The Ex's Tears Are So Hot - Chapter 2
After a long journey, Guan Jinnian finally made it back to the village before nightfall.
His mother was still in the kitchen, busy preparing dinner, so there was no one to meet him at the village entrance. He had no choice but to drag his suitcase and walk the rest of the way.
Halfway home, a horn honked behind him.
He turned to see a distant cousin riding an old tricycle, pulling up beside him.
“Just got back, Jinnian? Hop on, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thanks, uncle,” he said, loading his suitcase and climbing on.
The countryside breeze was noticeably cooler than the city’s. He tucked his hands in his pockets and sniffled a little.
“So, just visiting for a bit?” his uncle asked casually.
“I’ll be staying for a while.”
“That’s good. Us older folks are falling behind. It’s your generation that needs to take the reins now,” the uncle sighed.
“Is it just our village having trouble selling, or is it happening everywhere in the county?”
“It’s not just us. Everyone’s struggling.”
Jinnian absently rubbed his fingers, eyes drifting toward the fruit groves ahead.
“Didn’t the county organize some e-commerce training last month? Picked a few people from each village to attend?”
At least that meant the higher-ups were paying attention.
“Uncle, mind if I borrow your orchard soon? I’ve got a video idea I want to try.”
“Of course! Use it however you want.”
They arrived at his home.
“All right, I’m heading back to eat too. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks again,” Jinnian said, waving as the tricycle rattled away.
He brought his suitcase inside, called out to his mother, and was met with a warm voice from the kitchen: “Just in time. Wash up—we’re about to eat.”
His mother came out carrying dishes, her face full of joy at seeing her son.
Over dinner, the conversation turned to his plans.
“How are you thinking of doing this livestream thing?” she asked gently.
His brows furrowed, the exhaustion of the trip hitting him hard. He really didn’t want to think about work just yet.
“I’ve got it under control. Don’t ask.”
His tone was sharper than he intended. His mother flinched slightly, then forced a smile and nodded, “Okay, I won’t ask.”
He glanced at her wrinkled eyes and sighed.
“I’ll start with short videos. Grow the audience a bit first. Once there’s traffic, then I can start selling things.”
He poked his rice with his chopsticks, avoiding her eyes.
“I asked my cousin to let me use his orchard for filming. I’ll plan it out in a few days.”
“That’s fine. We’re not rushing you,” she replied.
“Mm.”
—
Over the next few days, Jinnian wandered around town, mostly scouting the orchard. He had a concept, ordered some period costumes and props online, studied scripts, and pieced together a rough production plan.
When the packages arrived, he suited up in a simple linen robe, grabbed his gear, and headed to the orchard.
As someone who’d acted in short dramas before, he assumed creating a quick video wouldn’t be too hard.
He was wrong.
Without good lighting or a proper director, everything looked off. The visuals were flat, the fabric cheap on camera. No matter how many takes he tried, nothing came out right.
By the end of the day, he was dirt-smudged, covered in grass stains, and his robe had a tear from a stray branch.
The last attempt got ruined when a yellow dog leapt into frame, barking furiously after he accidentally kicked a rock.
The sky dimmed. It was too dark to keep filming.
Frustrated and exhausted, Jinnian dragged his gear home.
His mother had just gotten back from the factory and hesitated at the sight of him.
“Nianzi, what do you want for dinner?” she asked, trying to keep things light.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, tossing his equipment aside and disappearing into his room.
He didn’t see her concerned look as he shut the door.
Inside, he connected his phone to the camera via Bluetooth, scrolled through every scrap of usable footage, and stitched together what he could.
But the final product was a mess. It looked clumsy, cheap—like a parody rather than a period piece.
Disheartened, he deleted everything and collapsed onto the bed, pulling the blanket over his head.
Sleep took him before he realized it.
—
The next morning, voices in the yard woke him.
He stepped outside to find several relatives gathered at the house.
His cousin waved. “Morning, Jinnian. Heard your costume ripped yesterday?”
His aunt held up the old robe. “Don’t worry—I’ll sew you a new one. I’ve still got fabric from when I worked in tailoring.”
His mom emerged with a bowl of custard. “She’s being modest. She was the best seamstress in town.”
Uncles sipped tea and offered help with anything he needed. “No need to rush. Take your time.”
Auntie was already sketching patterns. Cousins started unpacking his props and brainstorming how to build a small set. Someone even suggested repurposing an old room for filming.
Jinnian stood frozen for a second, stunned.
After a quick breakfast, he pulled out his notebook and showed them a rough sketch of what he had in mind—an ancient-looking shop and courtyard.
“Think we can build something like this?”
His eldest uncle studied it. “Not enough space here. But your second uncle’s old barn would work.”
“I’m fine with that,” the second uncle added. “If we’re doing this, let’s do it properly.”
The group enthusiastically debated paint colors and signboard fonts.
Auntie teased, “You’re all more excited than Jinnian! You might as well be extras in the video!”
They laughed, but the second uncle replied, “We’re too old for that.”
Jinnian lit up. “No, I want you all in the video. Everyone! Whoever’s free!”
He smiled—genuinely—for the first time in days.
—
“Cut!”
Jinnian clapped to halt the scene.
“Uncle, you’ve stepped out of frame again. Auntie—no modern slang! They didn’t have logistics back then!”
He wiped his sweaty brow, hands aching from holding the camera.
Villagers held makeshift reflectors, faces red from sunburn but still holding steady. His mom and the aunts stood ready with water and towels.
“This is the final take. Let’s do it right!”
When they filmed the dusk scene—a critical long shot—a breeze picked up, catching his hair just right.
He nailed the final line. A leaf floated down and landed softly on his shoulder.
“Perfect! That’s a wrap!”
Everyone burst into laughter as he turned red, half from sun, half from embarrassment.
He hurried home to edit.
Surprisingly, the amateur acting and raw countryside charm made the video feel wholesome—almost like therapy.
He gave it a clever title, added a few trending tags, and posted it.
Within hours, views soared past 10,000. A hashtag started trending:
#TimeTravelPersimmonBoss
In the clip, Jinnian wore a deep-blue costume, hair tied up, abacus in hand. His features were clean, elegant—he stood out from the crowd of slapstick creators.
Comments flooded in:
[Secretary, get me everything on this man in five minutes!!]
[Is the shop hiring? I’ll work for free!]
[It’s like my favorite farming novel came to life…]
The buzz grew. He posted some behind-the-scenes clips—those went viral too.
People loved the villagers:
[That uncle’s face when he forgot his line—I can’t! 😂]
[They’re all sweating buckets but still helping. So heartwarming.]
Some even asked about persimmons. Not many—but enough to spark hope.
By the next day, views crossed 500,000.
Colleagues from his old company saw the clip. Some were curious. Others mocked him.
One even forwarded a chat from the company group:
[Isn’t that Guan from marketing?]
[Did he quit? I heard he’s doing TikTok now.]
[From actor to internet clown. 😂]
[Must be nice to have a rich boyfriend backing him up…]
He left that group long ago, but he could imagine their smug expressions.
Seeing it spelled out still stung.
Was this how people really saw him?
As he sat on his bed, fists clenched, his phone buzzed with an unknown number.
He answered, half-distracted.
“…Hello?”
The voice on the other end was cool, crisp—unmistakable.
“…Jinnian.”
That voice—one he knew too well.
It was him.