Part 1
November, the wind was like a sharp blade, cutting into people's faces, dry and painful. Jessi buried her face in the collar of her well-worn Max Mara camel coat—one of the few "remnants of the past" she couldn't bring herself to part with. It was of excellent quality, able to withstand the test of time and hardship.
She had just emerged from a converted warehouse district on the outskirts of the city, where the so-called "film and television industrial park" was filled with the mingled smells of leftover takeout and cheap cigarettes.
A fifteen-minute audition felt like a brief, humiliating interrogation. For a role as the "perfect ex-girlfriend in a flashback" with only a side profile and two lines of dialogue, she had prepared for three days, even digging out her acting notes from ten years ago to try to recapture some of her former ease in front of the camera. It was pointless. The assistant director scratched his eyebrow impatiently after she finished her first line.
"Alright, that's good. Thank you, Jessi."
His tone was formulaic, his eyes already glancing at the next resume.
"It felt… a bit too forced. We might want to consider other candidates."
She was familiar with that tone. The subtext was clear: "You're not right for the role, and I know you're past your prime. Let's not waste each other's time."
Another young girl in the room lowered her head, stifling a laugh, her shoulders twitching slightly.Jessi's jaw tightened for a moment before relaxing, and she forced a practiced smile: "Thank you, director. I appreciate it."
Stepping out of the audition room partitioned off by drywall, the cold wind blew in, and she took a deep breath, her lungs stinging from the chill. It wasn't for the role—her team wouldn't even have considered her for that kind of part before. It was for the few thousand dollars in pay.She needed those few thousand dollars.
The bus stop was rusty, covered with small ads for loans and rentals. She stared at the reflection of the setting sun on the glass curtain wall of the tall building across the street, calculating the time. Aunt Zhang, her babysitter, charged extra by the hour after 7 PM, fifty dollars an hour. Today's trip, including transportation costs, would be a net loss.
The No. 11 bus, like an old, laboring beast, swayed into the station, carrying a hot breeze mingled with exhaust fumes and sweat. She inserted coins and boarded, squeezing between several men in work uniforms covered in paint splatters, gripping the cold overhead bar.The bus started moving, and she looked out the window. The cityscape transitioned from dilapidated chaos to neat order, then to bustling prosperity, with neon lights beginning to flicker, like another form of desire peeking out.
The bus came to a stop at a long red light, the brakes screeching loudly.
She raised her eyes unconsciously, and her gaze locked onto something.
It was the city's famous TV tower. Like a colossal beast, it loomed over the prime real estate district, its glass facade illuminated by lights, shimmering like an eternal crystal box. It was too familiar, so familiar that her stomach twisted in a reflexive spasm.
That was where she had spent her best years.From her late teens to her early twenties, she was like a wound-up doll, rushing back and forth three or four times a week, recording variety shows, attending events, and being fawned over. A private dressing room, attentive stylists, directors handing her bottled water, fans screaming and pushing at the perimeter... Those scenes flooded back, saturated with vibrant colors and the deafening roar of the crowd, making her ears ring.
Then came marriage, a swift exit from the spotlight, and the birth of Miki. And then, the end of that meticulously crafted yet ultimately shattered marriage. The divorce wasn't as messy as the outside world speculated. The man, who valued his reputation, provided a decent alimony and a small apartment, enough for her to raise her daughter with dignity.
She could have lived like that.
If she hadn't trusted Cathy.
Cathy, her former agent, had worked with her for ten years, propelling her from a newcomer to the pinnacle of her career, like a second mother. After the divorce, Cathy berated the man for being heartless, then turned to "plan" Jessi's future: "Jessi, money can't just sit in the bank and lose value—it needs to be invested! I have an amazing project, insider information, a surefire win! Would I ever betray you?"
She believed her. She transferred most of the alimony and her remaining savings to Cathy. Cathy took the money, kept her updated on the "project's progress" for the first two months, painting a rosy picture, but then the calls grew fewer and fewer until she finally went offline. She panicked, asked around, and discovered that the so-called "project" was just a shell company that had already gone under.Cathy herself, it was said, had fled with the money to the Southern Hemisphere, leaving no trace.
She reported it to the police, who opened a case. The process dragged on for half a year. The police were polite but made it clear: such cases were common, and the chances of recovering the money were slim to none. The apartment? It had been mortgaged by Cathy without her knowledge, and the loan had vanished along with the money. When the bank came to repossess the property, she stood at the door with Miki in her arms, feeling like a fool.
Glory, wealth, trust... all vanished overnight. It was more thorough than the sense of separation brought by divorce, more like a meticulously planned torture.
The sharp sound of the bus horn rang out, and the bus started moving again. The massive TV tower was left behind, growing smaller and smaller, like a huge, cold tombstone, commemorating her dead past and foolish trust.
Her throat felt blocked, her eyes dry and sore, unable to shed tears. Despair wasn't a surging wave but a cold seepage, creeping up from her feet and freezing her limbs one by one. The knuckles of her fingers, clutching the handrail, turned white.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She stiffly pulled it out.
It was a photo sent by the nanny. There was no message.
In the photo, Miki had taken a bath, her little face rosy, curled up in her small bed already asleep. Her long eyelashes fluttered like quiet butterfly wings, and she clutched the rabbit stuffed animal so tightly that its ears were almost worn out.
Jessi stared at the screen for a long time. The sound of the bus announcing the next stop seemed to come from far away.
She quickly put away her phone and looked up.
It was time to get off. She still had to walk ten minutes to the old apartment she rented. The kitchen faucet seemed to be leaking a little. Tomorrow she had to continue sending materials to those assistant directors, or try that new talent agency, even though she heard they took a high commission.
She squeezed her way to the back door, which opened, and the cold wind hit her face again.
She wrapped her coat tightly around herself, lowered her head, and stepped into the cold night. Her back was straight, and her footsteps on the icy cement ground made a monotonous, stubborn sound.
Crying won't help. Regret won't help.
She had to go back.
She needed to prepare breakfast for her daughter the next day.