Notes of Youth

The morning carried a kind of quiet tension—not loud, not chaotic, but dense, like fog thickening over the schoolyard. A thousand thoughts seemed to float just above the heads of students moving between classes. The air buzzed with barely contained questions.

Would the list be posted today?Had the judges already made their decisions?And—most pressing—whose names would be on it?

Lin Keqing didn't try to answer any of them.

She walked through the hallway as if the noise didn't belong to her, her steps soft and unhurried. Her fingers clutched the strap of her bag, not out of nervousness, but as if grounding herself. She had promised herself not to expect anything. After all, she hadn't submitted her piece to win.

But still—something in her chest beat a little faster with each passing moment.

In the classroom, familiar voices hummed like bees.

"I heard Tianxue's piece got noticed by one of the external judges."

"My cousin said one of the top five might be someone from Class 10A3."

"Did you see Gu Yuyan's name on the list?"

"He didn't submit," another voice replied. "He never joins these kinds of contests."

Amid the speculation, Keqing took her seat near the window. Sunlight pooled on the surface of her desk like liquid gold. She watched the light dance across her notebook, trying to quiet the small storm inside her.

She flipped open the sketchbook she always kept with her—not to draw, but to remind herself who she was. Inside it, tucked between pages, was the printed excerpt Gu Yuyan had given her that morning.

"It sounded like silence learning how to speak."That's what he had said.

Her fingers lingered on that line, and for a moment, she forgot the rest of the world existed.

Then a voice broke through the static.

"Keqing."

She looked up to see Le Yahan, breathless, standing in the doorway.

"They're calling all participants to the auditorium."

The words landed like stones in still water.

The auditorium smelled faintly of wood polish and old microphones. The air-conditioning buzzed overhead as students filed in, some walking with confidence, others clinging to their friends like lifeboats. Lin Keqing walked alone.

She took a seat near the back, her heart doing strange little stutters. Around her, students whispered and glanced at one another, eyes flicking to the front stage like it held secrets waiting to be revealed.

A teacher stepped onto the platform with a clipboard.

"We would like to thank all students who participated in this year's literary contest," she began. "The judges were deeply moved by the thoughtfulness and honesty of the submissions. After much deliberation, a shortlist of five entries has been selected."

The room went still.

Keqing exhaled slowly, bracing herself for the names that would follow.

The teacher began to read:

"In no particular order—Lin Keqing, Class 11A1.Nguyen Haoyue, Class 10A3.Lưu Thiên Tuyết, Class 11A1..."

Keqing stopped hearing the rest.

The room tilted just slightly—not because she was surprised to hear her name, but because hearing it aloud made everything feel real. Her piece, her voice, her words… had made it into the light.

Beside her, someone clapped softly. She turned and found Gu Yuyan, seated two rows behind, looking at her with the quiet pride of someone who had known all along.

And this time, he didn't just smile faintly.

He smiled fully.

Each finalist was asked to come forward and receive a printed copy of their piece, now annotated with comments from the judging panel. Keqing accepted hers with both hands, bowing slightly as she left the stage.

Her heart was still racing when she stepped outside.

She found a quiet bench under a maple tree and unfolded the pages.

Red ink danced along the margins—thoughtful, elegant comments from people she'd never met. But it was the final remark that caught her breath:

"This isn't just a story. It's a window. A quiet confession offered with grace. It doesn't shout—but it leaves echoes."

She read the sentence again. And again.

A quiet confession.

She thought of her grandmother. Of lonely evenings spent sketching in silence. Of words that never quite found voices—but still found ways to exist.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said behind her.

She turned.

Le Yahan stood there, holding two bottles of juice.

"One's peach. One's grape. Take your pick."

Keqing reached for the grape. "Thanks."

They sat in companionable silence, sipping slowly.

"I knew you'd make it," Yahan said eventually. "I read your piece in the art room when someone left a printed draft by mistake."

Keqing blinked. "That wasn't mine."

"I know. But it felt like you. That's how I knew it was yours."

She hesitated. "Did you submit something?"

Yahan shook her head. "I wrote something. But I didn't send it in."

"Why not?"

Yahan looked up at the sky. "Because sometimes… writing it was enough."

Later that afternoon, the art room smelled of glue and acrylic paint. Chen Yuke stood over a half-finished poster, pressing down delicate paper leaves with the tip of a brush.

"You're layering too much green," Yahan commented, walking in.

He didn't look up. "Green is calm."

She leaned against the edge of the table. "Or hiding."

He paused. "What are we hiding?"

Yahan smiled faintly. "You tell me."

He finally looked up. "Did you win?"

"No. But Keqing did."

"I saw."

Silence.

Then Yahan said, "I liked your message, by the way."

"What message?"

"The note you left on the vending machine door."

Chen Yuke turned back to his poster. "I didn't write a name."

"You didn't have to."

By evening, the sun cast long shadows across the school courtyard. Lin Keqing walked alone along the stone path near the garden, the contest paper clutched in her hand. She had read the final comment so many times she could recite it from memory.

A rustle behind her.

She turned—and of course, it was him.

Gu Yuyan.

"Taking a victory lap?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "Just walking. Trying to absorb everything."

"You will."

They walked side by side for a while, not speaking.

Then she stopped in front of the large metal box used to collect contest submissions. It had been sealed and labeled in golden ink:"Finalists. Top Five Entries – To Be Announced."

"I submitted it here," she said softly.

Gu nodded.

"Back then, I wasn't sure what I wanted. But now I think I do."

"And what's that?"

She turned toward him.

"I want to keep writing. Even if it scares me. Even if no one understands it at first. Even if I don't always understand myself."

Gu Yuyan's eyes searched hers. Then he said, simply, "Then I hope you never stop."

She smiled—not the small, polite kind, but one full of quiet certainty.

"I won't," she said.

That night, under the soft glow of her desk lamp, Keqing opened her notebook. Her fingers hovered for a long moment before she began to write—not a story, not a poem, just a single line.

"The bravest thing I did this year was tell the truth—and let someone hear it."

Then she closed the notebook and placed it by her bed.

For once, sleep came easily.

And in the silence, someone was still listening.

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