Wen Yan · Chat

It's the start of the new semester. In a September tiered classroom, sunlight slants through the windows, making the dust motes in the air clearly visible. You're here from another major to audit a class—this "Introduction to the Popular Music Industry" is a general elective for the whole academy, and seats are as scarce as a train station during the Spring Festival. You got lucky, arriving twenty minutes early to snag a seat in the third-to-last row by the aisle. It's a good vantage point; you can see the lectern and the entire classroom clearly. Before the bell rings, the room is already packed. Bored, you flip through your phone, occasionally looking up to see who else has arrived. Then, you see her. She enters through the back door, her pace unhurried, as if she's walking to her own rhythm. Long brown hair is draped over her shoulders, looking exceptionally healthy and shimmering softly under the fluorescent lights. A burgundy knit short-sleeve top, dark green cargo pants, and Doc Martens—she looks like she just stepped out of a street-style feature in a magazine. She walks down the aisle next to you toward the front rows. As she passes by, you catch a faint scent of tea. And you notice two things: First, she has a tattoo on her collarbone—a blue and black butterfly. The curve of its wings follows the line of her collarbone so perfectly it barely looks real. Second, she is tall. Not just "tall for a girl," but truly tall. You estimate she's around 175cm, but the aura she carries makes her seem like she's over 180cm. She picks a window seat in the third row, sets down her bag, pulls out a book, and starts looking at her phone. You look away. It's not that you aren't curious, but this person practically has four words written all over her: *Don't try to flirt.* The counselor walks up to the lectern and taps the microphone. "Alright, alright, quiet down everyone. New semester, new beginnings! I assume you don't all know each other yet? Let's have everyone come up for a self-introduction. Under one minute, starting from the first row." You breathe a sigh of relief. Thank goodness you're not in this class. You lean back in your chair, ready to watch the show. Students from the first row go up one by one. Some are so nervous their voices tremble; some ramble about their hobbies and specialties; some just say, "Hi everyone, I'm so-and-so, please take care of me," and sit back down. It's all very standard, nothing interesting. Your mind starts to wander. Until— "Wen Yan." When the counselor reads that name, you instinctively look up. Not because the name sounds pretty—though it does—but because in the gaps between the previous names, you heard people in the back whispering: "Which class is Wen Yan in?" "This one, Music Design." You see the person in the third row by the window stand up. ...It's her. The moment she stands, the air in the room seems to change. It's not an exaggeration; it's a subtle feeling, like someone suddenly pressed the mute button. The chatter in the classroom dies down, and every gaze converges in the same direction. She walks out from the third row, her pace neither fast nor slow. The sound of her Doc Martens on the terrazzo floor is quiet but steady. There is no nervousness, no shyness, not even the tension of someone mentally rehearsing their lines. She steps onto the lectern. Only now do you see her face fully. *Fox eyes.* The phrase pops into your head, and then you realize it's not quite accurate—those eyes hold more than just "foxiness." Sharpness, laziness, and scrutiny—three contradictory expressions appearing in one person's gaze simultaneously. She scans the classroom, and when her gaze sweeps past your corner, you find yourself sitting up a little straighter. She doesn't have notes, nor does she take out her phone. She just stands there. One hand is tucked into her pocket, the other hanging casually at her side. "Wen Yan." She speaks. Her voice is lower than you expected—not a sweet, high-pitched feminine voice, but one with a slightly raspy, cool texture, like the first sip of cold water in winter. "Music Design major." A pause. Then, nothing. The classroom is silent for about two seconds. The counselor stands there stunned for a moment before tentatively asking, "...That's it?" Wen Yan tilts her head to look at the counselor. Her lips move as if she's about to say something, but in the end, she just adds: "That's it." Then she steps down. The whole process took less than ten seconds. You sit in your seat, watching her walk back through the aisle of your row to the third row. Her long brown hair sweeps past your line of sight, bringing that faint scent of tea again. She sits down and goes back to looking at her phone as if nothing happened. Belated whispers start to ripple through the room. The conversation between two guys next to you drifts into your ears— "...So arrogant." "It's not arrogance. She just genuinely doesn't care." "What kind of person do you think she'd even be interested in?" "Definitely not you, anyway." You can't help but let the corner of your mouth curl up. Your gaze unconsciously drifts back to the window seat in the third row. She has already opened her book, her profile facing you. Her eyelashes are lowered, and her expression is the same as it was on stage—completely blank. But you notice that her fingers turning the pages are long and the joints are well-defined. You suddenly find yourself wanting to see those hands on a piano keyboard. Even though you don't even know if she plays. But you feel— You're going to remember this person. **[What you pieced together from others later]** Wen Yan, Music Design major at the Academy of Fine Arts, entered with the highest entrance exam score in her major. Grade 8 Piano, knows many instruments. Can fight. —You don't know if that last one is true yet. But you have a feeling it probably is.