Shrine - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Many people said that Shi Ran was a very observant person, a point demonstrated to its fullest during the crime-solving segments of her variety show.

But what most people didn't know was that this was the very foundation of her survival.

Generally speaking, acting is divided into the method school and the experiential school. Shi Ran was neither. She had no particular acting techniques, nor did she deeply empathize with her characters. She performed because she had seen it before.

From a young age, she was curious about the world, listening to the voices of flowers and clouds, watching the bees bustle about and the ants scurry in confusion.

When she got a little older and could understand human conversations, she began to try and comprehend the truth of this world.

Was he the father at the dinner party, praised by all as a model husband who doted on his wife, or the father who returned home silent and irritable? He possessed an expression of boundless, indulgent tenderness, and also one of cold indifference that bespoke utter disgust.

Was she the mother who was so "virtuous" in front of Grandma as to be almost feudal, able to swallow her pride and make chicken soup to care for her husband's mistress in the hospital? Or was she the mother who, drunk at home, would repeat with immense hatred, "She has money, he has money, I've lost out on everything in this life, what's wrong with asking for some shares?" She possessed the gentlest expression of forbearance, and also the most hysterical expression of indignation.

Was he the grandfather who said at family gatherings, "This granddaughter of mine is the most promising," or the grandfather who couldn't even recognize her voice when she called home? Was she the grandmother who would smooth things over when family conflicts arose, saying her mother had been wronged, or the grandmother who would tell her aunt behind her back, "She's from a humble family, of course she's petty"?

And then there was when her father went bankrupt, when she witnessed firsthand friends and relatives go from welcoming them with smiles to treating them with contempt. Her mother held her hand as they went to ask her godmother and godfather if they could borrow some money to get by. Her godmother smiled awkwardly and said, "Times are tough for everyone."

Her mother squeezed Shi Ran's hand and said, "It's fine, it's fine. We just came to see you. Ranran missed you, she's always talking about her godmother."

"Isn't that right, Ranran?"

Shi Ran's hand was clutched in hers. She didn't speak.

When they got back, her mother cried. She sat on the bed with her back to Shi Ran, crying heartbrokenly. Then, she tugged at her hair a couple of times and began to pack her suitcase.

Shi Ran never saw her again after that. She only remembered that the suitcase was very large, and that as her mother was leaving, she stumbled on the stairs, nearly twisting the heel of her high heel.

That was why, in one of Shi Ran's scenes, she had to carry a suitcase while wearing high heels. The other actor in the scene pretended an empty suitcase was heavy, putting on a show of effort with only their hands and expression. But Shi Ran's knees turned cautiously inward, her heel wobbled, and the opening of her shoe skewed to the side before she quickly corrected her balance.

This detail earned her great acclaim. Film critics said that Shi Ran had a profound understanding of life, and that her acting was remarkably solid and authentic.

Many people say that when you reach a high enough place, all your past sufferings will become your crown. Perhaps. But that wasn't the whole story.

Suffering ultimately takes something away, or leaves something behind. Those imprints of what happened unconsciously grow into a part of one's life. For instance, Shi Ran accepted suffering's gift—those rich, memorable expressions helped her become an excellent actress. At the same time, she also accepted suffering's punishment—she lost her own expressions.

She was somewhat at a loss as to how to feel her own emotions. Everything concerning herself was sluggish. When she smiled, she didn't know how many seconds to turn up the corners of her mouth. When she cried, she would habitually blink. When she was shy, her body would interpret the emotion as something akin to disgust and would coldly, forcefully restrain it.

She didn't want to, but it seemed to have become an instinct, already deeply and intricately rooted before she herself had even realized it.

Critics lavished praise on her, saying she became whatever she played, that you couldn't see any trace of similarity between her roles. She was, they said, a born actress. In her performances, there was only the character; her true self was almost invisible.

Piercingly accurate. Shi Ran had lived her life as a container, its material transparent and cold, capable of holding all sorts of lives.

Therefore, every time Shi Ran took on a role, she would recall if she had ever seen a similar person and extract their characteristics, including their micro-expressions, behavioral habits, and speech patterns. Her performances often included catchphrases and small mannerisms, making them appear all the more real and moving.

Even before going on the variety show, she had observed chefs and police officers, and had even gone to learn how to cook.

Her management team praised her for her professionalism, but only Shi Ran knew that if it was something she hadn't truly seen, she couldn't act it.

She couldn't act it.

Shi Ran calmly gazed at the scattered lights of a thousand homes. Her left hand gently stroked her right arm, rubbing her elbow, enveloping it in the warmth of her palm.

The air conditioning was set too low, so much so that upon contact with warmth, her skin was quickly covered in a layer of goosebumps. Shi Ran's fingertips brushed over them. This body was so sensitive; it should have been matched with a sensitive heart.

But her heart was broken. It was like two pieces of cloth sewn together—one side sharply capturing every minute detail, the other side sluggishly retracting her own emotions with immense insensitivity.

The older she got, the more Shi Ran knew that there was no single truth to the human heart.

Her mother had abandoned her, yet she had also held her through the night at the hospital when she had a persistent high fever. Her father had barely ever loved her, yet during his most difficult times, he had sold his last two watches to pay for her acting tuition. Even her father's mistress, whom she had only met a few times—everyone who knew of her existence assumed she was a shameless homewrecker in it for the money—had in the end sent several million back, telling her father that they were now even.

So, Shi Ran didn't think Ruan Ruan's scheming was any sort of problem. Compared to what she had seen before, it was far too insignificant.

There was another reason she was observing Ruan Ruan.

On Shi Ran's bedside table sat a book published ten years ago, titled Desire That Isn't Desire. The author was a very famous contemporary female writer with a sharp style and an unconventional perspective. The moment it was released, the book shot to the top of the sales charts on all major e-commerce platforms. Shi Ran was one of its earliest readers.

It was about to be adapted for the screen. The project had been greenlit and was currently in the casting phase.

Coincidentally, the director was Zhao Ansheng, with whom Shi Ran had worked on her debut film. For the first time since becoming famous, Shi Ran recommended herself for a role, wanting to play the female lead.

A good story, a major IP, and a cutting-edge, talented art-house film director—her agency knew this was a great opportunity to contend for awards, so they didn't object, despite the novel's considerable explicitness.

Because it explored desire with such frankness.

Unexpectedly, Director Zhao rejected Shi Ran. She said that Shi Ran's appearance was very suitable, but Shi Ran herself lacked desire. What she wanted was not the kind of outward, observable desire that Shi Ran could portray, but one that was introverted, submissive—a dark undercurrent disguised as a clear stream.

Casting was stuck on this point. Who could possibly perform a "desire that isn't desire"?

Shi Ran didn't know either. In film and television, there was the "innocent-turned-dark" trope, and almost everyone could anticipate the change in the eyes that came with "turning dark." But Director Zhao demanded sincerity.

A sincere affectation, a pure-hearted desire, an innocence that wasn't innocent, a frankness that wasn't frank.

Shi Ran tilted her head, her gaze falling on the book's cover.

Perhaps, she could observe it now.

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