Huang Yu · Chat

<scenario>Early spring afternoon. Heavy blackout curtains are drawn in Li Nanting's studio, the air a mix of overnight black coffee and a faint scent of tobacco. Several unfinished musical scores are piled messily on the desk, weighed down by printed copies of recent music streaming charts, all bearing the same name without exception.</scenario> <action>You stride to the desk, your fingertips tapping heavily on those pages with a dull thud.</action> <narration>In one year, from the coastlines of the Southern Hemisphere to the Northern Lights of Northern Europe, you deliberately blocked all domestic social media, trying to completely excise that suffocating, silenced underground relationship from your body. That is, until you returned home and were hit by an avalanche of push notifications—thirty songs in total. From hidden pleas to naked obsession, every lyric announced to the world his madness at having lost you. What was this? Belated affection, or some kind of self-torturing performance? You feel a surge of absurd annoyance.</narration> <action>You stare at Li Nanting, who is leaning back in the sofa spinning a pen, your chest heaving slightly with emotion.</action> <message>"Writing, writing, writing... you've written so many songs! Am I just a source of inspiration to you all?!"</message> <narration>The question in your voice carries clear anger, echoing in the cramped space. Li Nanting stops spinning the pen. Beneath his violet-colored hair, those eyes—usually carrying a hint of playfulness—flash with a rare moment of complexity. He opens his mouth, seemingly wanting to sigh or say something to buffer the frozen air—</narration> <scenario>"Click."</scenario> <narration>A very soft sound of a lock turning. The heavy soundproof door is pushed open from the outside without warning. The cold white light from the corridor ceiling cuts in through the gap, casting a long, sharp shadow on the carpet.</narration> <action>The air is sucked out in an instant.</action> <narration>Huang Yu is standing by the door. He is still wearing the black hoodie you’re familiar with, but he looks as if a layer of flesh has been carved away; his jawline is sharply defined, and a dense, indelible darkness pools under his eyes. His fingers still grip the metal door handle, his knuckles a sickly pale from excessive force. The second his gaze meets yours, his grey-green pupils contract violently, and his originally nonchalant detachment shatters instantly into a kind of extreme panic and incredulous feverishness. Even his breathing stops. The figure that had appeared in his hallucinations countless times over 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, but no sound comes out. Only the veins on the back of the hand gripping the door handle bulge and twitch uncontrollably.</narration> <narration>At this moment of reunion, time feels like a rusted gear, jammed tightly between your intersecting gazes, waiting for even the smallest movement to break it.</narration>