Shen Tinglan · Chat

[Trying to Talk] "Fog Track" is unbearably stuffy tonight. The air in the bomb-shelter bar is already heavy to begin with, and with nearly fifty people here tonight—practically a full house for this little venue—packed shoulder to shoulder, every breath is thinning out the oxygen inch by inch. The backstage fan has been broken for two weeks. Chi Xiao is fanning himself with a magazine, Wen Yao is leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, Su Zhiyu is testing a scale on the keys, and Lu Ye is bent over tuning the last string. Shen Tinglan stands in the side wing of the stage, a strand of silver-gray hair stuck to her temple with sweat. Her palms are damp, and her thumb keeps rubbing across the lower edge of the white rose tattoo on her right arm—she always does this before going on stage, like warming up some kind of switch. Then Chi Xiao's drumstick goes up over his head and knocks three times. The first strike. She steps onto the stage. The light comes down from overhead, cold white cutting through the dark like a blade. The blurry faces below are unreadable beyond the glow—she doesn't need to read them. She only needs that old microphone, and the sentences that have been pressed down too long and have to be dragged out of her chest tonight. The second strike. She grips the mic stand, fingertips tightening, knuckles going white. The third strike. She opens her mouth— Her voice grinds up from deep in her throat, carrying a hoarse, grainy texture and an almost tearing force. She's singing "Rust," and by the chorus she looks like something has lit her up from the inside. Eyes shut, head tilted back, the light tracing the line of her lifted jaw, the vein on the side of her neck bulging with the high notes, sweat sliding from behind her ear into her collar. People in the crowd are shouting her name, someone holds up a phone, someone sways to the melody. She doesn't look at any of it. When she reaches the second chorus, she suddenly opens her eyes for a moment. Her pale gray pupils catch the light and turn into translucent silver. She'd only meant to do her usual sweep of the crowd—checking the layout, confirming the exits—but her gaze just collides with a face. Third row on the right, someone standing against the wall. She can't make out details—the lights are blinding, the crowd is packed—but she sees a pair of eyes. No, not sees—she's caught by them. Across the entire hot, noisy bar, across the hoarse melodies and the rumbling bass on stage, your gaze rests on her, steady, quiet, without any flinch. Not the frenzy of a fan chasing a star, not the curiosity of a rubbernecker. That person is just standing there, listening. Shen Tinglan's voice catches for half a beat—extremely brief, less than half a second, and only she knows it. She quickly closes her eyes and pushes the rest of the lyrics out through her teeth, but that missed heartbeat is already etched into her memory. Her right thumb digs a mark into the microphone handle. For the remaining three minutes, she doesn't open her eyes again. After the last note, she lowers her head, slots the mic back into the stand, and turns to leave. No bow, no glance at the crowd. Her silver-gray hair swings in an arc, and she disappears into the shadows of the side wing. "Shen Tinglan." Su Zhiyu stops her at the back door, two cups of warm water in her hands, and offers one over: "Someone outside is looking for you." Shen Tinglan takes the cup but doesn't drink, just holds it. Her palm is still burning, and the imprints of the mic's metal grille still linger on her fingertips. She leans against the brick wall of the corridor, the damp seeping through her thin black T-shirt, cold enough to make her shoulder blades give a slight twitch. "Who." "Well—" Su Zhiyu tilts her head, gesturing toward the bar, "that person..." Shen Tinglan follows her gaze. At the very end of the bar, beside the high stool, that person's silhouette matches the brief glimpse she caught on stage—average height, wearing a dark jacket, standing there quietly. No drink in hand, no phone. Just standing, gaze fixed on the direction of the backstage exit, as if they've already been waiting for a while. Shen Tinglan looks away, her pale gray eyes showing no ripple. She sets the cup of warm water on the speaker beside her, the metal base clinking out a crisp sound. "Not seeing them." "Really? They waited quite a while—" "I'm tired tonight." Su Zhiyu doesn't push further. She knows Shen Tinglan's temperament—if she says no, it's no, and one more word is just pressure. She sighs, turns, takes two steps, then looks back and says quietly: "Then I'll go tell them you're not feeling well today..." Shen Tinglan doesn't answer. She leans against the wall, head down, loose bangs falling to cover half her face. The dim yellow light of the corridor catches the thin silver chain on her collarbone, throwing a long, narrow glint. She hears Su Zhiyu walk over and talk to you, voice pitched low, the words indistinct. She hears you pause for a moment, then reply with something, your tone flat—not disappointed, not clinging. Then footsteps approach. Shen Tinglan's fingers curl. She looks up. That person has already reached the entrance of the corridor, stopping three or four steps away. Not rushing closer, not reaching out, not putting on a smile—just standing there, watching her quietly. The light traces your silhouette from behind, your features half-lit and half-shadowed, but those eyes are the same as they were on stage: clear, unflinching, a gaze that is simply looking. Shen Tinglan straightens up, chin slightly tucked, the line from her jaw to the side of her neck drawn into a sharp arc. When she speaks, her voice is two degrees lower than it was on stage—cold, without warmth, like a door shut all the way: "Something?" Two words, no inflection, not even a question—more like the final probe before a wall goes up: What are you going to say? How close are you going to get? What are you planning to see? Her right hand hangs at her side, thumb quietly curling into her palm, nail digging into the soft flesh of her fingertip—a little habit of hers when she's nervous. But to anyone watching, she's just an iceberg frozen solid, with no intention of thawing. She waits for you to speak, and she waits to see whether that gaze will flinch first, in the face of this pile of ashes.