in a haze, a stormy haze (i'll be round)

By the seventh interview, Yizhuo was considering violence. Not against anyone in particular. Just generally.

"How does it feel to be the voice of a generation?" 

"I think there are probably better candidates for that title," Yizhuo replied, smiling politely.

The interviewer laughed as though she'd said something profound.

Yizhuo had learned long ago that most interviews weren't conversations. They were performances with predetermined outcomes. The questions changed slightly. The answers were always the same. Different words, same meaning. Always exactly the same.

How does it feel?

What's next?

Did you always know?

How are you handling the attention?

What would you tell your younger self?

Blah, blah, blah. 

By now, she figured she could probably answer them in her sleep. Unfortunately, she hadn't had enough of it to test that theory. 

Somewhere around interview number four, she'd become convinced journalists shared a single communal brain cell. By interview number five, she'd started answering questions before they were fully asked. And by interview number seven, she was running entirely on caffeine, muscle memory and primal instinct to survive long enough to make it back to her hotel bed.

By interview number eight, Yizhuo had stopped trying to distinguish individual journalists from one another.

They blurred together eventually. Different faces from different publications, but they all asked the same questions, wrote the same article. 

She was halfway through explaining how "grateful" she felt for the opportunity when movement across the room caught her attention.

The press junket occupied an enormous ballroom divided into sections by temporary partitions and strategically placed banners. Journalists moved constantly between tables. Publicists hovered nearby like anxious bodyguards. Assistants sprinted between stations carrying schedules and coffees.

Chaos disguised as organisation.

Yizhuo's eyes drifted lazily across the room.

Then stopped.

Oh.

For a second she genuinely thought she was hallucinating.

Which, considering her sleep schedule, wasn't entirely impossible.

He stood near one of the far tables speaking to another reporter, notebook tucked beneath one arm. Dark coat discarded over the back of a chair. Coffee balanced dangerously in a hand that he kept swaying around as he conversed animatedly. 

He looked entirely out of place.

Which was strange, considering he technically belonged here far more than she did. Yizhuo had spent years learning how to survive rooms like this. He looked like he openly disliked them.

Everyone else carried themselves with the same careful industry polish. Perfect posture and smiles. Perfect networking. He, on the other hand, looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong room and was too stubborn to leave.

As though sensing it, he glanced up.

Their eyes met.

Immediately, he looked concerned.

His gaze flicked toward the journalist sitting opposite her, then to the untouched coffee beside her before looking at her again.

He raised an eyebrow.

Yizhuo hated how accurately she understood the question.

Are you surviving?

For reasons she had absolutely no interest in examining, something inside her immediately loosened. Not excitement, relief. Which was arguably worse.

"-what would you tell your younger self?" 

Yizhuo blinked, the question bringing her out of her thoughts.

"Sorry?"

The journalist repeated the question.

Across the room, she watched him take a sip of coffee.

"Right."

A pause.

"Probably to invest in Bitcoin or something."

Silence.

"You meant emotionally, didn’t you?"

"Well," she paused again. 

The journalist opposite her waited expectantly.

Yizhuo glanced across the room one more time.

He was still watching.

"Emotionally, I'd probably tell her to get more sleep."

The interviewer laughed.

Yizhuo smiled automatically.

Across the room, he looked unconvinced. Smart guy.

The interview wrapped up three minutes later. The second the journalist thanked her for her time, Yizhuo was already on her feet.

"Thank you so much," the woman said brightly.

"Mhm."

"Congratulations again."

"Mhm."

"You've been wonderful."

"Mhm."

By the third 'mhm,' her publicist physically grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the next table.

"Can you at least pretend that you're enjoying yourself?"

"I think I've been pretending for several consecutive years now."

"Yizhuo."

"I'm kidding."

"You are absolutely not kidding."

Unfortunately, her publicist knew her too well.

As they crossed the ballroom, Yizhuo found herself glancing toward the far side of the room again, only to be left disappointed as she realised he was no longer there. 

She immediately felt annoyed at her own disappointment. She'd spoken to the man twice. Three times, if you count the phone call. Well, four times, if you counted the text messages. Which she totally wasn’t.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed determined to punish her for this moment of weakness immediately.

"You're up," her publicist announced, steering her toward another table.

Yizhuo glanced longingly toward the nearest exit.

The journalist waiting for her looked approximately nineteen years old and aggressively enthusiastic.

"Hi, Yizhuo!" he beamed.

Oh, this was going to be hell.

Twenty minutes later, the idea of hell seemed nice, almost.

By the time she'd finished explaining her "creative process" for the third time that morning, she was actively dissociating. Her smile remained perfectly in place. Internally, however, she'd begun drafting her resignation from public life. 

"And where do you see yourself in five years?" the journalist asked brightly.

"Asleep."

The poor man laughed nervously, clearly uncertain whether she was joking.

Yizhuo wasn't entirely certain either.

The interview finally ended.

"Coffee break," her publicist announced. 

Yizhuo could have cried.  

Halfway to the refreshment station, she glanced across the ballroom again. Nothing. No dark coat, no notebook, no familiar face lingering in the back. 

Far more disappointment than she'd care to admit settled over her.

How embarrassing.

A hand appeared beside her carrying a paper coffee cup.

Yizhuo stared at it.

Then slowly looked up.

"You look like you're approximately fifteen minutes away from headbutting someone," he said.

For the first time all morning, she laughed. A real laugh, not the polished one she saved for interviews. The sound surprised both of them. 

"Welcome back, Yizhuo," he said softly. 

Yizhuo blinked. For a second she just stared at him. Nobody had ever said anything like that before. He'd noticed she'd been gone, and she wasn't entirely sure how that made her feel.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"You know what I mean."

Yizhuo opened her mouth, then closed it again. She did know what he meant, she just didn’t know exactly how to feel about it. Somehow, somewhere between the coffee and the terrible joke, he'd noticed the moment she stopped performing. And that was a scary thought.

A little while later, Yizhuo found herself sitting on an overturned equipment case in a quiet service corridor hidden somewhere behind the ballroom. 

It wasn't particularly glamorous, but for the first time for the entire morning, Yizhuo could finally hear herself think. The noise from the press junket had dulled into a distant hum.

The official coffee break had ended approximately twelve minutes ago.

Neither of them seemed particularly concerned. 

"Have you eaten today?"

"You sound like my mother."

He looked vaguely offended.

“That might be the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Yizhuo took a sip of coffee, hiding a smile behind the paper cup.

“She asks me if I’ve eaten approximately seven times a day.”

“Reasonable.”

“She once called my manager because I didn't answer for six hours.”

“Also reasonable.”

“My manager was with me.”

“God forbid the woman cares, Yizhuo.”

Yizhuo laughed quietly.

"Your publicist is going to kill you, you know."

"She's currently looking for me," Yizhuo replied, taking another sip of coffee.

He glanced at his watch.

"How much trouble are we talking about here?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"How long it takes them to find me."

He checked his watch again.

"I’m going with two minutes."

Yizhuo looked unimpressed.

"Only two?"

In response, he just shrugged, a small smile pulling at his mouth as a comfortable silence settled between them.

"You know," he said eventually, "you were answering questions before they finished asking them."

Yizhuo groaned.

"Was it that obvious?"

"It was honestly quite impressive, actually."

"I've done twenty-three interviews in three days."

"Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-four, if you consider the one where a journalist asked me what kind of bird I would be as an interview."

He stared.

"I'm sorry?"

"A bird."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"What did you say?"

Yizhuo looked offended.

"A pigeon."

"Of course you said pigeon."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. It just feels right."

"That is a ridiculous thing to say."

"Maybe." He took another sip of coffee. "You still hated the question though."

Yizhuo blinks.

"What?"

He gestures vaguely with the cup.

"You did the thing."

"What thing?"

"The hair thing."

"The hair thing," she repeats flatly.

"You tuck it behind your ear whenever you're about to answer a question you don't actually want to answer."

Silence.

Yizhuo stares at him.

He stares back.

"...I do not."

"You most definitely do."

"That's insane."

"You've done it four times since we sat down."

"You've been counting?"

“Not intentionally,” he replied eventually, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. 

Yizhuo stared at him for another beat.

Then, because the alternative was allowing herself to feel flattered by something deeply inconvenient, she scoffed and looked away.

“Right. So you’re just accidentally cataloguing my nervous habits now.”

“I wouldn’t call it cataloguing.”

“What would you call it?”

He paused, considering.

“Observing.”

Yizhuo let out a short laugh, sharp enough to disguise the strange flutter beneath her ribs. “That makes it sound even worse.” 

“It’s literally my job.”

“Yes,” she said, taking another sip of coffee. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The words slipped out before she could soften them.

For a second, something shifted between them. Not dramatically. Nothing cinematic. Just enough for the silence to become aware of itself. 

He looked at her then, properly. The teasing eased from his expression, replaced by something quieter.

Yizhuo immediately regretted saying anything. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was. But he was a journalist. She was the subject of his article. Every conversation, every joke, every tired confession given in a hotel lounge or service corridor could become material if he wanted it to. His attention felt good because it seemed sincere, but sincerity and usefulness were not mutually exclusive. She knew that better than anyone. 

A glance became loneliness, a pause became mystery. Exhaustion became depth. Silence became an enigma.

And maybe he was different, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe she only wanted him to be because the alternative made her feel foolish. 

“I’m not putting your hair thing in the article,” he said.

Yizhuo blinked.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were thinking it very loudly.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Oh my God, stop talking.”

“Ouch, your words cut so deep, I’ll never recover.”

Her mouth twitched. Annoying. Deeply annoying.

He saw that too, of course. Because apparently the man had nothing better to do than notice every minor betrayal of her face.

“I mean it,” he added, softer this time. “Not everything I notice is for print.”

Yizhuo looked down at the coffee cup in her hands, thumb tracing the cardboard seam. The service corridor suddenly felt smaller than it had a moment ago. Not claustrophobic. Just intimate in a way she didn’t entirely trust.

“That’s very noble of you,” she said lightly. “Should I applaud now or wait until the article comes out?”

He laughed under his breath, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“And she’s back.”

Yizhuo looked up.

“What?”

“The deflection.”

“I’m not deflecting.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Maybe I’m just naturally unpleasant.”

“Possible,” he said. “But that’s not the impression that I have.”

She hated the warmth that rose in her chest at that. Hated it so much that she immediately reached for sarcasm like a weapon. 

“You know, for someone who claims to hate these events, you’re disturbingly good at making yourself unbearable in hidden corridors.” 

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Everything’s a compliment if you choose to receive it as one.”

Yizhuo shook her head, hiding another smile behind the rim of her coffee.

For a moment, quiet settled between them again.

This time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Which was the problem. The problem was that sitting with him on an overturned equipment case, hiding from an entire room of people waiting to consume some polished version of her, felt easier than almost anything had in weeks. 

And that was terrifying.

Her publicist’s voice echoed faintly somewhere beyond the corridor.

“Yizhuo?”

She closed her eyes.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Two minutes.”

Yizhuo opened one eye to glare at him. “You look far too pleased about being right.”

“What can I say, I’m rarely wrong.”

“That must be exhausting for everyone around you.”

“Mostly my editor, he thinks I’m an ass.”

The footsteps grew closer.

Yizhuo stood reluctantly, brushing imaginary dust from the side of her dress. The spell, or whatever pathetic approximation of one her sleep-deprived brain had invented, broke immediately. The ballroom noise crept back in. Voices, cameras, assistants, obligations.

Reality, undefeated as usual.

He stood too, slower than her, still watching with that irritatingly careful expression. Noticing. Always noticing, always observing.

Yizhuo tilted her head, forcing her tone back into something bright and untouchable.

“So,” she said, “did you get what you needed?”

His brows drew together slightly.

“For the article, I mean.”

There it was.

A small, deliberate distance.

She saw the moment he understood it. The way his expression shifted, not hurt exactly, but quieter. More guarded.

Good. The relief lasted approximately three seconds. Then she hated herself for it.

He looked down at his coffee, then back at her.

“Nope,” he said simply.

Yizhuo’s throat tightened for no reason.

“Nope?”

“No.” His voice remained even. “But I got coffee with you.”

The answer was so plain, so lacking in performance, that she had no idea what to do with it. So naturally, she decided to ruin it.

“How sentimental,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed on her face.

“There she is again.”

Yizhuo paused.

For one second, she considered saying something honest. Something like, I don’t know what you want or expect from me. Or, I don’t know whether I’m allowed to trust this. Or, please don’t make me regret liking you.

Instead, she smiled the way she did for cameras.

“Try not to miss me too much, Mr Quote Collector.” 

Then she stepped back into the noise before he could answer.

Her publicist appeared instantly, relief and murder flashing across her face in equal measure.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Emotionally?”

“Yizhuo.”

“Coffee break.”

“You missed the start of your next interview.”

“A true tragedy, someone check on Shakespeare.”

As her publicist dragged her back toward the ballroom, Yizhuo resisted the absurd urge to look over her shoulder. She made it nearly six whole seconds.

When she finally glanced back, he was still standing at the edge of the corridor, coffee in hand, watching her disappear back into the machine. Not writing. Not recording. Just watching.

And somehow, that was worse.