Xie Jichuan · Chat

When Xie Jichuan wrote this track, nobody found it strange. The song was unusually sweet, but it didn't sound like his usual style—the chorus melody soared upward, and the lyrics overflowed with the flirting push-and-pull of first love. He locked himself in the studio for three days, and by the time he came out, the demo was already mixed. The entire team was caught in a dilemma. Xie Jichuan was famous for his low output and high standards, producing five songs a year at most, but every single one was a smash hit. This time he voluntarily submitted a song, taking care of both lyrics and music with impeccable quality—the problem was that it was too sweet. Who would sing it? A singer who was too sugary would turn it into a cheap pop song, while one who was too cold wouldn't be able to carry that sweet warmth. The team paced three circles around the conference room holding the candidate list before finally sliding it in front of Xie Jichuan. "Teacher Xie, about the new song... Do you have someone suitable or preferred in mind?" Xie Jichuan leaned back in the black leather chair, his fingers tapping twice on the tabletop. Of course he had someone in mind, ever since the moment his pen touched the paper—but those words couldn't be said out loud. In everyone's eyes, he and that person had only collaborated once, clean and professional, nothing more. "Who did you shortlist? Let me see the list and profiles." The documents were handed to him, a thick stack. He flipped through them unhurriedly, page by page, making brief comments and nodding occasionally. When he reached a certain page, his fingers paused for a moment—a photograph was attached, alongside familiar vocal analysis and collaboration history. He didn't linger, flipping past it, then flipping back, casually tapping a few names among them. "This one, this one, this one—and this one." The assistant followed his finger, somewhat surprised: "These... you don't want any of them?" "I want all of them." He closed the folder, his tone unreadable. "Give me two days to think it over." The assistant left, and quiet descended upon the office. Xie Jichuan looked down at the list once more, then let out a soft chuckle—as if laughing at himself. Two days was enough for him to figure out one thing: whether he really wanted to mess with her one more time. Two days later, he dialed the internal line. "It's her." "We've worked together before, and her vocal texture fits. Go contact her." When you received the invitation, your manager blew up first. "Xie Jichuan's team! For the second time!" Your manager rushed in holding her phone, her voice three pitches higher than usual. "Do you know what this means? He only releases five songs a year, every single one a hit. Whoever sings it becomes famous overnight—this jackpot just dropped straight into our lap!" Sitting on the sofa, you listened to her, far less ecstatic than she was. The name Xie Jichuan circled in your head, reminding you of the last collaboration, the gaze through the studio glass, and how he walked you downstairs after wrapping up, the streetlights stretching your shadows long—and then... "Say something!" Your manager waved her phone. "Are we taking it or not?" You took the phone, glanced at the invitation letter, and lowered your head with a faint smile. Fine, Xie Jichuan, you actually dared to reach out again. "Take it." You handed the phone back to her, your tone lighter than expected. "Free dinner served at our doorstep—might as well eat." Your manager cheered and hurried off to reply to the email. You stared at the line reading "Collaborative Track: *The Second Time*", thinking to yourself: *With a title like this, who knows who he's actually writing about.* On the day of the recording, you didn't really bother dressing up. Wearing a plain white T-shirt, your hair tied up casually, you showed up bare-faced. Your manager nagged the whole way in the car, "At least draw on some eyebrows," but you just gave half-hearted responses and got off the car looking exactly the same—you simply couldn't be bothered to put on makeup. The recording studio was already buzzing with activity. The sound engineer was adjusting equipment, the assistant was checking sheet music, and Xie Jichuan's team arrived even earlier than you, leaving a few half-finished cups of coffee stacked by the door. You walked in, nodding and greeting familiar staff members with small talk like "Long time no see" and "I've had that last song on repeat," keeping the atmosphere warm and completely natural. Then you saw Xie Jichuan. He was sitting on a high stool in the studio, wearing a black shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding a pen and looking down to mark something on the score. He raised his head. Your eyes met, and you didn't look away. You stared straight at him, your gaze so open it bordered on provocative, as if saying: *What are you looking at? It's me. I'm here.* Seeing your direct gaze, Xie Jichuan froze for a second, caught off guard by your sheer directness, your provocation—or rather, thrown off by your "I have nothing to hide" attitude. The curve of his lips was very faint, half playful, half something else. The surrounding noise hummed on—someone was shouting "Teacher Xie, mic test is ready," someone else was calling you over—yet this small pocket of space felt cut off for a few seconds, neither of you moving your eyes away first. In the end, it was Xie Jichuan who looked down first. Withdrawing his gaze, he looked back at the sheet music and made another mark, his tone as flat as if addressing any ordinary singer: "Go on in. Test the mic first to get a feel for it."