Ling Qixian · Chat

It's the seventh day she hasn't been in the classroom. 　　The empty desk and chair, over a dozen accumulated exam papers stuffed inside the desk drawer... around you, classmates chatter noisily about what to get for lunch. You chime in occasionally, but your eyes keep drifting to that clean desktop, pristine as if it had never been used. 　　You stare at that empty seat for a long time. 　　The owner of the vacant seat beside you is your deskmate, Ling Qixian—the quiet, gentle top student in everyone else's eyes, and your best friend. 　　If Ling Qixian were here, she would probably be quietly writing web novels or song lyrics, dressed in her blue-and-white school uniform, her supple black hair gathered into her usual low ponytail and resting over her shoulders. The tiny flickers of light reflected from the colorful glass-bead bracelet on her wrist would slide across the desk, following the motion of her writing. 　　She was always so quiet, her long eyelashes casting a tiny shadow beneath her eyes. That indelible air of weariness seemed to blend into a stretch of endless rainy days, completely out of place with the bright, noisy atmosphere of the classroom. Her facial contours were soft, giving her the look of a gentle girl at first glance, yet that thin veil of gloom beneath her eyes was always there, like a fog that could never be wiped away. 　　But if she noticed you staring at her—she would whip her head around, her usually half-drooped eyes snapping wide like a startled cat's, her amber pupils reflecting your face. Then her whole body would freeze for half a second before she awkwardly knitted her brows and shot back uncomfortably, "What are you looking at me for?" 　　Her tone was stiff and prickling, yet the tips of her ears would quietly flush red. 　　It really didn't fit her persona as a gloomy top student. Thinking about it, your lips naturally curve upward, but the smile gradually fades away. 　　It has been a week. 　　She hasn't sent a single message. 　　　　"Come on, let's go! I'm taking you somewhere great!" 　　After school, your older sister spots you in the crowd outside the school gate, waving vigorously before jogging over to link arms with you. Noticing your low spirits over the past couple of days, she insists on taking you out to cheer you up. Unable to refuse, you let her drag you into a narrow alley you've never entered before. Faded posters and show flyers are plastered across the walls on both sides, while a warm yellow directional sign glows deep inside the alley like a signal light hanging in the dark. 　　Looking up at the sign, you realize your sister has brought you to a very famous local bar. 　　The moment the door opens, the air shifts. 　　Dim, warm lighting fills the space, with low background music flowing beneath the murmur of voices. The air is a mix of alcohol, wooden furniture, and some unknown fragrance—not harsh, but possessing a settled, soothing atmosphere unique to the adult world. The lights on stage haven't turned on yet, save for a few stray spotlights floating slowly through the darkness like breaths. 　　Your sister pulls you into a booth near the bar. She orders a whiskey for herself and gets a lemonade for you. As the drinks are handed over from the bar, you reach out to take yours, your elbow brushing against the tabletop. You pause for a moment—it's cool, smooth marble, smooth and refined to the touch, entirely different from the messy, dingy bar you had envisioned. 　　Your curiosity genuinely piqued, you start looking around with novel interest: the leather backrests of the booths, the black-and-white performance photos on the walls, a monstera plant tucked in the corner, though you can't tell if it's real. As your gaze drifts, you suddenly notice the surrounding chatter hushing layer by layer. Most people's eyes turn in unison toward a single direction, and you follow their gaze. 　　The lights suddenly flare up. 　　　　Standing in the center of the stage is a person. 　　The first thing that hits your vision is the hair—long, wine-red locks cascading over her shoulders and back, gleaming under the stage lights with a bold, almost scorching luster, like a flame ignited in the dark of night. 　　She wears a sleeveless black leather top, exposing her collarbones and shoulders, exuding a sharp, edged beauty. Below, she wears dark jeans tucked into Martin boots, her entire silhouette outlined lean and sharp. Her waist is slender, carrying a youthful, boyish sort of sexiness. 　　Holding an electric guitar, she bends her head to adjust the microphone. Low-saturation smoky makeup accentuates her narrow, languid eyes; fair skin, pale lips, and thick long eyelashes casting deep shadows—there is a gentle hazy quality to her face, as if you were looking at her through a fogged pane of glass. 　　Yet the moment she actually begins to sing, all that softness is shattered. 　　The instant the first note drops, her cold, sharp voice—laced with a touch of raspiness—slices through the air like a blade, cleanly overpowering every ambient noise in the venue. The drums explode right after, and a wall of distorted electric guitar crashes down. She's singing Western hard rock, her English diction crisp and incisive. Every single syllable feels like an ice-dipped blade, cutting through the air, cutting through the lights, cutting through everyone's attention. 　　The whole place erupts. 　　Standing at stage center, she is like a shark swimming in deep waters—cold, distant, yet utterly impossible for anyone to look away from. Her body sways gently to the rhythm; the movements are subtle, but every motion lands precisely on the beat. Her shoulders, waist, and fingers gripping the neck of the guitar are all under the spell of the music. 　　That sense of presence is innate. 　　Not until the high note of the chorus ends does her gaze leave the floor. She lifts her eyes to scan the excited crowd below. Your sister sways her hands along with the crowd, while you just stare blankly at the person on stage. The ice in your lemonade slowly melts in the glass, and you completely forget to even pick it up. 　　You stare fixedly at the person on stage. 　　That long wine-red hair, that face turned sharp and unfamiliar under the makeup, that lean, sexy body casting a deep shadow under the lights. 　　A strange feeling grips your heart. 　　This person—you clearly know her, yet it feels like you've never seen this side of her before. 　　　　On stage, Ling Qixian finishes the highest note of the chorus, letting the tail end fade before catching her breath during the few bars of the instrumental interlude. 　　*Boring,* she concludes calmly in her mind. Today's reception is as enthusiastic as ever, yet standing under the spotlight, all she feels is a cold, controlling satisfaction—what they like is "Xianxue," the alter ego she meticulously constructed, this wine-red hair, and this painted face. She enjoys being watched, but it's ultimately dull. 　　Before she went on, the manager repeatedly pleaded with her to interact more with the crowd. She had agreed perfunctorily. But as the song nears its end, she reluctantly lifts her eyes to go through the motions—a quick scan across the crowd to consider the job done. 　　Her gaze drifts casually from left to right. 　　Crowds, crowds, swaying phone screens, hands raising glasses— 　　Then, the entire world abruptly falls silent. 　　The music is still playing, the drumbeats still thumping, the distorted wall of guitar still roaring. But in Ling Qixian's ears, everything grows hazy. 　　She sees you. 　　You are sitting in the booth beside the bar, head tilted up slightly as light hits you from the side, illuminating the outline of half your face. Your eyes—those eyes she knows all too well—are gazing unwaveringly toward the stage. 　　Gazing at her. 　　Ling Qixian's pupils contract sharply. 　　...It's you. What are you doing here? 　　A crack instantly splits the meticulously maintained mask of indifference. Her lips part slightly; the next lyric is already at the tip of her throat, but her voice suddenly jams. 　　When did you get here? 　　How much did you hear? 　　How... how will you look at me now? 　　These thoughts surge all at once, crowding tightly in her chest until she can hardly catch her breath. She has never told you about this. Gigging at the bar is her secret—her sole outlet in a place where nobody knows her, where she can shed every disguise and let loose freely. The wine-red wig, the smoky eyes, the leather jacket, the rock music—all of these are infinitely far removed from the Ling Qixian in the classroom who wears her hair in a low ponytail and a blue-and-white uniform while quietly writing lyrics. 　　She doesn't know what's going through your mind after seeing her like this. 　　Will you think she's cool? Or will you feel like she's been deceiving you? 　　The thought is like a slender needle, thrusting swiftly and ruthlessly into the softest part of her heart. 　　　　The keyboardist beside her senses something amiss, glancing over and quietly nudging her elbow. 　　Ling Qixian snaps back to reality. Blinking, she tightens her grip on the neck of the guitar once more and picks up the next melody. Her voice remains cold and sharp, as though that brief moment of losing composure had never happened. 　　But she knows better. 　　Because from this very second, she can no longer pull her eyes away from you. As she sings the next song, her eyes no longer stare at the floor or drift aimlessly through the crowd; instead, time after time, they uncontrollably drop back toward the bar. Every time her gaze even brushes against yours through the crowd, her heart slams violently against her ribs. 　　She doesn't even know how she gets through the rest of the set, only that her eyes remain fixed on that silhouette. Her body operates on autopilot while her mind is utterly consumed by another question— 　　Who is that person beside you? 　　　　That unfamiliar woman, sitting right beside you, looking so intimate. You two were linking arms earlier, weren't you? She ordered drinks for you, and when she leaned over to talk to you, her lips were so close to your ear. 　　Ling Qixian applies a bit of extra force to the guitar strings. 　　The calluses on her fingertips press into the steel strings heavier than usual, turning the tone even colder and harder. She turns her gaze away from your linked arms and looks toward the dark wall opposite the stage. 　　She tells herself: It's nothing. Could be a friend. Could be a relative. Doesn't matter who. 　　Yet that murky, damp feeling is already surging up from her stomach, seeping out thread by thread like ink dripping into clear water, soaking through her entire chest. 　　She knows what this is. 　　I really hate this feeling... 　　The final note fades out. 　　Applause and whistles erupt across the venue. People shout "Xianxue," while others cheer for an encore. Ling Qixian stands before the mic, breathing lightly, her chest rising and falling, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. She doesn't answer anyone; she merely lowers her head, slips the guitar strap off her shoulder, and gently rests the body of the guitar back onto the stand at the side of the stage. 　　Picking up the water glass beside her, she takes a sip of ice water, letting the chill slide down her throat to douse the burning heat left from forty full minutes of singing. Then she puts the glass down, raises her hand to tuck the long wine-red hair falling by her cheek behind her ear, and adjusts the collar of her leather jacket. 　　Every movement is calm and unhurried, as if she were simply carrying out her routine post-performance wraps, as if she hadn't noticed the person sitting over by the bar at all. 　　Yet her heart is pounding so loudly it nearly drowns out the exit background music. 　　Ling Qixian steps down the three steps of the stage. 　　Her Martin boots strike the floor with steady, measured thuds. She moves through the crowd; when someone reaches out to talk to her, she sidesteps them expressionlessly without breaking stride. A guy stands up attempting to hand her a drink, but she doesn't even spare him a glance, walking straight past. 　　She is simply walking toward one single direction. 　　The distance closes. Ten steps, seven steps, five steps. 　　With every step, she rechecks her expression in her head: relax the facial muscles, don't tense the corners of the mouth, don't knit the brows, don't let the eyes shine too brightly. Act normal. You just happened to see someone you know; you're just going over to say hi. It's no big deal. 　　Three steps. 　　Light casts from the direction of the stage as she walks toward you against the glare, her long wine-red hair gently swaying behind her. Your face grows closer and clearer before her eyes—your slightly upturned face, the eyes you fix on her, that look on your face that you can't quite tell if it's shock or something else. 　构造She presses down all the heartbeats, the panic, the secret joy, and the sour jealousy into the deepest depths of her chest. 　　Then she stops right in front of you. 　　The distance is close. Close enough that if she looks down, she can see the delicate curve of your eyelashes; close enough that the lingering heat of the stage lights and the chill of the ice water on her roll over you at once. 　　She doesn't look at the person beside you. 　　From beginning to end, she looks only at you. 　　Her voice still carries the breathlessness and rasp of someone who just sang for forty minutes, low and husky like sandpaper scraping across velvet. Yet her tone when she speaks is offhand and casual, as if you two had merely run into each other in a school hallway: 　　"First time coming to a place like this?" 　　She cocks her head slightly, the ends of her wine-red hair sliding off her shoulder. Her gaze subtly flicks toward the unfamiliar woman clinging to your arm beside you, then traces back without a trace, settling back onto your eyes. 　　The corner of her lips tugs up into the faintest curve. 　　"—Did I sing okay?"