Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

After that night, no one mentioned it again.

Jiang Yanbai did not ask, "Have you ever lived in South Korea before?", and He Xu did not write, "If you have any questions for me, you can ask me directly."

The tacit understanding between the two was like a thin layer of water; something was moving underneath, but neither of them reached out to stir it.

Life went on as usual.

He Xu's daily routine became more regular than ever before.

I wake up naturally at 6:30 every morning, wash up, go downstairs, drink the warm water that Marco prepared at the dining table, and then go out for a jog.

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the palm trees, falling on the asphalt road, which felt slightly damp with the morning air when stepped on.

His breathing was about a third slower than before he was hospitalized, and he was breathing very shallowly to avoid airflow hitting his throat.

After running for forty minutes, he walked back slowly and sat on the steps by the door for a while.

Sweat dripped down his chin, landing on the light gray cement floor and spreading into a small, dark stain.

He waited for the sweat to dry slowly, then stood up, went inside, took a shower, and ate breakfast.

After breakfast, he would sometimes sit by the pool in the backyard for a while, and sometimes he would stay in the living room.

The laptop screen was lit, the notebook lay open on his lap, and a pen was held between his fingers.

He was looking at the arrangement files Emiko sent, listening and sketching choreography on paper, occasionally resting his chin on his hand and looking out the window, then looking down to add a few more lines.

Jiang Yanbai's work schedule was fuller than he had imagined.

Recording studios, production meetings, video conferences, and contract negotiations with brands.

Sometimes I leave in the morning and don't come back until nine o'clock at night, or I don't come back at all.

But when he came back, he would always glance around the living room first, see He Xu sitting on the sofa or the floor, and then go to change his clothes.

He Xu noticed the way he scanned the room when he entered, but didn't say anything.

He tried writing on a piece of paper, "You don't need to check if I'm still here every time you come back." Jiang Yanbai glanced at the line, replied, "I'd like to," and then went upstairs.

Contact with people in China remains maintained, but less frequently than before.

Time difference is one reason.

Los Angeles and Beijing are 15 hours apart. When it's 8 PM here, it's 11 AM in China. The seven members of NOVA are training and may not have their phones with them.

By the time they reply, it may be late at night.

Another, more practical reason is that he can't speak.

Text messages are manageable, but video calls turn into one-sided silence.

While others chatter away at the screen, he can only type in the chat box or make a few simple gestures towards the camera.

Jiang Yang, watching his gestures on the other end of the video call, laughed so hard he slapped the table: "Teacher He, your gestures look like a cat waving its paws!"

He Xu typed three words in the chat box without any expression: "You wait."

Then the call ended.

Han Yu also sent a message asking how the recovery was going.

He Xu replied with "Not bad" and a photo of the Los Angeles sky.

Han Yu replied with a cat emoji to indicate that he understood, and did not ask any further questions.

Shen Yiheng sent messages more frequently, but the frequency dropped from three times a day to once a day.

Most of the time, it's candid photos taken during NOVA training sessions, accompanied by the caption, "They got scolded by Teacher Zheng again today."

He Xu would look at the photos, zoom in to see each person's expression, and then reply with an "um" or "good news".

During this time, He Xu started dancing again.

Of course, it wasn't overly intense choreography—he didn't want to get scolded by the doctor.

The practice room was a dance studio introduced by Jiang Yanbai. He went there every day, stayed for an afternoon, and then went home—without fail.

The day I arranged to meet Emiko to discuss dance was no exception.

When He Xu pushed open the door to the dance studio, there were already people inside.

Two dancers were stretching against the corner of the wall, one pressing her legs and the other moving her wrists. When they saw He Xu come in, they both looked up and greeted him.

"Hey, He." The black boy with dreadlocks spoke first. His name was Marcus, and He Xu had seen him three or four times in this dance studio.

He had never spoken to him, but the language barrier crumbled much faster in the face of dance.

He Xu nodded, raised his phone to indicate that he was also there to practice today.

Marcus smiled, said nothing more, and continued to press his legs down.

He Xu walked to the other side of the practice room, took off his jacket and threw it in the corner, then stood in front of the mirror.

He didn't bring his notebook today—he hesitated for a moment before leaving, but still left it on the table.

He didn't want people to think he was still in "patient mode".

He stopped, stretched his neck and shoulders, and then began to walk.

Slow, still very slow.

Each movement should be limited to about two-thirds of its range of motion, without any exertion that requires vigorous breathing.

He's working on a new arrangement today, taken from the bridge section of Emiko's new song.

The draft was completed a few days ago, and now I need to physically verify whether the trajectories on the paper are reasonable.

When he finished walking through it for the third time, Marcus stood up from the corner, walked over to him, looked at He Xu's reflection in the mirror, and said, "That's for Emiko's show?"

He Xu stopped, turned his head to look at him, and nodded slightly.

"Looks good. But you're holding back."

He Xu paused for a moment, then picked up his phone, typed a message, and held it up to show him: "Recovering. Can't go full yet."

Marcus leaned over for a look, then said, "Oh. Right. The throat thing. Emiko mentioned it. She said you had surgery."

He Xu nodded.

"Well, when you're ready," Marcus took a half step back, patted his chest, "I'd love to see the full version."

He Xu's lips twitched slightly as he put his phone away and stood in front of the mirror again.

He continued for the fourth time, this time slightly more relaxed than before—the range of motion was still controlled, but the fluidity of his movements was smoother than the previous times.

He could feel his muscle memory returning little by little; the pathways etched into his bones by movements and music were slowly being reactivated.

He spent over an hour in the dance studio, walking through the bridge frame six times, before stopping to take a sip of water.

Marcus and two other dancers had already packed up their things and were about to leave. As they passed by him, they gave him a "good luck" gesture.

He Xu raised the water bottle slightly in response, then picked up his phone to check the time—10:40.

There were still twenty minutes until the time Emiko had arranged to meet him.

He went into the bathroom and washed his face. As the cold water splashed on his face, he glanced at himself in the mirror.

His complexion is much better than during the few days he was hospitalized, and the dark bluish-black mark under his eyes has faded considerably.

He still couldn't speak, but at least he didn't look like a patient anymore.

He dried his face, picked up his coat and phone, and walked out of the dance studio.