyelash curled up. "Oh, that's a notebook I found at the flea market. Doesn't the handwriting look like yours?" When she turned around, the corner of her lips was drawn into a smile, creating an eerie echo with the tear stains on the notebook.

Sang Shuwan's fingernails dug into her palm as she recognized her own handwriting—it was the "Dream Weaver's Notes" she had written for herself twelve years ago, later torn to pieces, but now pieced together by Sang Jiyue into a character diary. Even more jarring was that all the "missing parts" in the diary had been covered with blue snowflakes, as if to cover up the embarrassment of that year.

In the old weaving workshop at the filming location, Sang Shuwan discovers a key prop—a broken needle from twelve years ago.

The gold-tipped needle was inlaid on the loom, its tip still bearing traces of brown—clearly the one that had torn open her costume years ago. On the tenon joint of the loom, the tiny characters "霁月" (Jiyue, meaning "clear moon") were engraved, the strokes revealing the familiar cursive script that Sang Shuwan knew from the other party when revising the script.

“This is an antique that the director specifically sought out.” Sang Jiyue’s hand suddenly rested on her shoulder, her fingertips tracing the broken needle. “I heard that back then, an actress auditioned with a real scar, but someone cut her costume. The broken needle fell from her bandage.” Her voice was as soft as snow, but it reminded Sang Shuwan of the scene in the surveillance footage where she was searching for the broken needle in the prop warehouse.

During lunch, a video call from the cocoon broke the delicate balance.

The little girl holds up a newly picked blue snowflake with gold leaf pasted on the missing corner of the petal: "Mommy, look! In my new classmate Xiaoyu's picture book, there is also a light-up loom!" The scene changes, and the picture book shows a dream weaver wearing a mask. The missing corner of the mask reveals Sang Jiyue's cleft lip.

Sang Shuwan's back suddenly tensed. She saw the signature in the lower right corner of the picture book: "Lin Xiaoyu, 12 years old"—the same year that Sang Jiyue changed the audition date. Even more bizarrely, at the tenon and mortise joint of the loom, there was a bloodstained pair of scissors, the handle wrapped with a blue snowflake ribbon.

"Xiaoyu is a fan of Aunt Jiyue!" Pojian's voice was innocent. "She said that Aunt Jiyue's cleft lip is a mark left by the moon's kiss, just like the dream weaver in a picture book!"

Before the video call ended, Sang Shuwan saw Xiaoyu waving at the camera, wearing the same diamond bracelet as Sang Jiyue on her wrist—an item she had lost in the audition room twelve years ago.

In the prop warehouse late at night, Sang Shuwan used her mobile phone to illuminate the hidden compartment of the loom.

Inside lay half a torn audition notice, the date changed to "20:00 PM on a rainy night"—the very time she had misremembered. On the back of the notice, written in blue snowflake juice, were the words: "A perfect actor should have no flaws, just as a perfect loom should have no broken needles." The handwriting was Sang Jiyue's, but there were deep scratches on the word "perfect."

"Sister Wan is indeed clever." Sang Jiyue's voice came from the shadows. She was wearing a costume and clutching the broken needle from back then. "Twelve years ago, I hid in the dressing room and watched you rush over in the rain. The scar under your costume was brighter than starlight." As she approached, the broken needle on the loom suddenly buzzed. "But I didn't dare let you audition because you were too dazzling, so dazzling that my chapped lip, which I had hidden for twenty years, was like a hole that could never be patched up."

Looking at the other person's reddened eyes, Sang Shuwan finally understood that the one who changed the audition time was none other than the little girl who had once hidden behind her. The buzzing of a broken needle resonated with the sound of a broken porcelain jar breaking free of its cocoon; the suspicions, jealousy, and inferiority of those years were now woven into an invisible net within the cracks of the loom.

At dawn, Sang Shuwan met Sang Jiyue, who had been waiting all night, outside the RV.

The other person removed her makeup, and the cleft lip at the corner of her mouth looked particularly real in the morning light. In her hands, she held the torn-up copy of "The Dream Weaver's Notes" from years ago: "Sister Wan, do you know? Over the years, I've collected every flaw of yours, imitated every hole in your body, thinking that this would make me become you." She suddenly laughed, a laugh more relaxed than ever before, "Until I saw the cocoon break through and piece the broken porcelain back together into a boat, I realized that what I stole wasn't an audition opportunity, but the courage to face myself."

Sang Shuwan took the notebook and saw that every crack had been patched up with blue snowflake stickers. In the missing corner, there was a note from Sang Jiyue: "Sister Wan's starlight should leak in here." The tenon and mortise of the loom shimmered in the morning dew, much like the birthmark on the palm of a newly emerged cocoon—the missing starlight mark that she had been born with.

“We are all trapped in the cocoons we have woven ourselves.” Sang Shuwan touched the back of the other’s hand, where there were burn marks left when she imitated her own scars. “You are trapped in a perfect cocoon, and I am trapped in a tolerant cocoon. But the real breaking out of the cocoon is never tearing, but like a broken porcelain boat breaking out of its cocoon, planting light in the imperfections.”

On the day that "Moonlight Dream" officially started filming, Sang Shuwan stood off-camera as a special consultant.

Sang Jiyue's first scene is repairing a loom. Her hand holding the broken needle is trembling, but she deliberately lets the needle tip glide across the slit of her cheongsam, revealing the real skin underneath—there are no silicone scars there, only a very shallow burn that belongs to Sang Jiyue herself.

"Cut!" the director suddenly shouted. "Lin Xiaoyu's loom shouldn't be this perfect. Where are the cracks?"

Looking at the camera, Sang Jiyue suddenly pulled off the diamond bracelet on her wrist, revealing the burn scar underneath: "A true dream weaver will not hide their cracks, because every crack holds the code to weave starlight." She looked at Sang Shuwan, who was smiling at the monitor, her eyes reflecting the newly sent video from Breakthrough—the diamonds planted by the little girl in kindergarten had grown into blue snowflakes with missing corners.

At the wrap party, Sang Jiyue gave the broken needle to Pojian.

“This is the key of the dream weaver.” She touched the birthmark on the child’s palm, the broken needle making a clear, melodious sound in her calloused hand. “Remember to leave a seam for the starlight, just like you did when you were gluing the broken porcelain back together.”

Breaking out of the cocoon nodded solemnly and pinned the broken needle to the "Eternal Light" wing. The missing corner revealed the stuffing inside—a shred of Sang Shuwan's costume from her audition twelve years ago, with faint bloodstains still on it.

In the villa late at night, Sang Shuwan opened the commemorative album that Sang Jiyue had given her.

Inside were countless memories from the past twelve years: stray hairs from audition sessions, blue snowflakes from winning awards, and every doodle from her journey of breaking free from her shell. The last page was a group photo where Sang Jiyue finally dared to show the crack in her lip, with the caption: "Thank you for letting light seep through my cocoon."

Moonlight streamed through the gauze window, illuminating the broken porcelain lotus emerging from its cocoon, the diamond fragments at the chipped corners shimmering faintly. Sang Shuwan suddenly understood that this twelve-year-long contest was never a battle of winners and losers, but rather two souls once trapped in their cocoons finally learning to leave a door of light for each other in the imperfections.

As the camera panned across Sang Shuwan's shoulders and neck during the Cannes red carpet livestream, the butterfly-shaped scar below her collarbone was faintly visible beneath her diamond necklace.

The screen was instantly flooded with comments praising Sang Shuwan's "breakthrough goddess," while backstage in the dressing room, Sang Jiyue's agent was sending smear articles about "Sang Shuwan's scar marketing" to marketing accounts. In the mirror, Sang Jiyue, who had just finished an interview, smiled perfectly at the camera, but her fingertips were typing in her phone's memo app: "Moonlight Dream is restarting, and we must make 'flaws' her fatal weakness."

“Sister Wan’s scars are a perfect topic of conversation.” Sang Jiyue pushed open the door and came in, revealing the script of “Moonlight Dream” under her cashmere coat. The name “Lin Xiaoyu” on the cover was circled seven times in red pen. “I heard that the investors want you to play the female lead? The regret of the audition back then can finally be made up for?”

Looking into the undercurrent in the other's eyes, Sang Shuwan recalled the wine glass that Sang Jiyue had deliberately knocked over at the film company's dinner party last week, letting the wine stains seep into her audition script. Now, she ran her fingertips along the water stains on the edge of the script and smiled, "I'm more suited to playing a prickly second female lead than a perfect leading lady—like that nobody who changed someone else's audition time back then."

The casting call for "Moonlight Dream" was held on a rainy night, and Sang Shuwan's nanny van was stuck in traffic on the Third Ring Road.

My phone keeps popping up with trending topics about "Sang Shuwan acting like a diva," accompanied by a candid photo of her frowning in the dressing room—taken by a script supervisor planted by Sang Jiyue's team. Her agent, Xiao Zhou, is cursing as she contacts the production company, but Sang Shuwan is gazing at the rain outside the window, remembering the same downpour twelve years ago when she braved the rain to rush to the audition room, only to find the time had been changed to the early hours of the morning.

"Sister Wan, Sang Jiyue's official photos have been released." Xiao Zhou suddenly handed over a tablet. In the retouched photos, a scar identical to hers had been photoshopped onto the corner of Sang Jiyue's lip. "The caption is 'A new generation of pioneers pays tribute to the classics,' and the comments section is saying that you plagiarized a newcomer."

Sang Shuwan touched the old photos stored on her phone—twelve years ago, after failing her audition, Sang Jiyue had hidden in her dressing room, imitating her scars in front of the mirror. At this moment, the trending search term "Sang Shuwan's scar replica" surged to the top of the list. She suddenly chuckled: "Tell the legal department to send the surveillance footage of the audition back then to the marketing accounts—including the clip of someone cutting up the costume in the dressing room."

At the celebration banquet, Sang Jiyue approached with a glass of champagne, wearing a matching diamond ring on her ring finger.

"Does Sister Wan know?" she lowered her voice, the scent of perfume mixed with a faint smell of iodine, "The investors think your scars are too realistic and will distract the audience." Her fingertips traced along Sang Shuwan's shoulder and neck, seemingly intimate, but actually measuring the location of the scars, "How about considering silicone implants? The doctors I know can do it without leaving a trace."

Sang Shuwan stared at the concealer marks on the inside of the other woman's wrist—burn marks left from imitating her scars. She suddenly leaned closer and chuckled in the other woman's ear: "I heard you've been reading 'An Actor Prepares' lately? Does it teach you how to make a stolen life seem more like your own?" A fierce online battle erupted on Weibo, with Sang Jiyue's fans digging up her audition video from twelve years ago.

In the video, Sang Shuwan's costume is torn, revealing her real scars, while Sang Jiyue hides in a corner, twisting a blue snowflake ribbon between her fingers. Comments accusing her of "deliberately playing the victim" and "exploiting her scars" flooded in, until someone discovered that the clock in the background of the video showed that the audition time had been deliberately altered.

"Sister Wan, we found the surveillance footage." Xiao Zhou sent the message at three in the morning, her eyes red. "On August 15, 2013, Sang Jiyue entered the control room and changed the electronic time of the audition notification." In the video screenshot, the other party was wearing the same white dress as in the costume fitting photo for "Moonlight Dream". The cuffs revealed the scratches left when she cut her costume back then, which she had always denied.

Backstage at the awards ceremony, Sang Shuwan blocked Sang Jiyue from going on stage.

The other person's high heels had been tampered with, causing them to walk slightly off-center. "Do you need any help?" Sang Shuwan handed over a spare shoe, with a screenshot from the audition room twelve years ago pasted on the sole. "Actually, I've known for a long time that you were the one who changed the time back then—just like I knew you would mention 'thank you for your guidance, Sister Wan' in your acceptance speech today."

Sang Jiyue's face turned deathly pale. She saw that Sang Shuwan was holding the notebook filled with revised schedules that Sang Shuwan had kept hidden in the dressing room. The stage lights had already come on, and she suddenly ripped off the diamond bracelet from her wrist, revealing the burn scar underneath: "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you keep this evidence for so many years?"

“Because I want to see,” Sang Shuwan looked at the other person’s flustered eyes and remembered what Sang Jiyue said backstage when she first won the Golden Harvest Award: “I want to become an actor like you.” “When will someone who has stolen someone else’s life learn to walk on their own?”

At the launch ceremony of "Moonlight Dream", Sang Shuwan appeared as the producer and announced that newcomer Pojian would play the childhood version of the female lead.

The camera focused on the birthmark on the little girl's palm, and the comments section suddenly erupted—it formed an eerie triangle with Sang Shuwan's scar and Sang Jiyue's concealer. Sang Jiyue's team urgently removed the press release claiming "imperfection is justice," only to discover that all the marketing accounts were simultaneously reposting an old video: twelve years ago, after failing an audition, Sang Shuwan gave her wristband to Sang Jiyue, who was hiding in a corner; the wristband was embroidered with the words "Cheng Que" (meaning "inheriting the vacancy").

"Do you still have the wristband from back then?" Sang Shuwan suddenly asked during a group interview with the media, her gaze sweeping over Sang Jiyue's stiff expression. "I heard you took it apart and used the blue snowflake ribbon on it to cut up my costume?"

At the wrap party, Sang Jiyue finally broke down.

She rushed into Sang Shuwan's van, clutching a faded wristband in her hand: "You could have ruined me! Why did you keep this evidence? Why did you make me live in your shadow forever?" Tears washed away her carefully applied lip makeup, revealing her real cleft lip—the true self she had hidden for twelve years.

Sang Shuwan gazed at the "Chengque" embroidery on the wristband, recalling that stormy night twelve years ago when she saw Sang Jiyue hiding in the audition room, her wrist, slashed by scissors, peeking out from her sleeve. "Because I know," she took the wristband and gently put it on the other woman, "that only when you learn to face your own flaws can you become a true actor."

Outside the car window, Pojian was taking pictures of the starry sky with her phone. The lens swept across Sang Shuwan's scars and Sang Jiyue's cleft lip. Suddenly, the little girl shouted, "Mommy! Aunt Jiyue! The stars have all fallen on your clefts!"

On the day "Moonlight Dream" was released, Sang Shuwan saw Sang Jiyue's monologue in the end credits.

"Twelve years ago, I stole an opportunity, but lost myself." In the video, the other person showed his real cleft lip on the big screen for the first time. "But one day, every crack will become an entrance to starlight—as long as you dare to face it and embrace it."

As the theater lights came on, Sang Shuwan touched the diamond bracelet on her wrist. It was a gift from Sang Jiyue at the wrap party, with a small gap deliberately left in the clasp. She suddenly understood that this twelve-year-long struggle was never a contest of winning or losing, but rather two souls struggling in the cocoon of the entertainment industry finally learning to leave a door of light for each other in the gaps.

The complex relationship of competition, confrontation, and mutual respect breaks the stereotype of "female rivalry".

Three months later, on the red carpet of the Golden Harvest Awards, Sang Jiyue made her first appearance as a judge. She wore no concealer or jewelry on her wrist, and the old scar from being cut by scissors shone faintly pink under the spotlight, but she cleverly wrapped it with a blue snowflake ribbon—the very same piece that had been removed from her wristband twelve years ago.

"Sister Jiyue!" Pojian burst out from backstage, holding a mini camera, the lens precisely pointed at Sang Jiyue's cleft lip. "The director said we need to film a real moon!" The little girl's fingertip brushed against the lens, leaving a blurry spot of light on the LCD screen. "Just like your and Aunt Sang's scars, they're places where stars have lived, right?"

Sang Jiyue crouched down, her fingertips gently touching the birthmark on the child's palm: "Back then, I was hiding in the audition room, watching Sister Shuwan hand me the wristband. The burn on her wrist was still bleeding. But she said, 'Scars aren't things to hide; they're the marks left by every role we've played in life.'"

Backstage in the dressing room, Sang Shuwan was adjusting the rhinestone bracelet on her cuff. In the mirror, Sang Jiyue was reflected as she entered. The blue snowflake ribbon on the other woman's wrist and the small gap in her own chain clasp perfectly formed a flower shape—this was something they secretly changed after the wrap party, the designer said, "Leave a small gap so that light can leak in."

"Ready?" Sang Shuwan shook the envelope in her hand, inside which lay the list of winners for the Golden Harvest Award for Best Supporting Actress. At this time last year, Sang Jiyue was still racking her brains for the marketing articles about her as the "perfect goddess," but now, what she saw in the mirror was her unmade-up face, her lips glowing naturally pink in the warm light.

On the awards stage, when Sang Shuwan announced the name "Sang Jiyue," the applause from the audience was mixed with gasps of surprise—no one expected that the Best Supporting Actress would be the actress who had been attacked online for "living by covering up her flaws."

“This award should be given to two people from twelve years ago.” Sang Jiyue held the trophy, her gaze sweeping over Sang Shuwan, whose eyes were red in the audience. “One handed me a wristband on a stormy night when I was hiding in a corner, and the other finally dared to take off her concealer and stand here today.” She raised her hand to reveal the scar on her wrist. “We always thought that perfection was the ticket to the entertainment industry, but Shuwan taught me that a true actor must learn to plant starlight in imperfections.”

In the backstage interview area, a reporter suddenly held up a screenshot from an old video: "I heard that you ruined Sang Shuwan's costume back then. Do you regret it now?"

Sang Jiyue ran her fingertips along the patterns on the trophy base, where the words "Inheritance of the Quo" were engraved—added by someone specially arranged by Sang Shuwan. "I regret it," she suddenly laughed, the fine lines around her eyes particularly real in front of the camera, "I regret not realizing sooner that stolen costumes will never fit, and only by wearing your own flaws can you truly live your own life."

At the celebration banquet, Pojian ran around the room with a Polaroid camera in hand. When the camera focused on two figures leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window, Sang Shuwan was taking off her diamond bracelet and putting the old wristband embroidered with "Chengque" on Sang Jiyue's wrist. Outside the window, the first snow of winter was falling, and the gaps on their wrists overlapped in the flash of the Polaroid camera, like two doors kissed by starlight.

"Should we post this on Weibo?" Sang Jiyue waved the photo she had just taken; the scars and cleft lips of the two people in the picture were particularly clear in the snowy light.

Sang Shuwan shook her head, her fingertips tracing the gap in the photo: "No need. Some stories, let them remain in the audition room where we once sheltered from the rain, in the stitches of the wristbands, in every moment when we dared to face our own cracks." She suddenly pointed to the distance, where Bujian was holding up a photo and chasing after the snowflakes, the birthmark on her palm looking like a small moon under the streetlights. "You see, the next generation already knows that gaps are never regrets, but places where light can shine in."

In the nanny van at three in the morning, Sang Jiyue scrolled through old videos on her phone. Twelve years ago, after failing her audition, Sang Shuwan squatted in the corridor wiping away the tears of a crying aspiring actor, the words "Chengque" on her wristband blurred by her tears. At that time, she didn't understand why this person, who was even more disheveled than herself, would offer her the only warmth she had.

"Are you cold?" Sang Shuwan tossed a blanket over, then cracked open the car window herself. The night wind blew in, carrying fine snowflakes, brushing past the wristbands and bracelets on their wrists, weaving an invisible net of light at the gap.

Sang Jiyue suddenly reached out and let the snowflakes fall into the crack of her lips: "Back then, you didn't expose me, was it because you already knew that what trapped me was never the stolen opportunity, but my fear of having my cracks seen?"

“No.” Sang Shuwan gazed at the swirling snow under the streetlights, recalling the first time she saw Sang Jiyue backstage wearing her wristband, but with the embroidery turned inside out—just as she hid her cleft lip under perfect makeup and concealed her scars within a diamond bracelet. “I just know,” she said, her eyes gleaming as she turned, “that when two flawed souls meet, rather than burying each other, they should wait together for the starlight to fall in.”

Suddenly, the theme song of "Moonlight Dream" started playing on the car radio. A clear, childlike voice sang, "Every wound is the shape of the moon, waiting for the stars to mend the past..." Sang Jiyue touched the stitches on her wristband and suddenly realized that this "game" that had lasted for twelve years was actually two moons in the long night sky, learning to reflect each other with their gaps.

The snow fell heavier and heavier, and the two overlapping wrist marks gradually blurred on the fogged car window, but a brighter light gently seeped out from every crack that had been shrouded in fear.

Sang Jiyue's fingerprint lock clicked softly at midnight, and the aroma diffuser in the entryway was releasing a light cedar scent. She took off her earrings, studded with tiny diamonds, letting them clink softly against the marble countertop. Her gaze, however, was drawn to the Polaroid photo on the shoe cabinet—in the picture that Pojian had forced on her last week, her wrists and Sang Shuwan's were intertwined in the snowy light, the two scars resembling two asymmetrical moons.

The full-length mirror in the dressing room still reflected her red carpet look, the shoulder line of the haute couture gown casting a cold, hard right angle in the mirror. Sang Jiyue ripped off her corset, the silk lining rubbing against her chapped lips with a slight itch, and she suddenly laughed—three months ago she would repeatedly touch up her makeup to see if her lip lines were perfect, but now she let the concealer clump together at the bottom of her makeup bag.

The lights in the rehearsal room were a warm yellow, and the script of "Inheritance" was scattered on the wooden floor. This was a one-woman show that she had been preparing for half a year, telling the story of how a makeup artist with a cleft lip embroiders starlight with gaps on a costume. Sang Jiyue curled up in front of the custom-made makeup mirror, her fingertips tracing the lines circled in red in the script: "Scars are the unspoken subtext of the character."

The diamond bracelet on her wrist scraped against the table. She took it off and stuffed it into the drawer, revealing the old scar from the scissors cut. She placed the wristband carefully on the left side of the dressing table, the blue snowflake ribbon hanging over the edge of the script, much like the piece of embroidery thread that had been soaked by rain in the audition room twelve years ago.

"The first scene is a monologue after failing the audition." She adjusted her breathing in front of the mirror, deliberately ignoring the perfect lighting angle in the mirror—her past agents always said that "a 45-degree angle on the side is your safe zone," but at this moment she deliberately let the overhead light shine directly on her lower lip, and the shadow of her cleft lip was deepened when she said the line "I'm afraid of being seen."

My phone vibrated on the vanity. It was a message from Sang Shuwan: "Pojian said you didn't wear concealer today, so you look like the moon with stars plucked from it." In the attached video, a little girl was holding up a paper moon with holes drawn on it, jumping up and down in front of the camera and shouting, "Aunt Jiyue can shine!"

Sang Jiyue traced the fingerprints on the mirror with her fingertips and suddenly remembered this time last year when she was applying three layers of concealer to her chapped lips in front of the same mirror, while her manager nagged behind her, "You have to apply three layers of Shiseido concealer to make it invisible." Now, she opened the tin box she always carried with her, inside which lay a band-aid from twelve years ago, an eyebrow pencil broken in two, and blue snowflake seeds that Sang Shuwan had recently given her.

The script was turned to Act Seven, where the character was to tear open her costume in a downpour, revealing a hidden scar. Sang Jiyue pulled an old costume from the hanger—the very same moon-white flowing sleeves she had torn years ago, now embroidered with delicate blue snowflakes at the tear, the stitches crooked yet full of life. As she tore the sleeves according to the script, the real scars and the tear in the costume overlapped in the mirror, creating a scene even more shocking than the planned stage effect.

“So true rifts don’t need to be deliberately designed.” She whispered to the air, when suddenly she heard faint thunder outside the window. The stormy night twelve years ago suddenly resurfaced in her memory: the metal cabinet in the audition room, Sang Shuwan’s bleeding burns, and the wristband she had secretly hidden, all of which flooded into the warm light of the rehearsal room at this moment.

The person in the mirror raised her hand, her fingertips lightly touching her cleft lip, as if touching a long-lost friend. The curve that was once seen as a flaw now became the most natural pause in the line, "I come to play other people's lives with the marks of humanity." She suddenly understood why Sang Shuwan always wore a diamond bracelet over her scar—not to cover it up, but to let the flaw become a reflective surface of light.

At three in the morning, the lights in the rehearsal room were still on. Sang Jiyue lay on the floor, gazing at the swaying shadows of trees on the ceiling, an old scar on her wrist covered with a blue snowflake sticker that had fallen from the script. Her phone vibrated again, this time a push notification from a marketing account: #SangJiyueRehearsalRoomMakeupFreeScenes#, the accompanying photo showing her in an old costume, her cleft lip clearly visible under the lamp, yet smiling more relaxedly than in any red carpet look.

She turned off the notification and pulled out the note at the bottom of the script—written by Sang Shuwan backstage at the Golden Harvest Awards: "Remember to bring your wristbands to the next rehearsal. Your scars need an audience, just as the moon needs its dark side to hold the starlight." Her fingertips traced the words "Chengque" (meaning "to inherit the vacancy"), and suddenly she heard the faint sound of snow falling in the distance, like the sound of rain leaking in the audition room twelve years ago, yet carrying the warmth of melting spring snow.

The person in the mirror finally stood up, placed the diamond bracelet deep in the drawer, and put the wristband back on her wrist. The blue snowflake ribbon swayed gently under the lamp, brushing across the tear stains on the script—stains she had shed while rehearsing "reconciling with her past self." In the mirror now, there was no perfect makeup, no meticulously designed angle, only a person with a flaw, earnestly acting out this play of life—a play without retakes—in her own light.

The aroma diffuser in the entryway had changed its scent, and the sweet fragrance of blue snowflakes drifted into the rehearsal room. Sang Jiyue suddenly smiled and made the gesture that Sang Shuwan had taught her twelve years ago in front of the mirror—palms facing each other, leaving a gap, like the gap between a wristband and a bracelet, just enough to let starlight flow in.

At four in the morning, a light snow was falling in the rehearsal room. Sang Jiyue was practicing her crying scene for the fifth act in front of the mirror. The script said, "The makeup artist finally finished embroidering the last blue snowflake on the costume, the stitches piercing through her own old scars." But her hand holding the embroidery hoop was trembling—the scar from the concealer surgery she had undergone ten years ago under pressure from her agent was now resonating with the stitches on the costume through the thin veil.

“That’s not right.” She suddenly ripped off the embroidery hoop, the silk thread stretching out in a crooked arc on the mirror. In her memory, Sang Shuwan’s hands were teaching her to thread a needle at the wrap party: “Don’t stare at the end of the thread, look at where the flower you want to embroider is.” At that time, the burn scar on the other’s wrist brushed against the back of her hand, like a piece of amber still warm from her body.

The sound of fabric rustling came from the dressing room, and Sang Jiyue realized that she had subconsciously put on the old opera costume she had secretly hidden twelve years ago. The faded water sleeves brushed against the rehearsal room floor, and the tear she had cut back then was now densely embroidered with blue snowflakes, each petal pointing in a different direction—just like the myriad emotions she had hidden beneath her perfect makeup over the years.

The phone lit up seventeen times on the vanity. The message from her manager, Sister Chen, jumped from "You must use concealer for tomorrow's brand event" to "Your rehearsal room photo is trending! It's a no-makeup photo of you." Sang Jiyue stared at the lock screen wallpaper—a photo taken last year at Sang Shuwan's apartment, where the two of them were each wearing the other's wristband and bracelet, the gaps between their wrists forming a complete circle in the photo.

"Sister Chen, please take the concealer out of the makeup case." She finally dialed the phone, the snow outside the window reflecting her unmade-up face in the mirror. "I want to wear a costume embroidered with blue snowflakes on the red carpet for the charity gala next month." A gasp came from the receiver, but it was nothing compared to the deafening downpour in the audition room in her memory.

At six in the morning, Sang Jiyue curled up on a wicker chair on the balcony, clutching a tin box. At the bottom of the box lay a sprouted blue plumbago seed—a gift from Pojian to her at the mountain primary school, who said, "Plant it in the gap and it will bloom into stars." She breathed on the soil, watching the tender sprout sway gently in the shadow of her wristband, and suddenly remembered what Sang Shuwan had said backstage at the Golden Harvest Awards: "The way we protect imperfections shouldn't be by confining them in darkness."