I Am the White Moonlight that the Former Movie Queen Secretly Loves - Chapter 8

After finishing a steaming bowl of noodles, the fatigue from her cold completely vanished.

Qi Sijia placed the bowl and chopsticks into the dishwasher and headed to the study.

The walls of the study were similarly mottled. As soon as she pushed the door open, two chunks of white paint flaked off and fluttered to the ground.

Calmly stepping over the debris, she walked to the computer desk, intending to request a long leave of absence.

Qi Sijia was a full-time writer with a notable reputation on Huangjiang. Her current serialized novel, Downfall, explored themes of growth.

It was a realist small-town literary work with a somber tone, and Qi Sijia had decided on a tragic ending (BE).

From a market perspective, BE novels generally had a smaller audience and lower earnings. Among Huangjiang’s breakout hits, angsty stories were rare.

This was Qi Sijia’s passion project.

Originally, she had assumed a BE novel would have limited appeal. However, due to its vivid imagery and relentlessly heart-wrenching plot, readers found themselves crying yet unable to stop reading. Ninety-nine out of a hundred readers would flood the comments section demanding updates.

Breaking into the mainstream sometimes relied on luck. Qi Sijia’s BE novel blended the pacing of online literature with the intensity of a screenplay—not only was it devastating, but its realism and emotional resonance sparked widespread discussion. Readers fervently recommended it across multiple platforms.

As a result, even before Downfall was completed, Huanmei Publishing House inquired about its print rights. That wasn’t all—film and television producers also came knocking.

Given the niche nature of the genre, no author on Huangjiang’s Lily Network had ever been approached for adaptation rights before.

With multiple rights deals in play, Qi Sijia had planned to focus on finishing the novel before taking a break to exercise. But now, she had to put that on hold. In her current low spirits, she feared veering off-script and writing an even more tragic ending, which would betray the rights holders.

After all, they had suggested changing the ending to an open one for broader market appeal.

Writing output often hinges on the author’s emotional state. While it’s possible to push through when not in the right headspace, the result can stray far from the story’s core. Even if readers graciously accepted it, Qi Sijia knew she’d regret it later upon reflection.

So she’d rather take a step back and sort through her emotions.

Opening the yellowish website interface, she logged into her author dashboard, where dozens of update-demanding messages awaited as usual.

The night before, she had skipped an update due to her cold, drowsily falling asleep without even posting a notice. Qi Sijia poked her cheek and moved the mouse to open the backend, first sending apology red envelopes to every reader in the comments section.

Then she posted her leave notice:

Just got dumped. Not in the right headspace. Taking a month off.

The comments section erupted almost instantly.

Qi Sijia scrolled from the bottom up.

“Damn, dumped again…”

“I’m begging you—why must something this good be a serial?”

…

New comments flooded in nonstop. Qi Sijia read through them one by one, finding almost no negative feedback.

Most of her readers shared a companionship-like relationship with her. Despite the anonymity of the internet, these strangers often offered her the most heartfelt words of concern.

Even though Qi Sijia frequently went on hiatus after breakups, her reader community remained harmonious.

“Crying…”

“We’ll wait for you.”

“Marking my spot.”

“Dropping by daily to see if you dare skip updates.”

…

Qi Sijia scrolled all the way to the top, her fingers nearly sore from the effort. Just as she let out a long sigh, the newest comment popped up.

“What? A month-long hiatus, please, author, can you just never fall in love again? Take a page from my goddess Meng Jiang and embrace solitude—wouldn’t that be perfect? Crying in a storm.”

This comment had only been posted for three minutes, yet the replies beneath it were astonishingly numerous.

It all started with a third-floor comment, which reposted evidence from Meng Jiang’s fan community proving that the “Miss Q” mentioned by Meng Jiang was indeed a real person.

“OP clearly doesn’t follow trending topics.”

“Well said, but please don’t use Meng Jiang to encourage the author to renounce love anymore. Yesterday, the ‘solitude’ fandom was rocked—my goddess openly admitted she had loved but broke up.”

“If you want to see, click #MengJiangAdmitsPastRelationshipLink, #MengJiangFirstLoveMissQLink.”

…

Qi Sijia’s hands trembled as she read. She was socially anxious, but that didn’t mean she was completely out of touch.

The fan culture of the entertainment world was somewhat foreign to her.

Meng Jiang’s fame was soaring now. If she casually mentioned her first love, obsessive fans might very well dig up Qi Sijia based on these faint traces.

Qi Sijia didn’t belong to any fandom. On a psychological level, she resisted socializing and being the center of attention.

If it came out that she was Meng Jiang’s first love, the thought of black fans sending threats, stalking, or ambushing her would be nothing short of a nightmare.

All these years, Qi Sijia hadn’t contacted Meng Jiang or kept up with her. They were completely unaware of each other’s lives.

Had Meng Jiang not appeared that day, Qi Sijia might have completely sealed away all memories of her.

Forgotten her existence.

Presumably, Meng Jiang felt the same. It was as if they had reached an unspoken agreement—mutual avoidance, no contact after the breakup. That was the most dignified outcome.

The only unexpected moment was yesterday when Qi Sijia ran into Meng Jiang. She didn’t initiate a greeting, but as she left, she told Meng Jiang to stay safe.

All these years had passed peacefully, yet Meng Jiang suddenly brought up “Miss Q.” Her intentions were unclear, but it certainly wasn’t good news.

Qi Sijia absentmindedly scrolled through the search results, sincerely hoping this wouldn’t escalate further.

She clicked on the links in the comments.

Fortunately, there were plenty of posts speculating about Miss Q. While the topic was trending online, the information was a mix of truth and fiction, with no concrete details about her. Likely, Meng Jiang’s team had done timely damage control.

The discussions were all hearsay.

Some cursed Miss Q for cheating and breaking hearts.

Others claimed Meng Jiang never visited Ningcheng because Miss Q had done something so despicable that Meng Jiang couldn’t stand the city itself.

Most fans believed Meng Jiang mentioning her first love so openly meant she had moved on.

Various theories floated around, fueling the trending topic, while Meng Jiang herself remained silent.

As the woman who had once dumped the award-winning actress Meng Jiang, Qi Sijia browsed through the discussions and found only one well-reasoned argument, originating from Meng Jiang’s fan community.

A devoted fan had compiled all possible clues linking Meng Jiang’s public appearances to Miss Q over the years.

For example, in 2019, when Meng Jiang accepted an award at the Berlin Film Festival for her movie 20-Year-Old First Love, after her official thank-you speech, she lingered at the microphone. Her lips had silently formed the words, “And thank her.”

Then in 2020, during the Spring Festival Gala, Meng Jiang performed a skit wearing a cap with the letter “Q.” Later, in the host’s interview segment, she rested her hand on the brim, her phoenix eyes crinkling as she smiled and said, “Happy New Year.”

Her slender fingers, upon closer inspection, were tracing the shape of the “Q” on the cap.

In 2021, Meng Jiang met her fans with her new disaster film The Walking Dead. A reporter asked, “Why did you choose to star in this niche film that might face the risk of being pulled from theaters?”

There were clearly better scripts available to Meng Jiang during the same period, including one personally directed by a renowned Hollywood filmmaker. Yet, she chose The Walking Dead.

During the interview, Meng Jiang crossed her slender legs, faced the camera, and curled her lips into a smile. “Because someone likes watching it, and after seeing it, they’ll fall for me.”

…

The post compiled over a hundred pieces of evidence. In her early career, Meng Jiang never explicitly mentioned Miss Q, yet every word she spoke seemed to carry an unshakable longing for her in those first few years.

The traces disappeared in the following two years, but the post’s author concluded: Every hint Meng Jiang dropped was a futile attempt at reconciliation. Perhaps the greatest sorrow is a heart gone silent, the deepest grief is wordless—she had moved on.

Qi Sijia silently closed the post.

Returning to the comments, she happened to see a reader ask: Does Meng Jiang still miss Miss Q to this day?

Qi Sijia replied: “No.”

The moment she posted it, her top patron, Rich and Glorious, @’ed her: “Why not?”

Qi Sijia lowered her gaze, said nothing, and exited the comments.

Because they had long since broken up. If Meng Jiang had truly cared, she wouldn’t have so decisively chosen her career over love without any room for discussion.

Indecision invites disaster.

This was something Qi Sijia had learned from the twenty-year tug-of-war between Qi Jun and Wei Yunfang—between career and family. So why would someone as ambitious as Meng Jiang ever look back at an abandoned first love?

Even if Meng Jiang did turn back, Qi Sijia wouldn’t be waiting for her anymore.

They belonged to different worlds now. It had taken Qi Sijia a long time to move on.

Now, when it came to this topic, she had already let go.

Qi Sijia had thought that all these years of no contact, no disturbance, and no attention were an unspoken understanding between them.

But then Meng Jiang mentioned her yesterday—understandably, it unsettled Qi Sijia. Still, she hoped the matter could be resolved properly.

As she debated whether to call Qi Jun and have her student records at Ning University encrypted, her phone rang.

An unfamiliar number. When she answered, she never expected it to be Meng Jiang.

“Qi Sijia?”

Meng Jiang’s voice was deep and distinctive, the kind that stood out.

Qi Sijia recognized her immediately. “Yes.”

“It’s Meng Jiang.”

“I know.”

A pause, then a soft laugh. “This is awkward, but could you add me on WeChat?”

Qi Sijia: “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Perhaps influenced by the earlier post about Meng Jiang’s lingering feelings, Qi Sijia didn’t react immediately, reflexively pressing her lips together.

She hadn’t expected Meng Jiang to actually hold onto unresolved emotions, just as the netizens speculated.

Qi Sijia’s tone turned cold. “That might not be appropriate.”

“You want your fans to dox me?”

On the other end, Meng Jiang was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter.

“Qi Sijia,” Meng Jiang said, as if laughing too hard to breathe. “What are you thinking?”

“During yesterday’s interview, I was drunk. I’m sorry for mentioning you unconsciously. My team has already removed all related personal details. If you ever feel troubled by this, you can always reach out to me.”

“Oh.” Qi Sijia said. “Then why add me on WeChat…?”

“You don’t actually think I want to get back together—” Meng Jiang’s voice was slow and drawn out, the tail end of her words carrying a careless, lingering tone.

Qi Sijia sat at her computer desk, her long hair brushing against her cheeks. Suddenly feeling a little warm, she pushed it back several times with her fingers.

“No?” she asked softly.

“Don’t even think about it,” Meng Jiang replied with disdain.

Qi Sijia let out a long sigh of relief. “Good, that puts my mind at ease.”

The line fell silent for a full three seconds—perhaps Meng Jiang was too annoyed at the suggestion of reconciliation to bother with small talk. Without preamble, she got straight to the point, briefly explaining the request a waiter from Huaqing Garden had made after Qi Sijia left yesterday.

“Phone number is the same as my WeChat. Add me, and I’ll transfer the money to you.”

Couldn’t she just use Alipay or a bank transfer?

Qi Sijia hesitated, opening her mouth to ask—but before the words could come out, the call ended with a sharp click.