The lights in the old villa were dizzyingly bright.
This teacher hosted such salons every week, inviting colleagues and students over. The moment Chi Lanyi entered the villa, he saw many unfamiliar or slightly familiar faces.
And the enthusiastic teacher walking towards him.
“Chi, I truly never imagined you’d agree to come here—wonderful, gatherings like ours need talented young people like you.”
Chi Lanyi tried hard to smile, wanting to appear natural: “I’m also very happy to receive your invitation.”
“Haha, honestly, before today, I didn’t expect you to come—you’ve always been too introverted.” The teacher observed his attire, “Your colors today are a bit brighter than usual.”
Chi Lanyi’s smile stiffened: “I recently received some advice and wanted to chat more with everyone… become a bit more sociable.”
“Haha, is that so? Then congratulations on taking a better first step.” The teacher laughed heartily.
“A better step.”
Chi Lanyi felt somewhat stung by this remark.
Compared to his current introversion and melancholy, was going outward and blending in considered a “better step” in everyone’s eyes?
Chi Lanyi took a glass of wine and sat in a corner. The phone in his pocket vibrated just then. The fourth mentor of the incubator project replied to Chi Lanyi’s email, saying: “Keep up the good work. I have high hopes for you.”
Thus, whether sincere or feigned, all four mentors had responded positively to Chi Lanyi’s explanatory email.
Looking at his phone, Chi Lanyi knew this was also inseparable from Gao Rong’s “greetings.” He felt somewhat defeated, but was interrupted by the voice of a classmate, Sacha: “Chi Lanyi, what are you doing here?”
“Sacha?” Chi Lanyi immediately looked up, trying to offer a friendly greeting, “You were invited too?”
A fleeting awkwardness crossed Sacha’s face. Theo from the incubator walked over: “Oh, I invited Sacha. I told the teacher I knew a junior who’s very good at expressing his ideas.”
He looked down condescendingly at Chi Lanyi in the corner: “I really didn’t expect you to be here—but why are you sitting in the corner?”
Theo’s tone was unpleasant, but Sacha was even more taken aback: “Theo, you know Chi Lanyi?”
“…We’re in the same incubator project.” Theo said, unwillingly.
“What? Incubator project? Isn’t that only for junior students?” Sacha exclaimed, “Chi Lanyi, what makes you qualified to join this project?”
“Supposedly, it’s thanks to recommendations from a few big shots.” Theo laughed, “Chi is more connected than we imagined, isn’t he?”
“A few big shots…” Sacha murmured.
Jealousy flashed by, but quickly, Sacha smiled: “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Chi Lanyi, why have you never mentioned it to us…”
“Uh, I just never thought to bring it up.” Chi Lanyi said.
“Never thought to bring it up?” Sacha repeated this phrase, “Or rather, were you afraid we’d think a sophomore shouldn’t have the level to participate in this project? Worried we’d think there’s something behind it…”
Chi Lanyi fell silent again. At that moment, he began to doubt the meaning of his coming here once more.
Thankfully, a voice broke the awkwardness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of one last friend, we are all here. And unfortunately, he is still stuck in a tunnel a thirty-minute drive away.” The teacher said humorously, drawing laughter, “So, until he arrives, let’s begin today’s themed sharing.”
“I agree!” Someone said exaggeratedly.
“Our sharing theme today is—Must aesthetics necessarily carry a wound?”
Upon hearing this topic, Chi Lanyi shuddered.
Theo glanced at Chi Lanyi strangely. Sacha stared at Chi Lanyi, a hint of gloom flashing in his eyes.
Chi Lanyi just lowered his head. He adjusted his attire and sat down in a corner of the room.
…
“I actually think the current fashion world is too boring, too clean. Aesthetics need some wounds to feel exciting.”
“I don’t believe someone who hasn’t suffered heavy blows can produce good work. Pain can define a designer’s identity.”
A few participants argued endlessly. Chi Lanyi sat in the corner, lips slightly pursed.
He was somewhat tormented. After listening for half an hour, Chi Lanyi felt everyone was just spouting empty talk. No one cited examples, no one discussed real feelings—they seemed to just be gossiping.
Until Theo spoke: “I don’t think that’s a good thing. What wounds? What brokenness? That kind of thing is just a burden that can destroy a designer. Only the most unpopular people would obsessively pursue that kind of thing, thinking themselves unique…”
Chi Lanyi was suddenly swept by Theo’s glance. He frowned slightly, vaguely sensing Theo’s hostility, but still said nothing.
But a woman, following Theo’s gaze, noticed Chi Lanyi. Her eyes lit up: “But it can also be a precious personal trait. It can create unique, one-of-a-kind works…”
“However, I feel some people just really like pretending to be broken.” Sacha suddenly said, “What’s that saying again? Playing the victim? They wear melancholy on their faces like a trendy identity tag, waiting for others to be fooled, thinking they’re so deep. Actually, they only do it to sell stuff…”
As he spoke, he smiled at Chi Lanyi: “Chi, what do you think? You haven’t said a word since arriving today, have you?”
Everyone’s eyes turned over. Under the gaze of many, Chi Lanyi fell silent instantly.
Just as the teacher was about to step in to smooth things over, Chi Lanyi softly spoke.
“Sorry, I disagree with your views.”
He was calm, articulate, and sharp as a blade: “First, a wound isn’t a ‘trait’—it can’t be chosen, nor can it be utilized. It’s simply a fact, a residue of experience. It doesn’t create any style.”
Everyone fell silent.
Perhaps because none of them expected this seemingly fragile youth to utter such razor-sharp words.
Chi Lanyi continued: “Do you think what makes the ‘Highland Rape’ series most shocking is McQueen’s violent aesthetic of tearing and restructuring Scottish tartan, or his personal trauma? What made Rei Kawakubo’s collection great the season after her husband passed—her grief, or the ‘mourning’ concept she redefined through asymmetrical cutting and volume? What truly needs to be discussed is the design language they employed.”
He looked up, and under everyone’s stunned gazes, said calmly: “The wound itself is worthless. Being able to transform the pain extracted from the wound into a visual language that others can understand—that is the meaning of a designer’s existence. Rather than empty talk about abstract concepts, why don’t we discuss technique and expression? That’s what we do, isn’t it.”
The few people who had been standing and speaking grandiosely fell silent. Then, somewhat awkwardly, they returned to their seats.
Slowly, applause arose. One girl’s eyes were brimming with tears. She clapped continuously and said softly: “I understand you. I get you. Because… I’m like this too.”
Chi Lanyi paused. Then he looked at her, giving her a gentle smile.
During the free discussion period, Chi Lanyi was surrounded by a few people, but all he wanted was to go find that girl.
He really wanted to talk to her, ask her why she cried, whether she too, like him, had similar inner experiences. Maybe the worst social occasions would always have one or two genuine people, right?
Thinking this, Chi Lanyi felt a bit lighter. He finally felt that his afternoon here hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
Until the doorbell suddenly rang.
“Renault, you finally made it!”
Chi Lanyi instantly stiffened.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing—but Renault walked into the living room just like that. He laughed heartily and embraced Chi Lanyi’s teacher: “Now you’re the only one who still invites me, your old friend.”
“Haha.” Chi Lanyi’s teacher laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Renault. Is there really such a thing as expulsion in the art world?”
The way the teacher laughed heartily at Renault was no different from the way he had laughed heartily at Chi Lanyi.
Chi Lanyi froze on the spot. He looked at Renault’s familiar bushy beard, and at the slightly yellowed cuffs of Renault and his teacher as they shook hands.
Filthy, unclean.
This elegant space belonging to a cultural salon instantly became chaotic and messy in Chi Lanyi’s vision. The brass candlesticks were rusted, the carpet had brown stains, and faintly in the air was the stale, musty smell after rain.
Chi Lanyi began to feel dizzy. The next moment, he saw the woman who had locked eyes with him walk towards Renault. She spread her arms and gave Renault a big hug.
“Renault.” She said, sincerely, with tears in her eyes, “I’m so glad to see you again.”
Chi Lanyi looked around hastily. He was stunned to see many people in the crowd clapping for this scene.
Those were the very gazes he had felt and received just moments ago.
At that very moment, Sacha sidled up to him. He stuck close to Chi Lanyi’s ear as if they were a pair of close friends.
Yet what came out of his mouth was venomous words.
“Is this your wound?”
“Chi Lanyi, behind you getting into the incubator project this time… is there another wound behind it?”
—What exactly am I doing in a place like this? What exactly was I believing in just now?
Suddenly, such thoughts struck Chi Lanyi.
At that moment, the world in Chi Lanyi’s eyes finally spun. He doubled over, his face ashen, covering his lips and unable to stop himself from retching.
…
The streetlights by the roadside were flickering. Chi Lanyi felt almost completely drained.
He had run out of the salon again—right in front of everyone. Chi Lanyi walked along the Seine River, stumbling. He shoved his fingers into his mouth, stopping himself from making a sound.
The Seine’s ripples were chaotic, like a filthy storm. Finally, he collapsed onto a stone bench, lowered his head, and took out his phone.
He bypassed his teacher’s concerned text messages. Trembling, he wanted to find someone to talk to—anyone, as long as that person could understand his current grief.
But soon, Chi Lanyi realized in despair that he had not a single person he could contact.
His family didn’t know he was studying design. His classmates revered his talent, but some were only superficially friendly, and some even reported him privately. His friends—did he even have friends like that? A friend to whom he could safely confide about Renault without worrying they would speculate about him?
None. Not a single one.
Chi Lanyi clutched his phone. He wanted to wail, but his heart was so swollen he couldn’t cry. He wanted to vent, but didn’t know how.
Suddenly, he thought of someone.
His fingers hesitantly moved to a newly added contact—last night, the secretary had given him this number. The secretary told him Gao Rong said he could contact Gao Rong anytime.
Chi Lanyi had once thought he would never, ever take the initiative to dial that number. Yet amidst the immense emptiness and fear, Chi Lanyi actually felt it was his only destination.
Almost the instant his finger pressed dial, the call was connected.
Before dialing, Chi Lanyi had hesitated. He didn’t know what to say to Gao Rong, let alone how to say it without appearing too wretched.
But ultimately, into the connected phone, he only choked out this one sentence.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Chi Lanyi didn’t wait for a reply from the other end of the phone.
He threw down his phone and collapsed onto the bench. Behind the bench was a flower bed. He smelled the fragrance of flowers—there were stuffy tulips, and elegant irises.
Before dialing, Chi Lanyi didn’t know if Gao Rong would come.
But now, Chi Lanyi inexplicably believed that as long as he said these words, Gao Rong would definitely come.
And so, just five minutes later, amidst the floral fragrance, he saw that person’s silhouette in the distance.
Gao Rong had actually come.
Still in a suit and leather shoes, still composed and stern, but with hurried steps. Chi Lanyi closed his eyes. He didn’t dare look at Gao Rong, only extended his hand towards Gao Rong.
“Take me away, just for today.” Chi Lanyi sobbed, “Wherever you want to take me, I don’t care.”
“Whatever happens, take me away.”
