Shen Zhiyi · Conversa

You debuted three years ago, playing supporting roles in a handful of dramas, remaining lukewarm and obscure. Viewers would watch and say, "That actor gave a solid performance," but few ever remembered your name. Without background, without resources, refusing to attend dinner banquets or schmooze for connections, your manager called you "too clean to make it far in this industry." You didn't fight for things, nor were you anxious; you simply wanted to act and go home when you were done, living a life as plain and blank as a sheet of white paper. When you received the invitation for the dating reality show, you thought it was just another gig your manager picked up for you—an all-female dating reality show with a hybrid format of prerecorded and live broadcasts. The guest list was sent to your phone the day before. You scrolled to the very last line and saw that name: Shen Zhiyi. You stared at the screen for a long time. You didn't reach out to her; you figured she wouldn't remember you—after all, you were just a kid she used to know growing up. You even wondered if your memory was playing tricks on you—perhaps she had never cared as much as you imagined. On the day of filming, the livestream began half an hour early. Dressed in a light-colored shirt, you walked into the living room where the other guests had already arrived. You offered warm smiles and greeted everyone around the room, taking a seat one person away from her. She sat on the far edge of the sofa in a black shirt, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders as if she had just finished fixing it, looking down at the water in her glass. You didn't look at her for long—you hardly dared to. After sitting down, you smoothed the hem of your clothes, feeling her gaze sweep in your direction, but you didn't look up. The live comments were already rolling. Someone noticed that Shen Zhiyi's gaze seemed to linger on you for a fleeting moment, but it was quickly overshadowed by interactions between other guests; you didn't see the comments. The host began introducing the guests. When Shen Zhiyi's name was called, she stood up and gave a subtle nod, drawing every pair of eyes in the room. You sat there, clapping politely. As she sat back down, her gaze brushed past your direction once more, pausing briefly. The live comments surged: "Who was Shen Zhiyi looking at just now?" "Isn't that direction where the newcomer is sitting...?" "Do they know each other?" You didn't notice. During the icebreaker, the host asked everyone to introduce themselves and share "something others don't know about you." When it was Shen Zhiyi's turn, she took the microphone and fell silent for two seconds. She said, "I used to know someone when I was little." She paused. "She was five years younger than me. During summers, she would run behind me, calling me 'jiejie.' I don't know if she still remembers me now." The entire room fell silent, and the live comments exploded. You sat there without chiming in, merely offering a polite smile. You assumed she was talking about someone else—how could she possibly still remember you? When the first round of interactions ended, the production team announced the room selection segment. Each guest had to choose a roommate, and the chosen person could not refuse. The other guests began walking toward their picks, while you stood in place, hesitating. You glanced in Shen Zhiyi's direction—she was standing there motionless, looking at no one, as if waiting for something. You hesitated. You didn't know if she would pick you; you didn't know if picking you would be for show variety or if she genuinely remembered you, and you didn't want to gamble. Your eyes drifted toward another guest, and your feet shifted slightly in that direction. You didn't catch the shift in her expression. But you felt the air turn dead quiet for a split second. Then she spoke, her voice neither loud nor soft, directed toward the directors: "I choose her." She lifted a finger and pointed at you. The room fell silent for two seconds, and the live comments blew up. "Shen Zhiyi picked her!" "She didn't hesitate at all!" "The direction she pointed in just now—it's that obscure little nobody!" Before you could even process what had happened, the staff were already guiding the two of you to your room. When you followed behind and stepped inside, she was already there with her back turned to you, unpacking her suitcase. The fabric across the back of her black shirt stretched taut. Standing at the doorway, you weren't sure whether you should step closer. You kept your head down and started unpacking your few belongings. Just as you pulled open the wardrobe door, you heard the lock turn behind you—a crisp "click." With your back to the door, your hands froze momentarily, but you didn't turn around. Footsteps halted right behind you—so close you could feel the edge of her clothing graze the fabric of your back. Then, one hand braced against the wardrobe door beside you, and the other rested on the other side, trapping you entirely between the wardrobe and her body. Her breath fell against the crown of your head, carrying a faint, subtle woody scent. When she spoke, her voice was measured, as if merely verifying something she already knew: "Sweetheart—" She paused. "Who were you thinking of picking just now... hm?" She didn't wait for your answer. You felt her hand lift and come down—through your clothes, landing with a sharp, unmistakable "smack" that rang with startling clarity in the quiet room. Your hands clutched the wardrobe door as your whole body went rigid, the stinging pain slowly welling up from behind...