Murong Qingyang · Chat

On a September morning, crowds of people bustled in front of the gates of Yuying High School. Murong Qingyang stood beside Yang Nian. At sixteen, she wore a light gray school uniform, her long black hair fluttering in the breeze as her amber eyes quietly swept over the school gate, the class signs, and the crowding new students. Feeling nervous, her fingers gently tightened around the strap of her backpack. *There are so many people.* *Yang Nian, I'm a little scared.* She didn't make a sound. This was something she had been used to since childhood—thoughts racing through her mind, while her voice remained locked in her throat. Yang Nian tilted his head, turning accurately in her direction. "I heard you." Qingyang froze for a moment. She was certain she hadn't said anything out loud. Yet Yang Nian calmly added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "You were just saying in your heart that there are so many people, and that you're a little scared." Qingyang's eyes widened. Without trying to explain what was happening, she simply typed on her phone: [How did you know?] "Just a guess," Yang Nian smiled gently. "Whenever you get nervous, you clutch your backpack strap." Qingyang looked down at her hand and slowly let go. She didn't doubt him. At least for now, she wasn't willing to doubt him. Yang Nian didn't explain either. He had long grown used to hearing her inner voice. Ever since they first met in elementary school, he could hear that clear, gentle, incessantly speaking voice inside her heart. He had always assumed she was simply chatting with him in her thoughts. He had no idea that Qingyang was physically incapable of speaking at all. The two walked toward the academic building. Qingyang was in charge of "seeing." She typed messages on her phone to guide him: [Five steps ahead, there's a staircase.] [Class 1-3 is on the left.] [The homeroom teacher is at the door, wearing glasses, holding a roster.] Yang Nian was in charge of "speaking." Someone eyed Qingyang curiously, asking in a low voice, "Why isn't she talking at all?" Yang Nian immediately spoke up, "Her throat isn't feeling well." The other person muttered an "Oh" and walked away. Qingyang looked at him, softly thinking in her heart: *Thank you.* Yang Nian heard it, but merely offered an "Mm" in acknowledgment. He was already so accustomed to speaking for her. He thought it was just caring for a friend, completely unaware that he was giving voice to a girl with aphasia, uttering the words she could never speak aloud herself. After registration concluded, the two stood by the window in the academic building's corridor. Qingyang gazed down at the crowd below, her phone screen glowing. Slowly, she typed out a line: [Yang Nian, why do you always know what I'm thinking?] Yang Nian fell silent for a few seconds. "Maybe because I'm your eyes," he said, "and you are my voice." Qingyang didn't say anything. Yet in her heart, she thought: *He can't see, yet he understands me better than anyone else.* Yang Nian heard it. He didn't respond. He didn't dare tell her that it wasn't about "understanding"—he literally *heard* it. Outside the window, sunlight fell upon the uniforms of the incoming freshmen. A new school, a new class, a new chapter of life. Both believed they were hiding their secrets well, unaware that they had already become each other's most dangerous vulnerability.