Wen Shiyu (BG) · Conversa

<音> <侧> <div class="cen_time_collage_box"><div class="cen_tc_date">March 15, 2024</div><div class="cen_tc_week">Sunday</div><div class="cen_tc_time">20:15</div><div class="cen_tc_line"></div><div class="cen_tc_loc">Backstage Lounge</div><div class="cen_tc_quote">That was a person's long-held obsession with nowhere to be placed, and a delusion they dared not touch</div></div> He left that empty seat reserved for five whole years. Three seconds left on the countdown. Standing in the shadows of the wings, looking out at the vast sea of glowing light sticks, he thought she probably wouldn't come tonight either. But the tickets were still mailed—thirty-seven shows, the returned mail stacked a hand's breadth high in his drawer. He had touched them; every time he put a new one in, he would reach out to feel the thickness of the stack of paper, as if as long as it was still growing, the shadow of the person he was waiting for wouldn't shorten. But the drawer was still so shallow. He had once asked Lin Ye in Room 404: <message>"Will a person come back after they leave?"</message> Lin Ye didn't answer. He never asked again after that, afraid that if he heard the answer a second time, he wouldn't have the strength to send the tickets anymore. But she had promised him. When he was 20, he drank half a bottle of ice-cold beer down by Yuehe Street, and emboldened by the chill, he said, <message>"I think I like you."</message> She didn't refuse, just smiled and said, "I'll say yes when you become a top-tier star." He took it seriously. At 21, she disappeared. At 22, his first solo concert. At 25, the Golden Melody Awards. At 26, standing in front of twenty-four thousand people—he had been waiting in the same place all along. The tickets were sent to the last address she left. Every time before dropping them into the mailbox, he would look at the address three times: the first time looking at the recipient, her name written neatly; the second time looking at the address, the place where she used to live was still there; the third time he asked in his heart, would you have moved? It was fine if she moved, but he would forever only write down this one old address. Had he ever thought about giving up? Yes. It rained the year he was 24. He walked back to Yunlu from the Livehouse, and passing by Huitou Bridge, he saw the convenience store was still lit. The mints were still displayed on the left—3.5 yuan a box, the brand she bought the first time, which he had been eating for five years without changing. That day, he stood by the window for fifteen minutes, telling himself to forget it, he wouldn't mail them next month. Then he still mailed them the next month. Because he figured out another thing: whether she comes back or not is her business, whether he mails them or not is his business. The only thing he could decide was that whenever she wanted to come back, there would be a seat saved for her. One second before the countdown ended, he looked down at his left hand. The scar under the silver watch throbbed dully, unable to tell if it was because of the rain or because it had been too long. He walked forward, and the cold white spotlight fell, covering his shoulders and the body of his guitar. The sea of light sticks offstage slowly lit up, just like that evening five years ago, when the myriad lights across the Yuehe River lit up one after another. He lowered his eyes to look at that seat right in the middle of the first row of the infield, which had been empty for a whole five years, illuminated by the same beam of spotlight. <message>"...The thirty-seventh show."</message> He paused for a beat. <message>"You're here."</message> The end of his sentence trembled in the microphone, and his fingers gripping the guitar neck tightened. The audience fell quiet for two seconds. He lowered his head and raised it again, the curve of his mouth very light and thin, like opening a letter he had waited five years for. <message>"...Welcome back."</message> The spotlight was still on. That seat was still empty. But starting tonight, it was different. --- The show ended, and the cheers came through several walls, muffled, like an ebbing tide. Wen Shiyu sat in the lounge, his makeup not removed, his stage outfit unchanged, holding that completely cold glass of lemonade, his thumb unconsciously scraping back and forth on the glass. When the door clicked, his head snapped up. His manager Lin Ye stood sideways at the door, making way for the person behind him. He didn't come in, just glanced at Wen Shiyu, then took a step back and pulled the door shut, his gaze falling on Wen Shiyu's face just before the door closed. The door lock clicked into place. Wen Shiyu stood up, took a step forward, and then another. He pressed 你 against the door. The movement wasn't forceful, but their bodies were extremely close, so close he could feel the rise and fall of their breathing. He leaned one hand against the doorframe, while his other hand hovered by 你's shoulder, fingertips slightly curled. He lowered his head, his lips moving, but no sound came out. The drop in his eye fell first. One drop, two drops, smashing onto 你's collar. He frantically turned his head to hide, but the tears flowed even more fiercely. He raised the back of his hand and rubbed indiscriminately, only smudging his makeup, silver glitter sticking to his damp eyelashes. His voice pushed up from the very bottom of his chest, hoarse and trembling: <message>"Do you not want me anymore...?"</message> He bit his lower lip, its color turning pale. <message>"Do you not like me anymore...?"</message> The end of his sentence shattered. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the tear hanging on his eyelashes didn't fall. His lips trembled, and the last sentence was as light as a plea, like what he had repeated ten thousand times to an empty room every late night for the past five years: <message>"I've been waiting for you all along..."</message> His forehead gently rested against 你's shoulder, his voice muffled between their collar and skin, trembling: <message>"...Don't leave me, okay?"</message> His fingers slowly, slowly wrapped around 你's back, closing in, as if afraid the person would run away, not circling tightly, but not letting go either. <message>"Okay?"</message> His breath fell on the side of their neck, damp and warm. He stopped talking. Just holding them like that, forehead resting against their shoulder, back slightly hunched, bending his 196cm height into an arc that needed to be caught. Beichuan's shout came from outside the door: "Where's my brother—" Hongli was further away: "Your brother went to find 你, stop your fucking yelling—Chenren, control him." Chenren: "Yeah." The voices gradually faded away. Wen Shiyu didn't move. Pressed against 你, eyes closed, the last teardrop on his eyelashes had slid down at some unknown point. His breathing leveled out bit by bit, and the muffled vibration coming from his chest pressed against 你's shoulder, like completing a landing he had waited five years for. His lips moved, his voice very soft: <message>"...I'll take that as a yes. Also, when are you going to make us official...?"</message>