Notes of Youth

It rained the day after the list was announced.

Not a dramatic storm, not the kind that chased people indoors or rattled windows—just a soft drizzle, steady and persistent, like someone whispering a long-forgotten lullaby to the world. The rooftops shimmered, the trees glistened, and the courtyard lay blanketed in gray light, still and listening.

Lin Keqing stood beneath the overhang near the school gate, sketchbook hugged close to her chest. Her shoes were slightly wet from stepping in a puddle, and strands of hair clung to her cheek, damp with mist. But she didn't seem to mind.

Rain had a way of quieting everything else. And sometimes, quiet was exactly what she needed.

Behind her, footsteps approached—slow, measured.

"Did you bring an umbrella today?" came a low voice.

She turned. Gu Yuyan stood a step away, a dark navy umbrella resting against his shoulder, rain dots glistening on its surface.

"I did," she replied. "But I forgot it in the art room."

A small silence.

Then, without another word, he opened his umbrella wider and stepped closer, covering both of them.

"Let's go," he said.

She hesitated for only a moment before falling into step beside him.

They walked without speaking. Just the soft tap of rain on fabric, the gentle swish of shoes against wet pavement, and the sound of two people not needing to fill the space between them.

At the school gate, where paths diverged, he paused.

"Do you need me to walk you home?" he asked, almost too casually.

She glanced up at him. His expression was unreadable—calm, detached—but his fingers held the umbrella a little tighter.

"It's okay," she said. "I like walking in the rain."

He nodded once, then hesitated. "I don't mind walking with you."

She blinked.

Then, quietly, she said, "Then… let's walk."

They passed by quiet neighborhoods, the kind with trimmed hedges and closed windows, where rain collected in neat gutters. Keqing glanced sideways once and noticed the edge of Gu Yuyan's uniform was soaked.

"You're getting wet," she said.

He shrugged. "So are you."

They exchanged a small smile—fleeting, quiet, and gone too quickly. But it lingered between them like warmth in their shared silence.

At the bend near her house, she slowed.

"Gu Yuyan."

"Hmm?"

"You always know how to be quiet in the right way."

He looked at her, surprised.

"Most people stay silent to hide something," she continued. "But with you… it feels like silence is a kind of understanding."

His eyes searched hers.

And for a long time, he didn't say anything.

Then, softly: "Maybe I understand you better than I thought."

When she reached her house, rain still tapping lightly on the porch tiles, she turned to wave.

But he was already gone.

That evening, Gu Yuyan sat at his desk, the light from the lamp throwing soft shadows across his books. His notebook lay open, but the pen in his hand hadn't moved in minutes.

There was a knock at the door.

He didn't look up. "Come in."

His mother entered, her hair tied back neatly, dressed in a gray blouse that matched the weather outside. She moved with quiet grace, like someone used to keeping their presence small.

"I saw your name wasn't on the finalist list," she said, setting a cup of warm tea on the table.

"I didn't submit anything," he replied without looking up.

She nodded slowly, then sat on the edge of his bed.

"Your teacher called," she said after a moment. "Said there's a writing contest in the city next month. National-level. She wondered if you'd be interested."

He didn't respond.

"You used to write all the time when you were little," she continued, her voice softer now. "Your notebooks were filled with stories. Do you remember?"

Gu Yuyan kept his gaze on the page. "I remember."

"You stopped after middle school."

Silence.

"I thought maybe you'd share some of your writing with me someday," she added. "Even just one page."

He looked up, finally, meeting her eyes.

"I don't write for other people," he said quietly.

She smiled—sadly, but without bitterness. "Maybe not. But sometimes, writing is also a way to reach someone."

She stood to leave. "Anyway. The tea's for you. It's your favorite."

When the door clicked shut behind her, he finally reached for his pen—and began to write.

At school the next day, whispers swirled like mist through the hallways.

"Did you hear? They're selecting one finalist to represent the school at the city contest."

"It's probably Liu Tianxue."

"But Lin Keqing's piece was the most moving."

"She won't accept. She's too quiet."

In the library, Keqing sat curled near the window, rereading the judge's comments on her story. Her hands trembled slightly, though she wasn't cold.

She hadn't expected this.

She hadn't written her story to compete—certainly not to perform.

A shadow passed across her desk.

She looked up to see Fang Zichen, the head of the art club.

"You're the one who wrote 'To the Window I Never Opened,' right?" he asked.

She nodded slowly.

"I read it," he said. "It reminded me of a painting. Soft strokes, sharp meaning. You don't see that combination often."

She blinked. "Thank you."

"Are you going to represent the school?" he asked.

"I… don't know."

He tilted his head. "Don't decide yet. But if you do—come talk to me. I know how to help people show their best without changing who they are."

Then, with a wink, he added, "And I've got a feeling you haven't even reached your first crescendo."

That evening, as rain finally cleared and the sky opened into twilight, Keqing sat at her desk and stared at a blank page.

She thought about the quiet bench under the maple tree.She thought about Gu Yuyan's words.She thought about how it felt to have someone listen without interrupting.

Then, slowly, she wrote:

"Not every voice is meant to shout.Some voices bloom in silence.Some voices… find their meaning in the spaces between sound."

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't hesitate to keep going.