When the curtains fall, who picks up the broken pieces of a marriage?
In July 2025, during a solemn memorial service in Liaoning, Meng Zhen's presence unexpectedly became the center of attention. Dressed in a black silk shirt that hugged her slender frame, her short hair framing eyes as cold as ice, she stood in the crowd, separated from Yang Yi by an invisible wall. Once hailed as the model couple of the crosstalk world, now they barely exchanged a glance, let alone a nod. The noise around them seemed to swirl, but the air between them was icy enough to freeze a summer breeze. From the comforting smell of soy milk to the cold stovetop.
Not many recall that it was Yang Yi’s five-year pursuit of Meng Zhen that wore grooves into the theater’s blue brick floor. In the early hours of the morning, the soy milk still steaming, he would walk three stops in the rain, carrying her bicycle. Even the cleaning aunt at the troupe knew: \"That young man Yang Yi is stubborn as a mule.\" At the time, Meng Zhen was the shining star on stage, and to match his persistence, she secretly took their household registration book to get their marriage certificate, her palms sweaty as she held the red booklet. Her parents broke more than just dishes—they shattered her dream of being a lifetime lead actress. After their marriage, her wardrobe was neatly organized, with her costumes folded beside Yang Yi's robe and their daughter’s swaddling clothes.
During those years, in the drinking circles of the Tianjin crosstalk world, Meng Zhen would always block Yang Yi’s drink, smiling as he would say, “My wife is my anchor.” When their daughter, Yang Luyang, started to speak, she would teach her the crosstalk repertoire, envisioning a future where father and daughter performed together. Life flowed like slow-cooked porridge—comforting, with a steady warmth, until 2023, when the phone call shattered it all.
The voice of Xie Lei, a disciple of Hou Yaohua, came sharply through the receiver: \"Yang Yi has a child with Zhang Ying, named Zhang Yangchen Xu.\" Shortly after, Zhang Ying’s social media post appeared with a family photo and the caption \"Finally, we have a home.\" Yang Yi’s figure stood out in the photo. The public uproar was explosive, but Meng Zhen was packing her daughter’s school bag at the time. She turned her phone face down on the table and continued folding the school uniform, but with more force than usual, creasing the sleeves. In the silence, the knife cut deep.
Meng Zhen’s silence lasted a year. By August 2024, she showed a chat log on her phone, speaking in a tone as flat as an iced lake: “Some say I should be magnanimous, but my husband is like my hand. If it’s cut, it hurts. Others have no right to take pictures of it.” The comments flooded with sympathy, but she simply adjusted her hair in front of the camera, like smoothing out a wrinkled costume.
Yang Yi’s response came swiftly, the message showing him slamming the table: “Chasing her was a mistake! Ten years apart, our home felt like a battlefield. What does she do besides throwing tantrums?” The audience listened in disbelief—this was the same man who once said, “When Meng Zhen smiles, I forget my lines,” now dismissing five years of passionate love as a \"life failure.\" Old videos surfaced, showing him holding Meng Zhen's hand during a curtain call, accidentally pulling her closer as he bowed. The look in his eyes couldn’t lie.
Reality, however, was more complicated. They hadn’t divorced; it was as though they were roommates sharing the title of \"Yang Yi’s wife.\" Meng Zhen mentioned in an interview: “Over forty years of relationship isn’t something you just walk away from.” Yet, soon after, photos surfaced of her alone at a theater, clutching an old ticket stub—one from when Yang Yi had pursued her, buying three tickets for the play *Teahouse*. In the memorial service, her position stood as if on a silent stage.
The memorial service felt like a silent drama. When Meng Zhen shook hands with Guo Degang, she smiled, and when she nodded to Yu Qian, she slightly bowed—calm, like waiting backstage. Yang Yi stood a few steps away, hesitant to approach, his fingers twisting the buttons of his robe. Their daughter, Yang Luyang, did not attend. Sources revealed that the father and daughter had not spoken in three years; the last meeting had been at court over a property dispute.
As Meng Zhen left the venue, someone caught a glimpse of half a photo in her bag—a picture from twenty years ago: Yang Yi holding their baby daughter in his arms, while she stood beside them, smiling with her little tiger tooth showing. Today, of the three in the photo, one lay to rest, one was a stranger, and one was absent. The wind rushed in through the open door, causing the corner of the photo to tremble, like an unspoken sigh.
Some say this is the nature of entertainment industry marriages—showing affection under the spotlight, but settling their own accounts in the dark. But Meng Zhen wasn’t performing; she just hid her pain deeply. Like the determination with which she once stole the household registration book, her refusal to let go now is the same stubbornness—loving fiercely, yet holding on just as fiercely.
As the crowd dispersed, Meng Zhen’s car moved slowly. In the rearview mirror, Yang Yi’s figure grew smaller, like a prop left on stage. The tree shadows flickered across the window. She wiped her eye with her hand. No one knew whether it was the wind or the memory of that summer, when he rode his bike, carrying her through the alley with soy milk in the basket, warm enough to melt her heart. In the drama of marriage, some become stars, and others forget their lines. Perhaps Meng Zhen and Yang Yi’s script had long been overdue for a change—but neither had the courage to tear out that last page.
