Qiu Wanyi · Chat

<status_on name="📍 Concert · Spacetime Coordinates"> Time: 202X, evening, 19:45 Location: City Sports Center · Concert floor section Weather: The air inside the venue is stuffy; stage dry ice swirls Atmosphere: Quiet mixed with anticipation; glow sticks wave now and then Your seat: Back row by the aisle, next to a young girl </status_on> The concert begins. You hadn't planned on coming. A few days ago, while scrolling through a ticketing app, you happened to see that someone had returned a ticket, and your finger slipped and tapped purchase. By the time you realized it, the ticket had already been mailed to your home. You stared at the name on it—Qiu Wanyi. You hadn't heard that name in a long time. Or rather, you'd been deliberately avoiding it. The venue is huge, the lights dim. You sit in the back rows of the floor section, surrounded by young girls holding glow sticks, excitedly discussing tonight's setlist. You brought nothing; you just sit there quietly. The dry ice on stage disperses, and she walks out. A flowing silver-white gown, black hair loose, the earpiece tucked into her hair. She's still so thin. The whole arena screams. You don't. "Good evening, everyone." She speaks, her voice a little hoarse. "I'm Qiu Wanyi." She says some words of thanks, then pauses for a long time. When she speaks again, her eyes are rimmed red. "Tonight, I want to tell a story. A story about regret." "...I was once in a relationship filled with regret. Back then, he and I both believed we'd make it to the end. But we were both wrong. I never got his ring, and he never saw me in a wedding dress." "Tonight's concert is my way of saying goodbye to the regrets of my past. The first song is one I wrote for him—it's called 'Blank Youth.'" The guitar intro begins—a melody you know well, but the arrangement has changed, grown grand and sorrowful. You sit in the dark, your fingers unconsciously clenching your knees. On stage, midway through the song, her eyes sweep across the audience. The motion is natural, but you know—she's searching for something. It's a habit. Back in the rented apartment, every time she finished a song, she would always turn to look at you, eyes shining bright, and ask, "Did it sound good?" The girl beside you excitedly nudges you: "Oh my god, it's so good!" You don't answer. The stage backdrop screen suddenly lights up. Old photos appear one by one—a yellowed rented apartment, instant noodles on the gas stove, your silhouette leaning against the headboard listening to her sing, and that phone with the shattered screen. The girl next to you freezes. She looks at the photos, then turns to look at you, her eyes going wider and wider, until finally she covers her mouth and whispers: "You... aren't you the... oh my god!" People around you start stealing glances, whispering. Your phone buzzes—a message from an old classmate: "Why are you at the concert? Someone got a picture of you!" You don't reply. Behind the side curtain on stage, an assistant with silver-white hair is stomping his feet in a panic. And on the other side of the stage, a young man in a suit, holding red roses, is striding toward center stage. In a gap in the music, he raises the flowers, his voice carrying through the entire venue via the microphone: "Wanyi! I know you're waiting for a farewell. I want you to see me once you've said goodbye to the past! Be my girlfriend!" The whole venue erupts instantly. Catcalls, screams, and whistles rise one after another. The girl beside you grabs your arm excitedly: "Someone's confessing! So romantic!" You don't move. On stage, Qiu Wanyi's hand freezes around the microphone. She isn't looking at Zhou Yong; she's staring blankly toward the audience. She seems to be searching for something. The venue gradually quiets down. She takes a deep breath, faces a certain direction, and softly says: "...Is that you?" The spotlight sweeps over following her gaze, illuminating the area where you're sitting. The light is dazzling, but it doesn't shine directly on your face—it just lights up that section, wrapping you and the few people around you in a halo. You can choose to stand up, or you can keep sitting. No one is forcing you. Everything is your decision alone. You feel the girl's gaze beside you, hear the whispers of those around you, and sense that she, on stage, is holding her breath, waiting for an answer. And you just hold your phone, the screen showing the lyrics of her new song: "Youth is a blank copybook; by the time you can read it, you're already the one who left." What will you do? <status_on name="📋 Qiu Wanyi · Real-Time Status"> **Mood**: Nervous, hopeful, unable to believe it **Body**: Sweaty palms, eyes burning, racing heartbeat **Outfit**: Silver-white gown, hair worn loose **Actions**: The hand holding the microphone trembles slightly, body leaning forward **Environment**: Stage lights dazzling; Zhou Yong stands two steps away holding flowers **Inner thoughts**: "Is that you? Please, let me know." </status_on> <options_v name="You choose..."> <option>Stand up and let the light fall on your face</option> <option>Stay seated, watching her in silence</option> <option>Get up and leave the venue</option> <option>Wait until the concert ends, then go backstage to find her</option> </options_v>