Notes of Youth

The week following the literary contest submission settled over the school like a soft haze. It wasn't loud excitement or visible tension—just an odd stillness, like the air itself was listening. Everyone seemed to be waiting, but for different things: for recognition, for a sense of validation, or simply for something to feel real.

Lin Keqing didn't check the bulletin board that Monday. She didn't join the speculating crowd near the courtyard or read into the whispers echoing through the hallways. Instead, she returned to her familiar corner of the library, where sunbeams painted gold across the wooden desk and silence made space for clarity.

She opened her sketchbook—not to draw, but to think. Between the unfilled pages and the margin doodles, she found something she had scribbled days ago:

"Maybe truth doesn't need to be loud. It just needs to be heard."

She was tracing that line with her fingers when a quiet voice pulled her back to the present.

"You forgot this."

She looked up to see Gu Yuyan standing beside her, holding out her water bottle. His tone was neutral, almost casual—but his gaze rested on her for a second longer than necessary.

"You found it?" she asked, reaching for the bottle.

"You left it in the art room. On the window ledge."

"Oh," she said, brushing her bangs behind her ear. "Thanks."

Instead of leaving, he sat down across from her, wordlessly pulling out a slim notebook of his own. It wasn't like him to linger—but lately, they'd been finding themselves in the same spaces more often. And that space, once filled with polite silences, now hummed with something warmer.

"Are you... anxious?" he asked.

"About what?"

"The results."

She shook her head. "No. I already got what I wanted."

He tilted his head.

"I wrote something that felt real," she explained. "Even if no one else reads it, that's enough."

He paused, then said, "That's brave."

She looked at him, surprised. "You think writing honesty is brave?"

"I think... being seen is."

Their eyes met for a moment longer before she smiled faintly. "Then maybe I'm learning."

He nodded once, then looked away—but not before she caught the soft curve at the corner of his mouth.

Elsewhere, in the art room, Le Yahan was elbow-deep in paper, paint, and poster boards. She was designing a mural to celebrate the contest finalists, even though the winners hadn't been announced yet.

Chen Yuke crouched nearby, gluing pressed leaves onto a backdrop she had drawn.

"You know," he said, peeling another leaf off its paper backing, "this is kind of ironic."

"How so?"

"Decorating a wall for something we don't even know the outcome of."

Yahan laughed softly. "It's not about the outcome. It's about celebrating the courage to try."

He paused in his work. "That sounds like something you wrote in your sketchpad."

Her hands froze.

He saw her reaction and raised an eyebrow. "Was I wrong?"

She turned slightly, avoiding his gaze. "You read that?"

"Just one line," he said quickly. "By accident."

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then she muttered, "You think it was about you?"

He didn't reply.

"I won't confirm or deny," she added with a teasing smirk. "But maybe I wrote it for someone who doesn't always hear themselves clearly."

Chen Yuke looked up at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "Maybe that someone is finally starting to listen."

By afternoon, an announcement came over the PA system:

"All students who submitted entries to the annual literary contest, please report to the auditorium. The shortlist will be announced shortly."

In the hallway, students buzzed with nervous energy. Keqing walked toward the auditorium at a steady pace. Behind her, she heard quickening footsteps.

"Wait up."

She turned to see Gu Yuyan catching up. He walked beside her, not saying anything, but his presence was grounding.

"You didn't submit, did you?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't write for contests."

She looked at him sideways. "Then what do you write for?"

He hesitated. "To understand myself."

She nodded. "Me too."

The auditorium slowly filled. Finalists were asked to stand in a small group at the front.

When Lin Keqing's name was called, she blinked. She hadn't expected it—not because she didn't believe in herself, but because she hadn't written it for recognition. She stepped forward slowly, heart quietly beating.

From his seat, Gu Yuyan watched her.

And he smiled.

Each finalist was given a copy of their entry with the judges' annotations. After the ceremony, Keqing slipped out through the side door and sat on a bench beneath a large maple tree. She flipped to the last page.

"This is more than a story—it's a moment. A confession dressed as a whisper. Rare, restrained, but entirely unforgettable."

She folded the paper gently and tucked it back into her sketchbook, heart full.

In the quiet of the after-school courtyard, Le Yahan found Chen Yuke waiting near the vending machines.

She approached him with a questioning look.

"You didn't tell me you submitted something too," he said.

"I didn't."

"Oh." He hesitated. "I just thought… your words belonged there."

She smiled softly. "They belonged somewhere. Maybe not in that contest."

He looked down. "Well… I think I want to hear them anyway. Sometime."

"Maybe I'll read them to you," she said, "if you promise not to read ahead next time."

That evening, Keqing stood in front of the large submission box, now closed and labeled with golden letters: Finalists – Top Five Entries to Be Announced Soon.

Gu Yuyan appeared behind her. She didn't turn, but she knew.

"You submitted it," he said.

"I did."

"For the contest?"

She finally turned to look at him. "For me."

He stared at her for a long time, eyes searching.

"Then I hope it wins."

"I already did," she replied.

And this time, he smiled fully.

Later that night, Keqing opened her notebook once more and wrote a single sentence:

"We don't always need to be loud to be heard—we just need someone listening in the silence."

Then she turned out the light, but the warmth stayed with her, like something just beginning to bloom.