in the chaos of award season, yizhuo finds a welcome distraction.
Yizhuo had slept for approximately three hours. For most people, that wouldn’t qualify as a good night’s sleep. In her case, it usually was. Someone tugging gently at sections of her hair before she'd even fully opened her eyes? Just a regular morning.
"Don't fall asleep again, Yizhuo."
"I'm not asleep," Yizhuo cracked one eye open in response. The reflection staring back at her from the mirror looked deeply unconvinced.
Three stylists surrounded her with the quiet efficiency of people who had long since accepted that celebrities were essentially decorative houseplants requiring constant maintenance. One worked on her hair. Another hovered nearby with a makeup brush. A third was somehow steaming a dress in the corner despite it being barely six in the morning. Or maybe it was seven?
Honestly, who even knew anymore?
Time was more of a construct than a reality during award season.
Monday became Los Angeles. Tuesday became New York. Wednesday became a red-eye flight she barely remembered boarding. All mornings started the same, hair, makeup and extravagant outfits. Every evening ended with cameras, conversations and forced laughter.
Somewhere in between, entire weeks disappeared. She couldn't remember whether she'd fallen asleep in the hotel room or the car.
People kept congratulating her on "living the dream." Yizhuo couldn't remember the last time she’d actually dreamt.
Voices around her pulled her from her thoughts. ‘’Hm? What was that?’’
The makeup artist paused mid-brush, blinking. “I asked whether you wanted coffee.”
Yizhuo looked down at the paper cup already sitting on the counter in front of her. Apparently she'd already been given one.
“That bad?”
“Depends,” Yizhuo said, wrapping both hands around the cup. The warmth seeped slowly into her fingers. “What day is it?”
Three people stared at her.
“That bad, then,” her hairstylist concluded.
The room hummed around her. Hairdryers. Steam. Zippers. Phones vibrating every few minutes with another schedule change. Somewhere behind her, someone was discussing flight times. Someone else was arguing about jewellery. The entire thing felt less like preparing for an awards ceremony and more like coordinating a military operation.
Her manager appeared beside the mirror, tablet already in hand as he began to reel off the long agenda for the day. Interviews, press junkets, photoshoots, another flight. Different day, same routine.
“Wonderful,” Yizhuo murmured. “An uneventful day then.”
“You say that every morning.”
“And every morning it remains true.”
Someone laughed behind her.
Her manager, unfortunately, remained immune to her attempts at humour.
“Your first interview starts in forty-five minutes,” he continued, scrolling through the schedule with all the warmth of a prison warden reading out a sentence. “Then the photoshoot. Then the luncheon. Then the flight.”
“Which flight?”
“To New York.”
Yizhuo blinked. A pause before she eventually spoke again. “Wasn’t I in New York yesterday?”
“For six hours, yes.”
“Right…” she trailed off, confusion taking over.
Around her, preparations continued at an alarming pace. Someone appeared carrying shoes, someone else carrying earrings that probably cost more than her first apartment. The dress hanging in the corner had now acquired its own dedicated assistant.
Her phone buzzed against the counter. Again, and again. Messages flooded the screen. Publicists, her friends, her mother. She regretted looking, the alarming number of notifications overwhelming her.
Fifty-seven unread messages, twenty-three missed calls, three articles and one trending topic. She locked the phone again, unable to bring herself to look at it anymore. A survival strategy of sorts.
“You should probably check those,” her manager said without looking up.
“Counterpoint,” Yizhuo replied. “What if I don't?”
He looked at her reflection, she looked back. Neither of them spoke.
“Wonderful suggestion,” he said finally. “Unfortunately, reality remains undefeated.”
The phone buzzed again, a headline filling the screen.
America's New Sweetheart: Why Ning Yizhuo Is Hollywood's Most Fascinating Star.
Another article sat directly beneath it.
The Mystery of Ning Yizhuo.
And another.
The Enigma Everyone's Talking About.
Yizhuo stared at them and groaned. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“They've started calling me enigmatic again.”
The makeup artist immediately burst out laughing, much to her manager's dissatisfaction.
“Most actors would kill for this kind of press, you do know that, don’t you?”
“That’s because most actors are self-absorbed narcissists."
Her manager pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yizhuo,” he sighed.
“No, seriously. Imagine reading an article that calls you an enigma before breakfast.”
“You are reading it before breakfast.”
“Exactly. Look what it's doing to me.”
The makeup artist nearly choked trying not to laugh. Her manager, however, remained completely unamused.
“You have an interview in thirty-five minutes.”
“I know.”
“With Vanity Fair.”
“I know.”
“And after that-”
“A photoshoot, followed by a luncheon, and then a flight to New York.”
“Good. So you were listening.”
Yizhuo looked at him for a moment, slowly lifting the coffee cup. “Define listening.”
The room dissolved into laughter, her manager still unamused, rolled his eyes.
For a brief second, the exhaustion eased.
Her phone buzzed again, but before she could ignore it, her manager reached over and physically picked it up. “You have approximately twelve people trying to contact you, one of which is your mother.”
Yizhuo accepted the phone with a sigh, reading through her mothers messages.
Sure enough, her mother had sent seven messages.
The first was a photo of a neighbour's dog, the second was a screenshot of an article. The remaining five messages were all variations of the same question: “Have you eaten?’’
Yizhuo smiled to herself before typing out a simple reply: Working. Alive. Probably eating later.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Sleep?
Define sleep…
🥺
Yizhuo laughed quietly.
“You look happier.”
She glanced up.
The makeup artist was watching her through the mirror.
“Just my mother.”
“Ah.”
The knowing response earned another smile.
Because no matter how many awards she collected, how much money she earned, or how many red carpets she walked, her mother remained fundamentally unconvinced that any of it was more important than getting eight hours of sleep.
The phone buzzed again, it wasn’t her mother this time. A link, sent by one of her friends. And for once, she let curiosity win. Against her better judgement, she opened it. And there it was, another article.
Hollywood's New Favourite Actress.
Yizhuo groaned. “Not another one?”
“Another what?” her hairstylist asked.
“Someone trying to explain my personality after speaking to me for seven minutes.”
She skimmed the article, regretting it immediately. Elegant. Elusive. Enigmatic.
There it was again. That stupid, stupid word. Every single goddamn time. As though she'd spent years carefully cultivating mystery rather than simply being tired.
“What?” her makeup artist asked.
Yizhuo turned the screen around.
The woman immediately burst out laughing.
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
Her manager looked unimpressed. “You do realise that you've created this problem yourself.”
“What problem?”
“The one where nobody knows anything about you.”
Yizhuo frowned slightly. That wasn't entirely fair, people knew things about her. Her hometown, her favourite movie, her award nominations. Actually, they knew hundreds of things about her. Yet none of them truly mattered. And maybe that was the worst feeling of them all. Seen but never truly understood.
The journalist from the hotel lounge flashed briefly through her mind. The one who’d spoken to her for three hours because he lost track of time. The one who'd somehow made her forget she was being interviewed. The only person she'd met in weeks who seemed immune to Hollywood. Not interested in getting the latest scoop, more interested in just being real. Human.
Something warm flickered unexpectedly in her chest. Huh
A voice pulled her away from her thoughts.
“Why are you smiling?”
Yizhuo blinked. “What?”
“You're smiling,” her hairstylist said suspiciously.
“No I'm not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m literally sitting here.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
Yizhuo immediately looked away.
The hairstylist and makeup artist exchanged a knowing glance. Yizhuo narrowed her eyes at them.
“Don’t.”
“We didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking very loudly.”
Her manager interrupted before anything else could be said. “Whatever is happening,” he said, “please stop. We are already behind schedule.”
“We’re ahead of schedule,” the hairstylist corrected.
“We're emotionally behind schedule.”
Nobody had a response to that.
“Honestly,” Yizhuo muttered, “that might be the realest thing you've ever said.”
Her phone buzzed again. Then again. And again. She glanced down.
Unknown Number.
Yizhuo frowned. Most people who needed her had already found increasingly creative ways to contact her. Friends, family. Agents. Publicists. Assistants. Entire studios. Anyone and everyone.
An unknown number usually meant one of two things. Something was on fire, or someone wanted something from her. Neither possibility appealed to her.
She ignored it.
The phone buzzed again immediately.
“Persistent,” the makeup artist observed.
“Concerning,” Yizhuo replied.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
The phone rang for a fifth time.
Everyone stared at it.
Yizhuo sighed dramatically before finally picking up.
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then:
“Hi.”
The voice caught her completely off guard. Not because she didn't recognise it. Because she did. Immediately, and that was almost embarrassing. The journalist.
“Oh,” she said.
Excellent response. Truly brilliant. A masterclass in conversation. Apparently three hours of effortless chemistry had evaporated the second she'd heard his voice unexpectedly.
“Wow,” he said dryly. “Good to hear from you too.”
The makeup artist's eyes widened immediately.
The hairstylist looked interested.
Yizhuo turned her chair slightly away from both of them.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I wasn't expecting-”
“Me to be calling before noon?”
She glanced toward the clock.
“It's barely eight in the morning.”
“Which means I've already been working for three hours.”
“That's deeply upsetting.”
A quiet laugh crackled through the speaker. For some reason, hearing it made her smile again.
“Anyway,” he continued, professionalism returning. “I'm actually calling because I need something from you.”
“What would that be?”
“I need a quote. See, believe it or not, sometimes I occasionally attempt journalism.”
“I thought you just collected observations and judged people.”
“That's the advanced version.”
She heard papers shuffling on his end.
“My editor wants something for the article. A final statement. Something about the awards season. Success. The future. Ideally something profound enough to sound intelligent and vague enough to survive fact-checking.”
Yizhuo groaned.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Yizhuo.”
“Those quotes are the reason every article sounds identical.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
There was a pause.
“Because my editor will keep bothering me until I do.”
“Ah.”
“And because I'd rather hear your answer than make one up.”
That stopped her for a second, the room seemed to fade slightly around her. Hairdryers hummed. Someone zipped a garment bag shut. Her manager was arguing with somebody over flight times. Yet somehow all she could focus on was the voice crackling softly through the speaker.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Yizhuo sighed.
“Fine,” she relented. “One quote. But if you turn me into an inspirational poster, I’m revoking your interview privileges.”
His laugh came immediately.
“Noted.”
“Good.”
“Any profound wisdom you’d like future generations to remember you by?”
Yizhuo stared at her reflection.
Tired eyes. Half-finished makeup. Hair pinned into place by people who had already spent twenty minutes trying to make her look more awake than she felt.
“Success is mostly just answering emails you don't want to answer,” she said finally.
A beat.
“That’s atrocious.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I asked for a quote.”
“Same same.”
His laughter followed her all the way through the final stages of hair and makeup.
A few days later, he was beginning to suspect Ning Yizhuo had somehow infected his professional judgment. Not in the catastrophic, life-altering way, but enough to be irritating. Every time her name was mentioned, he found his attention drifting towards the source. Articles, headlines, photographs. She was everywhere. Again and again. Award season seemed determined to plaster her face across every available surface in existence.
The first time he noticed it, he blamed it on coincidence. The second time, professional curiosity. By the seventh article in three days, he was forced to acknowledge the possibility that he had developed a little problem.
“Still stalking your actress?”
He looked up from his laptop.
His editor stood in the doorway holding two coffees.
“She’s not my actress.”
“Mhm, sure.”
“She’s literally the subject of an article.”
“An article you've rewritten fourteen times.”
“Twelve.”
His editor handed over a coffee.
“That’s not the correction you think it is.”
He chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he glanced back toward the screen.The article had improved, marginally. He’d at least written something now. A few paragraphs.
His editor peered over his shoulder.
“Ning Yizhuo is the rare kind of performer whose success feels both sudden and entirely earned.”
A pause.
“Christ.”
“What?”
“You sound like you’re in love with her,” his editor replied, a smug smirk playing at his lips. “So much for that journalism with integrity you always bang on about.”
He nearly inhaled coffee.
“Get out.”
His editor looked delighted.
“This is the most invested you've been in a profile since that senator threatened legal action.”
“Out.”
The older man retreated, still laughing to himself.
He stared at the article, then reluctantly deleted an entire paragraph. Maybe his editor had a point. Not about the marriage thing, definitely not that. But the article was beginning to read less like journalism and more like an explanation for why people liked her. Which wasn't his job. His job was to explain who she was. The problem remained that the more he learned about Ning Yizhuo, the less certain he became of the answer.
A few hours later, Yizhuo was sitting in the back of a black SUV somewhere between Midtown and JFK, staring blankly out the window while Manhattan blurred past. The city looked beautiful, she hated it.
Not New York itself. Just the fact that she knew she’d be leaving it again before she'd even had time to remember which hotel she'd been staying in.
Her head tipped back against the seat.
Across from her, her manager was answering emails with terrifying efficiency. Beside him, an assistant was updating schedules. Somewhere in the front seat, another phone rang.
Yizhuo briefly considered opening the car door and rolling into traffic.
"You're thinking about jumping out again, aren't you?" Her manager asked, not even glancing away from his tablet.
Yizhuo considered lying.
"No."
A pause.
"Considering you’re such a successful actress, you’re a terrible liar."
"Ouch."
Her manager sighed the sigh of a man who had spent years managing both an international career and whatever this was.
Across from him, the assistant snorted.
"At least she's honest."
"She just admitted she was considering launching herself onto the road."
"Emotionally," Yizhuo clarified.
The city continued sliding past outside. Glass skyscrapers, traffic, people walking with purpose. Normal people, she thought. People who knew where they were sleeping tonight. People who knew they’d get a full night's rest.
A dangerous level of envy settled in her chest.
Her phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times. Yizhuo stared at it suspiciously.
Her manager looked up.
"Answer it."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because every time I answer my phone somebody adds another obligation to my schedule."
The assistant glanced over.
"That's actually statistically accurate."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Her manager looked deeply exhausted.
The phone buzzed again.
Reluctantly she glanced at the screen again, opening her messages.
My editor rejected your quote.
Apparently "success is mostly answering emails you don't want to answer" isn't inspirational enough.
Yizhuo stared at the screen, a small laugh escaping her before she could stop it.
That sound made her manager look up from his phone immediately.
"Whats funny?"
"Nothing."
"What are you smiling at?"
"Nothing."
"You're smiling, actually smiling."
The assistant looked interested.
Yizhuo immediately locked her phone.
"Mind your business."
"You are my business," her manager replied.
The phone buzzed again.
Against her better judgement, she opened it.
For the record, I thought it was excellent.
My editor described it as "career sabotage."
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.
The assistant gasped dramatically.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"That's the smile."
"The smile?" Yizhuo replied, frowning.
"The one attractive people get when they're pretending they're not interested in someone."
Her manager slowly lowered his tablet.
The silence inside the SUV became immediate and dangerous.
"That’s not a thing," Yizhuo said flatly.
The assistant looked unconvinced.
Her manager looked even less convinced.
"You know," he said carefully, "I was actually enjoying this morning."
"That makes one of us."
"Who is it?"
"No one."
"The smile suggests otherwise."
"There is no smile."
"There is absolutely a smile."
Yizhuo looked out the window again. Outside, Manhattan continued blurring past. Inside, she was being ambushed. Her phone buzzed one final time.
I need another quote before my editor decides to write one himself.
Save me from journalism.
Yizhuo stared at the message.
Something warm and annoyingly pleasant settled somewhere beneath her ribs. The journalist was ridiculous. Unfortunately, she found that she didn't mind. At all. Which was probably the first genuinely concerning development of the week.
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