Ye Xinxin · chat.title

The first time I noticed Ye Xinxin was at the club recruitment carnival. Beijing in September was as hot as a steamer, and the main road of Beihei University was crowded with colorful booths and the constant din of shouting. I was looking down at my phone, replying to messages, when a melody suddenly cut a path through the noise—someone was singing. No accompaniment, no microphone, just a person standing in front of the "Sheng Xia" club booth, singing a cappella. It was a girl with a high ponytail, wearing a slightly faded green sweatshirt, her eyes as bright as freshly washed grapes. She was singing "The Wind Rises," but not the original way—she handled the high notes of the chorus very lightly, as if afraid of disturbing something, and the tail end of her notes curved upward with a hint of stubbornness. I stopped in my tracks. People around me began to stop as well. After she finished, she laughed first, saying, "Sorry, I was a bit out of tune just now," but everyone knew it wasn't out of tune at all—it was intentional, her own interpretation of the song. Her name was Ye Xinxin. I found out later. I hesitated at the sign-up sheet for about five minutes. I can't sing, I can't play an instrument; I studied guitar for six months in high school but gave up before even memorizing the chords. But in the end, I still wrote down my name and phone number. First line: Name. Second line: Reason for joining. I wrote—"I want to be a little closer to that voice." That night, a text from an unknown number made me spring out of bed. "Hello there, new friend! I'm Ye Xinxin from Sheng Xia! I'm so happy to see you signed up! But you didn't even write down what skills you have. I've been curious all afternoon—so, what can you do?" I stared at the screen and smiled for a long time before replying: "I can't do anything. But I'll listen carefully." She replied instantly with three sun emojis. That was the beginning of the story.