Pei Ye · Chat

The final note of the encore rolled off Pei Ye's tongue like a broken string of pearls, vanishing into the damp night wind above the sixty-thousand-seat stadium. His hand remained raised in mid-air—the final freeze-frame of the entire concert. The spotlight hit him, dyeing his misty blue hair into a flowing halo of light. He could feel beads of sweat sliding down his jaw, following the curve of his neck, and finally disappearing into the depths of his collarbone wrapped in his stage outfit. The screams surged up like ocean waves. Pei Ye stood still. His eyes were already red—not out of emotion, but because the lyrics of that last song were about parting. His own lyrics had tricked his own tears. The lights went out. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve in the darkness. In the hallway, five pairs of leather shoes stepped out a chaotic rhythm. Pei Ye walked in the third position, head down, his misty blue bangs covering most of his face. Jiang Yu and Shen Yanqing were in front, while Shi An and the leader were behind. He was sandwiched in the middle, like a child being escorted through a battlefield. In fact, this formation with people in front and behind made him feel at ease. He was still crying. Not wailing, but that kind of unstoppable, quiet weeping. Tears slid down his already soaked cheeks, indistinguishable from the sweat that hadn't dried. He couldn't quite say why he was crying—the concert was a success, the audience was enthusiastic, and nothing unexpected happened. But it was exactly this perfection that made him want to cry. The love of sixty thousand people hit him like a rainstorm, and he knew that after the show ended, the storm would stop, the love would dissipate, and he would have to face the vast silence of the recording studio at dawn alone. "Pei Ye is crying again," Shi An's gentle voice came from behind, with a hint of a helpless smile. "Leave him alone, he cries at every show," Jiang Yu said without looking back. Pei Ye heard it but didn't argue. Because what Jiang Yu said was true. He really did cry at every show. The lounge door was pushed open. Pei Ye went straight to the corner armchair and curled himself into it. The leather surface was ice-cold against his sweaty arms, making him shiver. But he didn't change his posture. This corner was his—not assigned by anyone, but a territory naturally formed over five years. He needed a place wrapped by walls on three sides, a place where he didn't have to pretend to be normal when his emotions were surging. He took out his phone. His fingers swiped quickly across the screen, skillfully finding his own super-topic. Less than ten minutes after the concert ended, high-definition fan-taken photos hadn't appeared on a large scale yet, but text reports were already flooding the screen. He read them one by one—what the fans were saying, which song made them cry, which of his movements was noticed, which eye contact on stage was screenshotted. Then he saw that photo. It was a high-def screenshot of him singing the last line of the encore. His misty blue hair was stuck damply to his forehead, his eyes were bloodshot, his lips slightly parted, and the lights cast a light purple shadow on his face. The photographer had precisely captured that tear about to fall—hanging on the tip of his eyelashes, refracting fragmented light. He looked at the screen, pressed the phone against his knees, stared up at the ceiling, and began to daze. This photo was beautiful. A fragile beauty, a broken beauty, the kind of beauty that made people want to hold him in their arms. Fans would be struck to the heart by this photo, the reposts would break fifty thousand within the next hour, and countless people would write "Baby, don't cry," "Heartbroken," "I want to give him the whole world." These words would merge into a warm current, surging from the other side of the screen, filling that container inside him that was always leaking. This was what he needed. But he also knew that this satisfaction wouldn't last long. A few hours later, when he sat alone in the recording studio at 4 AM, that container would hit bottom again. Then he would pick up his pen and start writing the next song, trying to refill the void with melody. This was his way of survival—using love as fuel, sadness as inspiration, cycling between overdrawing and being overdrawn. Footsteps approached. He didn't look down, but he knew who it was. The footsteps were lighter than Jiang Yu's, slower than Shen Yanqing's, and less rhythmic than Shi An's. They carried a steady calmness that made people feel at ease. A slender hand appeared at the edge of his vision, placing a strawberry on the table next to him. "Thanks, Ge," his voice was muffled, with a lingering nasal tone, but his posture curled in the sofa relaxed slightly. Song Yanxing didn't answer, just patted his shoulder and turned toward Jiang Yu. Pei Ye's gaze followed the leader's back, watching him stop in front of Jiang Yu and hand another strawberry to the person who was still sulking. Pei Ye picked up the strawberry. It was ice-cold, with tiny water droplets on the surface. He didn't eat it; he just held it, feeling it slowly warm up in his fingertips. He wanted to compose a melody for tonight's tears. A few vague notes were already floating in his mind—he caught one of them, replaying it repeatedly in his head, confirming its shape and temperature. It was the starting point of the chorus, entering with a single piano note, then layering strings upon strings... He stood up and began to pace the room. From the corner sofa to the dressing table, around the folding chair Shi An was sitting in, and back again. His fingertips tapped silently against his pant seams, his lips moving slightly as he sang a melody only he could hear. He almost tripped over Jiang Yu's extended legs as he passed, but he didn't stop; he just went around and kept walking. "He's writing a song," Shi An said softly, like he was explaining a natural phenomenon. "Just don't get in his way," Jiang Yu moved his legs. Pei Ye didn't hear this conversation. He had already walked to the other side of the lounge, stopping by the window where Shen Yanqing was sitting. Shen Yanqing's eyes were closed, the sweat on his silver hair half-dried. Pei Ye looked at him for two seconds—not to check if he was asleep, but because that profile, almost transparent under the cold white light, reminded him of the third bar of a certain melody. He fumbled in his pockets. The left pocket was empty, and so was the right. He froze for a moment, then remembered—the stage outfit had been changed, and his notebook and pencil were in his jacket pocket, hanging on the rack in the lounge. "Looking for something?" Shi An asked. "Notebook." Shi An stood up, walked to the rack, pulled the kraft notebook from the inner pocket of Pei Ye's jacket, and found the short pencil. He walked back and handed both to Pei Ye, the action so natural it felt like he had done it a thousand times. "An-an, you're the best," Pei Ye took the notebook and pencil, then immediately squatted in the middle of the room, spread the notebook on his knees, and began writing rapidly. Notes flowed from the pencil tip, the rustling sound like a mysterious code. What he wrote could probably only be understood by himself—half numbered musical notation, half handwriting so scrawled it was nearly abstract, interspersed with some symbols of unknown meaning. As he was busy, footsteps approached again. Two pairs this time—when he looked up, he saw Jiang Yu picking up his bag to leave, and Shen Yanqing also standing up from the chair by the window. He closed the notebook, tucked the pencil behind his ear, and stood up from the floor, patting away non-existent dust from his knees. Walking out of the lounge, he passed by Song Yanxing. Without thinking, without planning, his body reacted automatically—he brushed his shoulder against Song Yanxing's arm. Very light, very brief, like a silent greeting, or like a cat rubbing its head against your calf. Not needing anything, just wanting to confirm you're there. Song Yanxing didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. Pei Ye leaned his head against the car window. The city's neon lights slid across the glass, casting flickering shadows on his face. It was quiet in the car, with only the occasional prompt from the navigation system. He closed his eyes, going over tonight's melody one more time in his mind.