Notes of Youth

The school grounds had taken on a new kind of stillness. The cherry blossom trees were no longer in bloom, and instead, the sunlight streamed through the windowpanes in solid rectangles, golden and unyielding. It was that time of the semester when even the softest voices seemed to carry a nervous urgency.

Lin Keqing sat in the library, her fingers brushing lightly against the edges of a sealed envelope. The letter had no recipient's name written on it, but she knew exactly who it was meant for.

Gu Yuyan.

The days following the art-literature exhibition had been strangely quiet. They still exchanged nods in class, and sometimes, he would hand her a borrowed pen or return a notebook she had forgotten. But the notes had stopped.

She missed them—missed the way his words seemed to curl between the lines like whispers meant only for her.

"Still haven't sent it?" a voice said behind her. It was Le Yahan, crouching beside the desk like a cat ready to spring. Her smile was mischievous, but her eyes held warmth.

Keqing pressed the letter back into her novel and shook her head. "It doesn't feel like the right time."

"Sometimes, Keqing," Yahan said, tapping her lightly on the head with a pencil, "waiting for the right time is just another way of running away."

That evening, Keqing walked home alone. The air had the sharp crispness of pre-summer evenings. She passed the corner bookstore and paused, her reflection layered over the display window—a row of journals, some with velvet covers, others with ribbon ties.

Her grandmother used to say, "Write the things you're too afraid to speak."

So she did.

That night, she wrote again.

"Dear Gu Yuyan,I don't know if you ever felt it too—that silence isn't always peaceful. Sometimes, it's heavy.When you look away during roll call, when your fingers tighten around your pen, when you don't answer even though I know you heard me—It makes me wonder if I've done something wrong.Or if you're just scared too.

But I think of the umbrella. Of the note you returned. Of the way you once smiled, only barely.And I know there's something real.

I want to know you.Not just the perfect scores and the quiet glances. I want to know the thoughts you write and then cross out.

Yours,Lin Keqing"

She stared at the letter and, for the first time, folded it into thirds. Not to hide—but to give.

At school the next day, something in the atmosphere had shifted. The hallways buzzed with talk about midterms and universities. Chen Yuke passed by her desk and gave a quiet nod before turning to help Le Yahan carry an easel into the Art Room.

"Yuke's been... different lately," Keqing murmured as she watched them go.

"He's getting braver," Yuyan's voice came from behind.

She startled.

He stood beside her, not holding a paper note, but looking directly at her. It was a rare thing—his gaze wasn't intense, but rather thoughtful, like he was trying to weigh the right words.

"I heard your piece is being submitted to the provincial writing contest," he said.

Keqing blinked. "You heard?"

"I read it," he admitted. "Bai Andui showed me."

Keqing flushed. "You… read it?"

"It was honest," he said quietly. "It felt like you weren't just writing for a contest."

"I wasn't," she replied.

They stood in silence. The kind of silence that felt less like absence, and more like understanding.

"Do you still write notes?" she asked softly.

He looked down. "Not lately."

Keqing took a breath. Her fingers reached into her bag, brushing the edges of the letter. But she didn't pull it out.

Not yet.

During break, Keqing visited the rooftop. The breeze was stronger there. The clouds looked close enough to touch.

To her surprise, Liu Tianxue was already sitting on the ledge, her long hair whipping behind her in the wind. She looked over her shoulder when she heard Keqing.

"Thought I'd find you here," Tianxue said, her tone light, but her face tired.

Keqing didn't say anything. She sat beside her.

"People think being confident means you're not allowed to be confused," Tianxue murmured. "But I am. I've always been."

"About Yuyan?"

Tianxue smiled faintly. "Yes. And no. About myself, mostly."

Keqing turned to her, curious.

"I've spent so long being the best at everything that mattered," she said. "Debates. Exams. Even appearances. But none of that made him look at me the way he looks at you."

Keqing felt her heart beat faster.

"I used to think I had to outshine people to be noticed," Tianxue said. "But maybe… maybe what matters more is being able to see others clearly."

Keqing didn't know how to respond to that. But somehow, she knew this conversation mattered.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

She stared at the letter again.

Morning came before she decided.

She walked into class early and slipped the folded paper into Gu Yuyan's desk, careful, like placing something fragile.

The day passed slowly. She couldn't focus during Literature, couldn't eat during lunch.

When the bell rang for dismissal, she stood by the classroom door, unsure if she should wait or disappear.

Gu Yuyan walked past her.

And didn't say anything.

Her heart sank.

But then—

Just as he reached the end of the corridor, he turned back.

His eyes met hers.

He didn't smile.

He walked toward her, slowly.

When he stood before her, he said only one sentence.

"I read it."

She nodded.

"And?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

His answer came in a whisper too.

"I wrote something back."

He handed her a folded paper. Cream-colored. Slightly creased.

She held it like it might dissolve in her fingers.

"Don't read it now," he said. "Read it where you feel most like yourself."

And then he left.

That evening, Keqing sat under the plum tree in her grandmother's backyard. The branches still held the scent of spring.

She opened the letter.

"Lin Keqing,

I've always been better at staying silent.It's how I survived the noise of expectations.But you were never loud. You didn't demand attention. You noticed the silence in others and listened to it.\n>I didn't know people like that existed.\n>When I said I wasn't good at speaking, I meant I didn't know how to say things that mattered.\n>But you gave me a way.\n>Through ink. Through glances. Through notes.\n>

Thank you for writing first.\n>

Yours,\n> Gu Yuyan"

Keqing held the letter to her chest.

And smiled.

Not the polite kind.

But the kind that started small, then bloomed.

A smile meant for no one else but herself.

Her grandmother's garden had always been a sanctuary. The hum of cicadas, the distant clatter of a neighbor's cooking pan, the scent of tea leaves drying on the porch rail—all of it grounded her.

Keqing read the letter again. Slower this time. As if every word might vanish if she blinked too quickly.

She turned it over. There was something else.

P.S. I still keep the first note you wrote me. I didn't reply because I didn't know how. I'm learning now.

She blinked, then laughed softly. The sound startled the garden birds.

"Yuyan…" she whispered, as if saying his name out loud could make the moment more real.

Her fingers danced over the page, not writing, just tracing invisible lines of possibility.

Then she did write.

"Dear Gu Yuyan,I'm glad you kept the note.I've kept yours too. All of them.Even the one with only two words.

I think we're both learning.To speak.To listen.To stay.

Yours,Lin Keqing"

She didn't seal this one.

She wanted to hand it to him in person.

No more letters left behind.

No more notes tucked into desks.

She wanted to look him in the eye when he read it.

And maybe—just maybe—she could smile, and he'd finally smile back.

The next morning, Keqing arrived at school earlier than usual. The corridors were still half-lit, the janitor's mop echoing against the tiles. She waited by the windowsill near the staircase—somewhere quiet, somewhere honest.

And when Gu Yuyan finally walked in, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly messy from the wind, she stepped forward.

"Morning," she said.

He blinked. Then nodded. "Morning."

She handed him the note. No envelope. No name. But again, he knew.

This time, he didn't wait to open it.

And as he read, his brows furrowed for a second.

Then lifted.

Then—finally—he smiled.

Not a full smile. Not yet.

But enough.

Enough to know something between them had truly begun.