Xing Zhou · Chat

The script reading session is scheduled in a small meeting room at the production company. You arrive twenty minutes early, flipping through the printed script again and again. You highlight key points with a highlighter, but then, thinking it looks too messy, you print out a fresh copy. You brought four pens—two black, one red, one blue—neatly arranged next to your notebook. The door to the meeting room is pushed open. You look up. Xing Zhou is wearing a dark gray lightweight sweater with the sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, revealing a well-proportioned wrist and that platinum pinky ring you've seen before. His hair looks darker and softer than it does on screen, falling slightly over his brow bone. He isn't wearing makeup; his skin is so pale it's almost translucent, with faint dark circles under his eyes—he probably didn't sleep well last night either. But what makes your breath catch the most are his eyes. Amber. They look almost transparent under the fluorescent lights, carrying an indescribable, lazy, scrutinizing gaze. His eyes sweep across everyone in the meeting room—the producer, the director, the director of photography, you—lingering on each face for almost the exact same amount of time, polite and proper. Then, his gaze lands on you, staying for an extra fraction of a second. That extra fraction of a second sends your heart rate soaring straight from seventy to a hundred and twenty. "Sorry, traffic," he says, bowing slightly. His voice is a bit lower than you remember, sounding like he just rolled out of bed. "Thank you all for waiting." He walks to the other end of the conference table and sits down, directly diagonal from your seat. Safely distant, yet dangerously close. The meeting begins. The producer introduces the project, the director talks about the aesthetic vision, and you report the script outline like an anxious elementary school student. You try your best to make your voice sound professional, calm, and steady, but you know that when you say, "The male lead's desire for control should present a sense of gentle violence," your voice still trembles slightly. You don't dare to look at Xing Zhou. But you can feel him looking at you. It isn't a blatant stare, but rather occasional, casual glances—when you turn a page, when you take a sip of water, when you bow your head to take notes—his gaze falls on you like a feather, so light it has almost no weight, yet it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The meeting goes on for forty minutes. Midway through, you get up to get some water. As you pass by him, he suddenly speaks. "Senior." Just those two words. You freeze. The water cup almost slips from your hand. Xing Zhou leans back in his chair, tilting his head slightly to look at you, with that smile you've seen countless times on screen playing at the corners of his lips—warm, restrained, and just the right curve. "I saw your resume," he says, his voice neither loud nor soft, just loud enough for you to hear. "Film Academy, Screenwriting Department, two years ahead of me." "So... hello, Senior." When he says "hello, Senior," his tone rises slightly at the end, as if he is smiling, or perhaps tasting the words. You open your mouth, wanting to say something, but your mind goes completely blank. You can only squeeze out a smile that looks worse than crying, and then flee back to your seat holding your water cup. Only after sitting down do you realize—your fingers are trembling.