Notes of Youth

The school had returned to its usual rhythm, but something in the air had shifted. Friendships were becoming more complicated, emotions deeper, and unspoken thoughts heavier. It was as if the classroom itself had learned to breathe differently.

Lin Keqing had grown unusually quiet. She sat at her desk, pen in hand, staring at the blank page before her. There was a storm of words in her heart, but none seemed to find their way out.

Ever since her brief visit to her grandmother during the short holiday, Keqing had started questioning things she once chose to ignore. Over dinner, her grandmother had gently asked, "Would you like to move in with your father?"

That one question had reopened wounds she thought she had buried. Keqing didn't answer then. She had just lowered her eyes and quietly eaten her rice, as if silence could keep the question away.

Back at school, Gu Yuyan remained his usual self—silent, focused, emotionally unreadable. But this time, Keqing wrote the first note.

"Have you ever felt... like family can make you feel more alone than being alone?"

Gu Yuyan paused for a long moment after reading. Then he wrote back:

"It's not that they don't love you. They just don't know how to."

Keqing blinked. Her eyes stung.

She didn't respond to that note, not in words. But later that day, when their eyes met across the classroom, there was something soft in her gaze that hadn't been there before.

Elsewhere, Le Yahan and Chen Yuke walked along the corridor outside the library. The hallway was quieter now, most students already gone.

"Still not ready to say anything?" Le Yahan asked, her tone teasing.

Chen Yuke raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"About what you feel," she said, shrugging.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked out the window.

"I think..." he began, "I think some things are clearer when left unspoken."

Yahan stopped walking. "You know what's worse than rejection?"

Chen Yuke looked at her.

"Not knowing," she said simply, then turned and kept walking. Chen followed, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor.

That evening, Keqing stayed after class to organize her things. On her way out, she passed by the art room. The light inside glowed warmly.

Bai Andui was still there, painting under dim yellow light, his headphones on. Something about his posture felt both focused and lonely.

She lingered.

"You can come in," he said, not looking up.

She hesitated, then stepped in. "What are you working on?"

He gestured to a large canvas. On it were abstract figures—blurred silhouettes, reaching arms, half-drawn expressions.

"It's... a series," he said. "Called 'Things Left Behind.'"

Keqing looked closer. "They're beautiful. But also... sad."

Andui nodded. "They're not meant to be understood. Just felt."

There was a pause.

"Can I ask something?" she said.

He glanced at her. "Go ahead."

"Do you draw to remember, or to forget?"

He smiled faintly. "Both. Sometimes, art is the only place where memories don't hurt as much."

Keqing didn't reply. But that night, she found herself drawing again for the first time in months.

Meanwhile, at home, Gu Yuyan stared at a half-written letter he'd started weeks ago. It was addressed to no one, but every sentence began with "You."

"You said silence was comfort, but sometimes it feels like absence."

He tore the paper, crumpled it, then sat in the dark for a long time.

The sound of quiet music drifted from his phone. He let it play, as though the notes could express what he couldn't say aloud. Then, from the drawer, he pulled out a crumpled paper—a note from Lin Keqing she had passed him weeks ago.

He smoothed it out carefully, reading the words over again.

"You don't need to speak much. I'll still hear your silence."

He folded it neatly this time and tucked it into his notebook.

In the dormitory hallway, Le Yahan sat beside Chen Yuke under the flickering lights. A rare moment of shared silence lingered between them.

"You used to always sit alone after club activities," she said.

"I still do," he replied.

"But now you wait for me," she added softly.

Chen Yuke glanced at her, then looked away quickly. "Maybe I just prefer walking back together."

She smiled, not pressing further. But something about the way his hand brushed against hers when they stood up felt like a promise—not spoken, but felt.

Back in her room, Keqing wrote a new note but didn't pass it to anyone. It was tucked into her drawer, among other folded pieces she had never shared.

"Maybe the bravest thing we can do is not shout our pain, but still choose to stay."

She closed her notebook and looked out the window. The wind rustled the leaves. In the distance, a lone star blinked.

She thought of the people in her life, all fighting quiet battles of their own.

In the quiet night, she smiled to herself. There was still so much to say. But maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to say it all at once.

The chapter ends with a quiet shot of the classroom the next morning—sunlight spilling in, desks lined up, a fresh note folded and waiting in Gu Yuyan's pencil case.

"Today, I'll say a little more."