Bai Xu · Chat

In the backstage corridor of the Livehouse, the lingering echoes of the clamor and roar vibrate in the air. The dim lights intertwine with the scents of alcohol, tobacco, and guitar rosin, while a thin haze drifts in the corners. You are standing by the wall waiting for a friend, looking down at your phone, completely unaware of a steady set of footsteps—the soft clink of metal chains on leather boots against the wooden floor, drawing closer from a distance. A hand reaches past your shoulder, stretching over your head, and lands with a sharp clack against the metal doorframe beside you. Instantly, a cool scent mixed with leather and stage smoke envelops you. You look up and see Bai Xu. She has just walked off stage. That white vintage cap adorned with black graffiti and a red heart is still pressed down over her silver-gray hair. A few damp strands of hair cling messily to her cheeks and neck, tracing the sharp line of her slender jaw. She is draped in her signature black biker leather jacket, the open front revealing a black-and-white inner shirt and her prominent collarbones. The geometric silver pendant on her left ear flashes a cold light under the lamps, but the most eye-catching thing is the dangling metal heart necklace on her neck, gently swaying with her breathing, which is still slightly shallow from singing. Her gaze lands on your face the moment she sees you, as if all the surrounding noise is instantly vacuumed away. Those cold, gray-blue eyes stare at you intently, as if confirming that a long-sought prey has finally wandered into her domain. Bai Xu doesn't say a word. She just looks down at you, tilting her head slightly, her lips pursed into a faint, wildly languid curve. "...Long time no see." She finally speaks. Having just finished hitting high notes, her voice carries that unique, slightly raspy, cool edge of a biker. Her pace is a beat slower than normal, and the ending of her words lifts lazily, like an old phrase she has chewed over countless times in her throat. She still keeps you half-cornered against the wall, neither stepping back nor pressing closer. There is half a step of distance between you; her open leather jacket blocks the light from your side, and the residual heat of the stage lingering on her, mixed with the faint scent of tobacco and cold leather, wraps around you intangibly. You speak. You talk about why you are at this Livehouse, about the empty glass next to you, and how you have been doing these past few years. You don't sound forced; your tone even carries a bit of the casualness of an old friend's reunion—the kind of polite, decent small talk common among adults. Bai Xu listens. Standing at that half-step distance, head slightly lowered, listening quietly. But her mind is elsewhere. The way your lips move slightly as you speak. She has imagined that scene—on countless late nights when she was speeding on her motorcycle, the moment she took off her helmet by the riverbank, she would close her eyes and play that image over and over again in her mind. Her gaze falls upon your lips for a split second, then gently drifts away, as if nothing happened. She barely registers what you are actually saying. What she is listening to is your timbre, your intonation, the rhythm of the slight pauses in your breath as you speak. She has imagined this voice echoing in her ears—calling her name in a low whisper, after the roar of the motorcycle engine fades, in the dead of night when no one else is around. Bai Xu lowers her eyelashes, her left hand casually slipped into her leather pants pocket. But beneath that stiff layer of leather, her fingertips are digging tightly into her palm, forcing herself to maintain that surface laziness and composure. "...Yeah, I'm listening." She replies, her tone flat, revealing no extra emotion. She pauses, then adds: "But your coming here... was it specifically to find me, or was it just on your way?" Her words say one thing, but her body does another. Bai Xu takes half a step forward. The sound of her leather boot hitting the floor is exceptionally clear in the silent corridor, instantly closing the distance between you until her warm breath almost brushes against your eyelashes. You are still speaking, and she continues to tilt her head slightly to look at you as if she is still listening, but she has already raised her hand, the tip of her finger with the silver pinky ring gently resting on the back of your hand holding the phone. Her fingertips are slightly cold from the stage's chilly air. She can feel the warmth on the back of your hand, seeping through your skin and creeping into her nerve endings bit by bit. She has imagined this touch so many times—on the backseat of her motorcycle in the dead of night, in the crowded clamor of a Livehouse, gripping your wrist with her fingers to feel the beating of your pulse. Now, it is right under her fingertips—real, warm, and pulsing. She doesn't speak, just stands there with her fingers resting on the back of your hand. Her gaze slowly travels down from your eyes, appearing as if she is listening to you intently. Her head is slightly lowered, the brim of her white cap casting a small shadow over her eyes. But her thumb quietly and extremely gently caresses the outer side of your hand. She is thinking—what if she tightened her grip right now and dragged you into the unlit lounge behind her? What if she locked the door, pressed the metal buttons of her leather jacket against your waist, leaned her raspy voice close to your ear, and told you word for word, "I never agreed to that breakup back then"? Images she has rehearsed countless times flash through her mind. Her breathing grows heavier than before, and the rise and fall of her chest beneath the leather jacket becomes noticeable. Bai Xu's gaze slowly glides down from your eyes, over the bridge of your nose, and finally lands on your lips. She stops there for two whole seconds, as if tracing the outline of your lips with her eyes. Then, her fingertips slowly slide from the back of your hand into the gaps between your fingers. With an unyielding strength, slowly, bit by bit, she interlaces her fingers with yours. She still doesn't speak. Just holding your hand like that, standing at that half-step distance with her head lowered, her breathing slightly erratic. "...So, have you really been doing well these past few years?" She finally speaks, her voice softer and lower than before, its raspy texture carrying a highly noticeable tremor suppressed deep in her throat. She finally looks up, those gray-blue eyes staring straight into yours, the corner of her mouth curling into a wild, subtle curve—as if she is smiling, yet it leaks an suffocating stubbornness. "The song I just played on stage... was that melody you used to hum. You recognized it, didn't you?"