She watched her quietly from behind.

After much deliberation, Xu Fengluan couldn’t bear to waste the last musical theater ticket.

The keyboardist had to look after her kid, Kuang Ye had plans, so she dragged Chu Cheng along, calling it “finding inspiration for songwriting.”

Chu Cheng wailed, clutching her head. She couldn’t stand the convoluted, incomprehensible French, treating it like lullaby music. But she couldn’t win against Xu Fengluan and grudgingly tagged along.

The theater, not yet started, was noisy. Some had gone to great lengths to snag tickets, only to bring five- or six-year-olds who understood nothing, their happiest moments now—gathering in twos and threes, playing hide-and-seek among the seats, their laughter echoing alongside adults’ polite chatter.

Xu Fengluan and Chu Cheng, in baseball caps and masks, tried to hide their faces.

But the caps couldn’t conceal their hair—Xu Fengluan’s red streak, Chu Cheng’s white, plus their striking height difference, made them stand out. Fortunately, their cold demeanor—silent since sitting, Chu Cheng dozing, Xu Fengluan staring ahead—kept others at bay.

Even the playful kids avoided running near them, let alone anyone else.

The theater lights dimmed, signaling the start, quieting the crowd. Adults pulled kids back to their seats, whispering warnings.

Xu Fengluan rubbed her ears, relieved.

Chu Cheng opened her eyes, her tense body relaxing.

Both had been tortured—kids’ shrill voices were worse than Kuang Ye’s deafening drums.

Chu Cheng slumped onto Xu Fengluan, whining: “I’m ordering a hundred skewers of barbecue later.”

It was agreed—after the musical, they’d hit a barbecue joint, Xu Fengluan’s treat.

Xu Fengluan nodded, knowing Chu Cheng was grumpy, and didn’t push her off as usual.

She looked up; stagehands were finishing the set.

The ticket giver had gone all out, securing sixth-row aisle seats—prime spots, loud enough without overwhelming, with a clear view and a good chance for actor interaction. Xu Fengluan couldn’t let them go to waste.

Chu Cheng fidgeted, then sat up, unable to get a rise out of Xu Fengluan. Folding her tall frame to lean on her was no small feat—her back ached.

But…

She rubbed her neck, muttering: “Is the AC too low? Feels chilly.”

Xu Fengluan ignored her, assuming she was just fussing.

Chu Cheng turned, peering back.

But it was too dark to see anything.

“What’s going on…” she mumbled.

Xu Fengluan elbowed her—the show was starting.

At the same time, flashes lit up the back rows, dozens in succession, stopping only under nearby glares.

Those in front didn’t notice, assuming someone was sneaking photos while security was lax.

Moments later, the stage lights flared.

Xu Fengluan straightened, fully immersed.

Two rows back, across the aisle, Liu Tingsong’s gaze shifted to her again.

She’d gotten tickets earlier—one of the leads was a friend she’d met abroad. Though their connection was intentional, they hit it off, and Liu Tingsong had helped bring the show to S City, earning reserved tickets as thanks.

Truthfully, she’d seen this musical abroad many times and hadn’t planned to come, but a sliver of hope—that Xu Fengluan might be here—changed her mind.

Since that night, they hadn’t met. Their talk seemed pointless—Xu Fengluan still resisted, rejected; Liu Tingsong still couldn’t get close. One phone call, confirming Liu Tingsong’s ankle was fine, ended abruptly, no mercy spared.

Liu Tingsong didn’t know where Xu Fengluan would sit, but the red and white hair was too obvious. A quick scan found them, heads close together.

Her gaze dropped. Chu Cheng turned, sensing eyes on them, repeatedly glancing back.

Xu Fengluan, usually sharp, was too engrossed, only rubbing her arm to smooth down inexplicable goosebumps.

Chu Cheng, seeing her focus, didn’t ask.

An hour and a half flew by; intermission arrived.

As the bright lights snapped on, the audience stirred, voices rising—some amazed, some sighing, busy folks taking calls, others rushing to the restroom.

Liu Tingsong stood with the crowd, heading elsewhere.

Backstage was as chaotic as the audience—people fetching costumes, changing, redoing makeup, no quieter than out front.

Liu Tingsong navigated with ease, clearly familiar. Others greeted her amid their hustle, adding: “Camille’s inside.”

She responded to each, finding her friend.

A blonde, blue-eyed woman with wavy hair and bold makeup, Camille’s heavy perfume hit before she did.

In the show, she played a duke’s mistress, entangled with the lead, strangled with curtains by the furious duke, her role ending in the first half.

Seeing Liu Tingsong, Camille lit up, hurrying over for a hug.

“Darling, you’re finally here! I missed you so much.”

Liu Tingsong, unaccustomed to such fervor, stepped back, helplessly noting: “We saw each other last month, Camille.”

Camille brushed it off, believing Chinese people were just shy, grinning: “Liu, you should express your feelings more.”

Liu Tingsong, having explained before to no avail—Camille’s view of China was fixed—gave up.

But she hadn’t come early for this.

With an apologetic look, she said: “Sorry, Camille, I might not be able to hang out after the show.”

Camille’s face fell.

They’d planned for Liu Tingsong to take her for local food and a chat post-performance.

But as adults, Camille quickly recovered: “Something came up?”

“Yeah,” Liu Tingsong didn’t elaborate. “Your performance was great. I ordered flowers for you, but now…”

She checked her watch: “He’s just arrived at the entrance. Maybe we can chat while heading to pick up your flowers.”

Camille’s eyes sparkled, as easily pleased as a child, agreeing with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Xu Fengluan waited until the last ten minutes of intermission to stand, partly to avoid recognition, partly to dodge the crowd. She dawdled toward the restroom.

To her surprise, it was packed—mostly adults with kids who, bored by the show, munched snacks all first half and now swarmed the toilets.

Xu Fengluan frowned, pivoting to another restroom she knew—near the backstage but far from the audience, usually empty.

Fearing she’d miss the show, she moved fast, slipping in like the wind, reaching the sink. But before she could turn on the faucet, a familiar voice rang out.

Her body stiffened, frozen in place.