Xu Yi · Conversa

Paris, 1:47 AM. The crystal chandeliers beneath the dome of the Théâtre National de Chaillot had just been extinguished, and the last batch of guests was streaming down the red-carpeted stairs. Outside, fill lights from over a hundred media outlets continued to flash like an unyielding silver tide, illuminating the entire Avenue d'Iéna as bright as day. Inside the theater, however, the backstage corridor buzzed with a strangely intense clamor. Staff members hurried back and forth clutching walkie-talkies, the clacking of high heels against the terrazzo floor echoing ceaselessly. The air was thick with a blend of expensive perfumes, hairspray, and fresh bouquets—so potent it felt suffocating. Dozens of stars who had just been dazzling in front of the cameras were now crowded in the narrow passage, their smiles receding rapidly to reveal tired, indifferent undertones. This was the backstage of an international film festival's closing ceremony: a glamorous ruin. The closing ceremony and awards presentation of the 78th Cannes International Film Festival had officially concluded at 1:37 AM local time. The breaking news notification had just popped up on the phone screen. Not far away, French Best Actress Isabelle Laurent was surrounded by a swarm of reporters, high-spirited after winning the Jury Prize tonight with an art-house film by an Eastern European director. Yet less than ten meters behind her, another crowd was surging in the opposite direction— "Xu Yi! Xu Yi's coming out!" Someone shouted, and the glances scattered across the corridor instantly converged. He walked out of the jury lounge, followed by two agents and a bodyguard, but their presence was practically nonexistent. He was too conspicuous—so striking that the very density of the air shifted the moment he appeared at the end of the hallway. Xu Yi. Twenty-three years old. Half-Chinese, half-French. Five years since his debut, stepping onto the Cannes red carpet for the very first time, and already taking home Best New Actor for his feature debut. Tonight, he wore a black velvet Saint Laurent suit with an impeccably tailored, restrained cut and no unnecessary frills—save for an ultra-fine silver chain dangling at his waist, perfectly complementing the matte black cross stud on his left ear under the lights. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of distinct collarbone against cool, pale skin. Those eyes. As he emerged from the shadows of the lounge, the overhead spotlights struck his face. Under the intense glare, his ice-blue irises turned strikingly pale and translucent, like cut sapphires refracting an almost surreal, cold luminescence. His deep-set eye sockets and prominent brow ridge naturally endowed him with an aloof, untouchable distance whenever he wasn't smiling. And he wasn't smiling. Across the short stretch of a dozen meters from the lounge to the exit, he walked excruciatingly slowly. Reporters clicked their shutters frantically; some shouted his name in French, while others screamed in Chinese, "Xu Yi, look over here!" Yet he paid them no mind. He kept his head tilted slightly downward, his silver-grey bangs concealing most of his brow and eyes, revealing only his tall nose bridge and slightly pursed lips. —He was the undisputed focal point of the night. Everyone knew it. Yet only I knew that his current aloofness had nothing to do with any "aloof idol persona." He was looking for me. I was standing near a Roman pillar at the end of the corridor, obstructed by a throng of staff and several supporting actors, out of his sight. But his gaze swept across the crowd in a strictly controlled manner—from left to right, near to far—swift, yet unerringly precise. I was all too familiar with that look. It was like a large dog instinctively searching for its owner's scent in unfamiliar surroundings—composed on the surface, but frantic on the inside. Just as his gaze was about to sweep past my corner, a French reporter suddenly jostled forward, thrusting a microphone in front of him and shouting a question in English. Xu Yi was forced to halt his steps. He tilted his head slightly, and from beneath the wisps of silver-grey hair, those ice-blue eyes glanced casually at the reporter. The lights illuminated the cool, pale profile of his face, his tall nose casting a small shadow across his cheek. The tiny beauty mark beneath his left eye flickered under the flashes of cameras like a suspended drop of ink. He didn't answer immediately. He merely tilted his head slightly. The reporter asked again, their tone even more pressing. Xu Yi finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, carrying the distinct accent of mixed heritage—articulate, yet subtly clipped: "Thank you. I'm honored." The reporter tried to press further, but he gave a subtle nod and turned to keep walking. His agent warded off the surrounding crowd, yet his gait remained unchanged—back straight, stride unhurried, the silver earring glinting under the lights, radiating an aloof aura that screamed, "I don't belong here." He drew closer and closer. Subconsciously, I stepped half a pace back behind the Roman pillar, concealing myself in the shadows. At the exact second he was about to pass right in front of me, his footsteps paused. It was infinitesimally brief—so subtle that nobody else could have noticed. —Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated. An encrypted text from an unknown number contained only five words: "Garage. B2. Waiting for you." There was no signature. But I recognized his habit of spacing after periods. Clutching my phone tightly, I took a deep breath. The lingering scent of his cologne still hung in the air—crisp and ambiguous, like a dream one couldn't wake from. The closing night of the 78th Cannes International Film Festival. Cameras from all over the world were chasing after that twenty-three-year-old silver-haired, blue-eyed boy. And yet I knew that right now, he was sitting alone in the backseat of a black van, just like a puppy locked in a cage for too long, finally waiting for its owner to pick it up, driven mad with longing and grievance. I pressed the down button on the elevator. The moment the elevator doors closed, the phone screen lit up once more. A second text. "I'm counting to one hundred. If you don't come down, I'm going up to get you." "Baby, I'm losing my mind. I miss you so much." The elevator doors slid open, and the chill of the underground garage rushed over me. And deep in the darkness, the headlights of a black van flashed twice.