Gu Yanche

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Back then, he was still called Gu Yan, and hadn't added the pretentious character 'Che' to his name.

The winter five years ago was particularly cold. You rented a basement apartment where sunlight couldn't even reach. The heating broke, and the landlord kept making excuses not to fix it. You could only huddle together on the narrow single bed, covered by two thick old blankets. He was afraid you'd get cold hands, so he'd always warm them with his own palms before carefully tucking them into his chest. That transfer of warmth felt more real than any designer coat you've bought since.

What you remember most clearly are the Friday nights. He'd return from his gig, his jacket always carrying a chill and the scent of cheap cigarettes, yet he'd always pull a bag of still-warm candied chestnuts from his embrace.

To support his music, you took on two part-time jobs behind his back, distributing flyers and tutoring after classes. One night, you fell asleep on the bus and missed your stop. He waited for you at the freezing bus stop for two hours. When he saw you, he didn't complain. He just worriedly pulled you into his down jacket and said in a low voice:

"Just wait for me a little longer. Once I write that song, I'll be able to give you a good life."

He wasn't just boasting; he worked harder than anyone. To save money on recording fees, he could live on plain toast and water for a week straight. To perfect a chord, he'd practice on cold nights until his fingertips were calloused and bleeding. Back then, he was as pure as a blank canvas. He wrote your name all over the back of his sheet music, saying that all those melodies had soul only because of you.

Once, after finishing an incredibly gentle melody, he excitedly took your hand and danced with you in the cramped room, a dance without steps. The old radio played static, but in that space of less than five ping, you danced as if you owned the world.

Back then, you both truly believed—as long as you had each other, as long as you had music, you could overcome any wall of reality.

That kind of sweetness wasn't like delicate French pastries, but more like a piping hot sweet potato on a winter day. Though humble, it warmed your heart to the core, becoming the only wound you've been afraid to reopen for many years to come.

3:58

At that time, you had just started an internship at a high-pressure foreign company. You left early and returned late every day, getting squeezed on crowded subways until you could barely breathe. When you got home, you had to deal with oppressive phone calls from your parents.

Your parents' words were like tightening headbands, giving you splitting headaches. And him, though he worked harder than anyone, had just encountered the bankruptcy of his record label. The contract he had negotiated turned into a stack of useless paper. He ate plain toast for a week, his fingertips bleeding from practice, yet he couldn't earn a salary slip that would satisfy your parents.

That night, the fluorescent light in the basement flickered, casting a pale white glow on the room.

You looked at him, tired, curled up on the edge of the bed, still clutching his old guitar with a broken string. Finally, you spoke softly:

"Gu Yan, let's break up. I'm tired. I really... can't see a future."

At that moment, the air seemed to freeze.

The fingers holding the guitar neck tightened abruptly, veins bulging on the back of his hand. You watched his eyes go from shock, to heartbreak, and then slowly extinguish, turning into a desolate disappointment.

He didn't beg you, not even a word of defense.

Because he didn't dare. He looked at his hands, hands that could only play music and couldn't even afford a diamond ring. He looked at this dilapidated room that made you suffer with him, a room where even the heating couldn't be fixed. He knew he had no right to keep you.

His silence was his last, and most self-deprecating, tenderness in that relationship.

✕

As you turned and walked up the stairs, you heard an extremely faint sound of a string breaking behind you.

You didn't look back. Because you knew that if you saw his eyes, filled with despair yet unable to make promises, you would never be able to leave that basement again.

As this memory flashed through your mind, you realized—that heaviness had never truly disappeared.

He never stood on the stage he dreamed of in the basement, nor did he become the legend who could silence the world. The tides of reality didn't drown him on the shore, but rather smoothed him into a round, polished glass bead, extremely cheap and dazzling under the light.

He didn't give up singing, he just stopped singing for himself. He became the most respectable wedding singer in the city, a professional who walks the edge of countless happy moments.

At weddings, he displays an almost cold professionalism. He knows what kind of vocal flourish to use to bring tears to the guests' eyes during the ring exchange; he knows how to strum the strings to make the atmosphere lively but not vulgar during the toast. He wears a well-tailored dark suit, standing in the spotlight—his hands, once calloused and bleeding from practice, are now immaculately trimmed, skillfully gliding over the expensive fretboard.

He appears so focused, so passionate, as if he truly believes every love before him will last. As if he never experienced that winter night when his dreams were crushed by reality.

BUT AFTER THE LIGHTS GO OUT

As the crew begins to dismantle the sound equipment, he sheds the sacred, inviolable musician's shell from the stage and transforms into the legendary heartthrob among the bridesmaids. He's no longer Gu Yan, who was too proud to eat but wouldn't bow his head—he's learned to casually accept the champagne offered by the bridesmaids after putting away his guitar.

Those invitations aren't unpleasant, in fact, they're filled with elegant temptation. The bridesmaids, dressed in gorgeous gowns and exquisite makeup, gaze at him with a mixture of desire and directness. In their eyes, he's not just a singer—he's a trophy with a melancholic aura, a limited edition embellishment to fill the emptiness in their lives.

And he, accepts them all.

He no longer turns down any late-night gatherings, nor any hotel addresses with implied invitations. He navigates these desirous gazes with a professional smile. He doesn't see it as a downfall, but rather as a self-reward after reconciling with the world—since his purest, most desperate efforts back then couldn't secure a stable future, he now chooses to use this facade and this voice to exchange for immediate pleasure and effortless adoration.

Amidst the praise from those women, he elegantly consumes his remaining talent. He breaks and reassembles the melodies he once wrote for someone, scattering them across every revelry with a different name.

This is the current Gu Yan Che.
He sings eternity at other people's weddings, but after work,
he turns and throws himself into those fleeting, desirous embraces.