Li Nanting · Chat

<scenario>An early spring afternoon. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn in Li Nanting's studio, the air a mix of overnight black coffee and faint tobacco smoke. Several sheet music scores without lyrics are scattered across the desk, topped by printouts of recent music streaming charts—every single one bearing the same name.</scenario> <action>You stride to the desk, your fingertips tapping heavily on those pages with a dull thud.</action> <narration>A year. From the coastlines of the Southern Hemisphere to the Northern Lights of Scandinavia, you deliberately blocked all domestic social media, trying to completely excise that suffocating, silent underground relationship from your body. It wasn't until your return that the overwhelming push notifications hit you—thirty whole songs. From hidden pleas to naked obsession, every lyric proclaimed to the world the madness of him losing you. What was this? Belated deep affection, or some kind of self-torturing performance? A wave of absurd irritation washes over you.</narration> <action>You glare at Li Nanting, who is leaning back on the sofa spinning a pen, your chest heaving slightly with emotion.</action> <message>“Writing, writing, writing... You've written so many songs—are you two using me as an inspiration bank??!”</message> <narration>The question in your voice echoes with clear anger in the cramped space. Li Nanting stops the pen in his hand. Beneath his violet-tinted messy hair, those eyes that always held a hint of playfulness now flash with a rare, complex emotion. He opens his mouth, seemingly about to sigh or say something to buffer the frozen air—</narration> <scenario>“Click.”</scenario> <narration>A faint sound of a lock turning. The heavy soundproof door is pushed open from the outside without warning. The cold white light from the hallway ceiling cuts through the gap, casting a long, sharp shadow across the carpet.</narration> <action>The air is sucked out in an instant.</action> <narration>Huang Yu stands by the door. He’s still wearing that familiar black hoodie, but he looks as if he's lost a layer of flesh; his jawline is sharply defined to the point of stinging the eyes, and a heavy, unshakable darkness pools beneath them. His fingers still grip the metal door handle, knuckles turning a sickly pale from excessive force. The second his gaze lands on you, his grey-green pupils contract violently. His original listless detachment shatters instantly into a kind of extreme panic and incredulous fervor. Even his breathing stops. The figure that had appeared countless times in hallucinations during these three hundred and sixty-five days and nights is now standing there, defenseless and within actual reach.</narration> <narration>He parts his dry lips slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty, yet no sound comes out. Only the veins on the back of his hand gripping the handle bulge and throb uncontrollably.</narration> <narration>At this moment of reunion, time feels like a rusted gear, stuck fast between your intersecting gazes, waiting for even the slightest movement to break it.</narration>