Notes of Youth

Monday morning came with a softness in the air, as if the weekend rain had rinsed the sky clean. Lin Keqing arrived earlier than usual, walking through the nearly empty corridor with her notebook tucked tightly under her arm. Her footsteps echoed gently against the tiled floor.

When she opened the classroom door, only one other student was there—Bai Andui, sitting by the window, flipping through a book of Japanese paintings. Their eyes met briefly, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

"Morning," she said softly.

"You're early."

She walked past him and sat at her seat. There was a moment of comfortable silence, only the sound of the pages turning and distant birdsong through the open window.

Keqing pulled out her notebook. A folded piece of paper fell out—the one she had meant to give Gu Yuyan the day before but never did. She looked at it for a moment, then tucked it back into the cover.

During homeroom, Mr. Ha reminded the class about the upcoming midterm evaluation. "This week will be intense," he said. "Prepare yourselves."

Groans followed, along with nervous glances exchanged between students. Gu Yuyan, however, looked calm, scribbling something into the margin of his planner.

Chen Yuke leaned over and whispered to Le Yahan, "Do you think he ever gets stressed?"

She smiled faintly. "Maybe he just doesn't show it."

Later that day, the art-literature collaboration group gathered in the library's side room. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting geometric shadows across the round table.

Bai Andui presented a draft of his painting to Keqing: a cityscape at twilight, where windows glowed faintly in a maze of blue and violet tones.

"You changed the rooftops," she noted.

"Yeah. I kept dreaming of lights, not shadows. Thought I'd listen to it."

Keqing offered a half-smile. "Maybe that's your way of remembering better."

She unfolded her latest draft of the accompanying prose—a short reflection titled "When Silence Glows." Andui read it in silence, his expression unreadable.

"You wrote it like you knew the street," he said finally.

"Maybe I do," she replied.

"You should submit it to the school's literary magazine," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Keqing blinked. "Do you think it's good enough?"

"I think it's honest. That's more than enough."

They sat for a while longer, sketching ideas on a shared notepad, mapping out how the image and words would merge for the exhibit. Keqing began to notice how precise Andui was, not only with colors but with silence. He gave space in conversation like he gave space on his canvas.

In the hallway after the meeting, Gu Yuyan waited by the lockers. As Keqing passed, he said, "You left this in the library."

He held up the folded paper—the letter.

Her breath caught. "You read it?"

"No," he said. "Not yet. I figured you'd want to decide if I should."

Keqing took the letter gently, her fingers brushing his. "Thanks."

For a moment, neither spoke. Then he asked, "Why didn't you give it to me yesterday?"

She hesitated. "Because I wasn't sure if the version of me who wrote it still exists."

Yuyan tilted his head, thoughtful. "I guess we all leave versions of ourselves behind."

"And some are better left unread," she added.

He nodded slowly. "I'll wait, if you ever write a new one."

That evening, Keqing sat on her balcony with a cup of warm tea. The city lights blinked lazily in the distance. She held the letter again, unopened, undecided.

Then, without reading it, she tore it gently into four pieces and let the wind carry them away.

Some things were meant to be written, not read.

And some truths found their place not in words, but in silence shared.

She returned inside and sat by her desk. Her phone buzzed with a new message—from Le Yahan.

: Finished my drawing! Want to see it before class tomorrow?

[Keqing]: Of course. Maybe bring Pocky too ;)

Keqing smiled and glanced out the window again. It felt good to have something to look forward to.

She set her phone aside and opened her journal. But instead of writing a new poem or reflection, her hand hovered above the paper. Her thoughts drifted to Gu Yuyan—his quiet manner, his subtle attentiveness, and the way he had looked at her when he returned the letter.

What would she have written if she were to begin again?

She started jotting a few phrases:

"To the boy who reads without reading, Who speaks in silences louder than words. Maybe I never needed to be heard—only seen."

She paused.

Was she overthinking it? Maybe. But for the first time, she realized that the flutter in her chest wasn't from uncertainty—it was from anticipation.

In another part of town, Fang Zichen stood before a blank canvas in the art club room. As the new president, he was expected to prepare a demonstration piece. But instead, he simply stared at the white space.

"You can draw tomorrow," said a voice.

He turned. Xu Yujin stood there, sketchbook in hand.

"What do you see when you look at that?" he asked.

"Possibility," she replied.

He smiled. "Then maybe I'll start with a shadow."

She nodded. "Even shadows come from light."

They sat quietly, the room gradually dimming as the sun dipped below the windowsill, leaving only the sound of pencils scratching softly against paper.

As they worked side by side, neither said much. But a quiet alliance had begun—one not forged through words, but through a shared gaze, a shared stillness.

Outside the art building, autumn leaves rustled gently in the wind, as if turning a new page.