He Tian Tian was right, Yan Feng could walk away unscathed, but I could not. After announcing that we shared the same girlfriend, I hid at home for a week. In the first few days, rumors from the internet still reached my ears. For example, "It's all a publicity stunt," "It's definitely Ye Xi using Yan Feng to gain fame," "Classical music is so niche; without Yan Feng, how could he become popular?"
These comments seemed to make some sense. Though it was not my intention, it did seem like I had become more famous. Thinking of this, I could only laugh helplessly for some comfort. The thought itself was both ridiculous and sad. Who would have thought that an artist would become a hot topic over casual gossip and that classical music would be revived because of rumors? On second thought, it all seemed quite reasonable; things like this have been happening since ancient times. Many people become famous after death, solely because of the stories from their lives. A good story can make their works sell for sky-high prices. No one knows that these works, and even their stories, have nothing to do with the artist anymore. In any case, the beneficiary will never be the artist themselves. Clearly, I have fallen into such a situation this time, and things are no longer under my control.
The same goes for Yan Feng.
Later, I gradually stopped paying attention to the online rumors. Yan Zhi helped me turn down many jobs, and I stayed at home, resting under the pretense of being ill. As always, I didn't care about other people's opinions.
In the public's view of the story between Yan Feng and me, due to the limitations of the narrative, I was the one who seemed to gain more. In terms of fame, he was more adored by the masses. Though I had long been renowned, my reputation in classical music kept me distant from the general public. This distance naturally formed the public's image of me—a mysterious and elegant performer who shouldn't get involved in popular culture.
I fantasized about merging popularity with art, just like I fantasized about Yan Feng and me. But it didn't seem to go as I wished. Even if this wish didn't come true, it didn't matter. Fantasies are the driving force for survival. The distance between fantasy and reality can be a chasm or a smooth road. I was so young, still daring to get close to my fantasies. Yet, the fantasy got lost on its way to reality.
Perhaps I merely descended from a great height to fall into the dust in the realm of love. In the dust, I was ecstatic, running wildly through the wilderness it created, dancing and raising clouds of dust, until March came, and with it, a severe fever. Yan Feng called me. In a daze, I answered the phone.
"Xixi, can we meet?"
"How are you and Bai Jingrui?"
"It's not what you think. If you meet me, I'll explain."
"There's nothing to explain. I don't want to see you anymore."
The call ended abruptly, and the phone screen went black, then lit up again. He sent me a text message, expressing his struggles and reminiscing about all our experiences together over the years. His admiration for me was nothing more than a projection. His love for me was nothing more than a need. Just like in his songs, he needed me to complete himself. I fulfilled everything he wanted: my family, my achievements, even classical music, and a free spirit. He couldn't create these things on his own and thought that by having me, he could obtain what he couldn't achieve by himself. He is truly both pathetic and detestable.
I realized that the distance of being apart all these years wasn't the real obstacle. His dilemma was that his hands were too full, unable to hold my sincere heart.
In the morning, I lay in the study at Wanliu Academy, staring at the piano in front of me, my fingers unable to move. I took a book from the shelf that I had tried to read before but couldn't get into. Reaching the end, I read that Teresa and Tomas left their homeland, finally escaping the turmoil and settling in Switzerland, but Teresa left Tomas. The book described: "This is vertigo, a sensation of dizziness, an unstoppable desire to fall. I could say that vertigo is being intoxicated by one's own weakness. Recognizing one's weakness yet not fighting against it, instead abandoning oneself to it. Once a person becomes intoxicated by their own weakness, they will continue to weaken, collapsing on the street under the gaze of others, falling to the ground, and sinking lower than the ground." At that moment, I felt a slight sense of empathy. The weakness and self-sacrifice in a relationship are akin to this vertigo. It's similar to what they call a "histrionic personality," a form of self-pity and self-convincing. A child's crying after being hurt is also a form of narcissism. But this narcissism is built on begging others for care. Yan Feng is like this. I am not.
So, I will not cry.
I closed the book and looked out the window as the sun set, gradually disappearing at the dark edge of the sky. The early spring night wind seeped through the window gap, originally carrying a hint of warmth, but it could easily make a person with a high fever catch a chill. The bare branches on the street reminded me that the warmth was still fleeting, and I needed to dress more warmly. I chose a wool coat, and the necklace pressing against my neck reminded me of the past. Occasionally, images would leap into my mind, like the edges of the necklace, sometimes cutting into the outer layer of my skin.
I decided to go out.
I went to the teahouse I often visited.
As soon as I entered the entrance, I unintentionally heard a familiar voice.
"Hey, Ye Xi!"
I turned around. "What are you doing here? I thought you had gone back to your hometown."
Behind him stood another old acquaintance, both of whom I no longer wished to see.
"Lu Sang, Lin Su."
Lu Sang couldn't hide his smile. "I've been wanting to catch up with you. Why not sit down and chat?"
I looked around and saw a few familiar faces at the corner tea table. Upon closer inspection, I recognized that one of them was Lady Chen from Hong Kong, an old acquaintance. I had known her for many years and had seen her at the Golden Horse Awards ceremony. After this round of pleasantries, it was already summer, and I often joined her gatherings. Many times, I had no choice but to participate; some were just to pass the time, and few truly brought me comfort. Fortunately, meeting new people always helped me forget the old ones. Among these new acquaintances, both men and women, many were eager to show their courtesy. When I was in a good mood, I played along with the theatrics, treating it as entertainment. When I was not, I could refuse anyone and have someone I trusted deal with the social niceties afterward.
Over time, these connections proved useful. My domestic concert schedule and performances were fully booked. The following year's performances in England and Europe were also fully scheduled.
This time, I wouldn't be playing Chopin. I would play Beethoven.
Originally, I had intended to complement Yan Feng's new album with mine, but after what happened, we hadn't been in touch for a long time. However, it wasn't easy to change all the prearranged commercial plans. I had thought of the album title long ago, "King's Fantasy." The album, which was supposed to be produced years ago, was delayed repeatedly because I wasn't in the mood. Now, it couldn't be postponed any longer.
At the turn of the year, I flew to London to produce the new album, accompanied by He Tian Tian and Dai Yanzhi. Some people seemed to have accepted the outcome that Yan Feng and I had "parted ways" and found new partners, and no one mentioned his name to me anymore. Instead, paparazzi frequently followed me and He Tian Tian. In reality, there had never been anything substantial between us.
By now, I had become a seasoned player in these social circles, indulging in the glamour and glitz, indifferent to whether it was art or entertainment. How does that saying go? "Those who listen to the opera enjoy it in their own way; the entertainment industry develops grotesquely. Finding an excuse to immerse oneself in it, unwilling to break free. — Who wants to face a life full of blood and gore?" Of course, my life wasn't exactly that tragic. So far, I had only suffered a few superficial wounds.
Despite the cold streets of London in February, after the concert's after-party, I just wanted to enjoy a moment of freedom. Walking alone on Oxford Street, the night grew deeper, yet the city lights remained dazzling.
At a crossroad, amidst the changing traffic lights, I saw a familiar figure standing tall. He wore a hat, its brim pulled low as if afraid of being recognized. He held the strap of his backpack with one hand, his stance comically reminiscent of a child punished by a teacher, standing obediently. The traffic lights cycled through several times, and there we stood, separated by the bustling traffic.
Countless times, when despair consumed me and I saw this familiar figure amid the bustling crowd, I could feel a sense of relief.
Such is love; it has the power to repeatedly betray my happiness.
"Xixi!" I couldn't remember how many times the traffic lights had changed when the person across the street shouted my name. Yet, he stood there straight and unwavering.
I didn't want to respond to him. Why was he seeking me out again?
Such is love; it disrupts the mind, causing one to easily abandon the desire for happiness. Love is powerful enough to destroy me over and over, only to take root and grow again in the ruins.
Before he ran towards me, I wanted to make him pay. I immediately took a photo of him with my phone as he stood there, looking remorseful. Across the street, no one else was watching me. No one else was watching him either. Love once again isolated us from the world. Yet, I still wanted to scream outward.
"London familiar streets cold night peace," I wrote on social media, stringing together words without punctuation, without commas or periods. This sentence, along with his photo, was uploaded. In the picture, he was in the center, much smaller than the nearby pedestrians. The dim lighting obscured his features, known only to me. Let them guess.
Before he crossed the street and hugged me, I had already redefined the possible relationship between us:
Just like those men and women, mere theater. But clearly, it was not.
Just like Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Monteverdi's mysterious lovers—secretive yet grand. It sounds quite appealing.
But he once swore to me that I was his only one. Perhaps "only one" has other definitions too: moving through a sea of flowers without touching a single leaf, drinking from the vast river but taking only one ladle. Despite everything, we remain each other's only one.
Marriage was within reach, so why settle for anything less? If he was under family pressure, that might be understandable. He had tolerated my weaknesses, so why couldn't I indulge his narcissism once? Thinking this, my heart softened again.
I lit a cigarette, the spark reflecting in my eyes, making them shimmer.
He ran over and hugged me tightly.
"Sorry, work has been overwhelming. I just managed to come find you now."
I lowered my arms, and the cigarette butt in my right hand fell to the ground.
"What about Bai Jingrui?"
"She's in the US. She's only my 'girlfriend' in name. She won't affect us."
"How many other 'girlfriends' do you have in name?" I laughed wryly.
He kissed me.
After surviving the storm, brothers remain; a smile upon reunion erases past grievances.
It could also be a brotherly kiss.
At that moment, I couldn't foresee the rainbow flags that would flutter on Oxford Street many years later. Neither he nor I would need to see them anymore. At least not that night.
In the room at the Ritz-Carlton in London, we were enveloped by the intense aura of our long-awaited reunion. This aura flowed between us, in our breaths, and finally echoed through the expansive suite. His voice and body surged against me like waves, each one higher than the last. He spoke of his sorrows from behind me, with a sweetness unique to deceit. When the sweetness was exhausted, I lashed out at him, using all my strength to avenge the cruelty he had shown me, accusing him of what he owed me. He cried out loudly, but none of his words were discernible. After we had tasted the intense pleasures of love and desire, everything returned to silence.
The ebb and flow of moments earlier, with every movement and pause, spoke silently of the solitude and helplessness shared between us.
Both solitude and helplessness stemmed from our love for each other, despite this love remaining forbidden. Without love, everything would be simpler, and we wouldn't be in a situation so known and so shrouded in secrecy.
My body seemed accustomed to the warmth of many unfamiliar bodies, only releasing unparalleled heat when reunited with a familiar warmth. It was as if, having tasted all delicacies, the sensory memory held an overwhelming affection only for the food from home. When I embraced him, I could confirm our love, unwavering until death.
Such feelings allowed us to momentarily forget all constraints. Until dawn arrived.
As before, the slant of light warmed my face. A knocking sound came from outside the door.
"Ye Xi, there's an interview later. Please get ready," Dai Yanzhi's voice came from outside.
"Okay, I'm getting up." I jumped up suddenly. Yan Feng grabbed one of my hands.
"I'll wait for you tonight." He seemed to be sinking into the bed.
"Go back. I've been very busy these days. Given how things are, we can keep this private. If I want to see you, I'll arrange it."
"That's not it. Give me some time; I'll sort out things at home." He looked sincerely earnest.
Anyone would be moved by this. Actors are mercenary, protecting themselves. Whether in business or personal affairs, believing in so many oaths only leads to deeper wounds.
"Alright, I believe you." Though I didn't fully trust him, this time I was the one placating him.
"You've changed, Xixi." He seemed to sense something amiss in my tone.
"And you're not the same either?"