Notes of Youth

It had been three days since Lin Keqing transferred to Class 11A1.

She wasn't used to the place yet, not fully. But it no longer felt alien. She now knew which water faucet ran cold, which hallway locker creaked, and which library window let in just enough afternoon light to warm her fingertips as she read.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, she had begun to notice the boy who sat beside her.

Crisp white shirts, high collars. Sleeves rolled with the precision of habit. A pen that tapped gently when he paused to think. He rarely spoke—but his silence was not absence. It carried weight, like the stillness before rain.

On Friday afternoon, storm clouds bruised the sky. Thunder murmured above the city, and the wind pressed against the windows of the classroom.

During Chemistry, something shifted.

A folded note slid across her desk. Light blue paper. Familiar strokes.

"Which school did you go to before?" — G.Y.

She blinked. A question. The first he had ever asked.

Suppressing a smile, she wrote:

"City B. Second Experimental High School." — L.K.

When he reached for the ruler near her side of the desk, she tucked the reply into the crease of his notebook.

She didn't know why her heart beat a little quicker.

During break, Le Yahan spun around in her seat. "Did he just talk to you?"

"Not exactly," Keqing replied, lips twitching.

Yahan gasped dramatically. "Another note?! Girl, this is turning into one of those dramas where everything starts with paper messages and ends in a rooftop confession."

Keqing laughed. "You're overthinking it."

"Nope. I'm just narrating your love story as it unfolds."

The last period was Biology. Their diagnostic tests were returned.

Keqing: 80/100. Respectable—but not her best.

Gu Yuyan glanced sideways at her score, then returned to his notes without a word. She might've imagined it—until she found a second note slipped between her textbooks after class:

"I have last year's Biology notes. You can borrow them if you want." — G.Y.

No fluff. No comment. Just quiet consideration.

Still, she reread it twice.

She turned, ready to say thanks—but he had already put in his earphones, gaze distant, watching the rainfall.

That night, she sat at her desk, reviewing his notes.

They were methodical. Tidy. Surprisingly easy to understand.

She wrote a reply on a small sticky note:

"Thank you. I'll return them soon." — L.K.

Monday morning, the rain had lifted, but the sky remained overcast.

When she reached her desk, a single mint candy rested there.

No note. No name.

But she knew.

She slipped it into her pocket, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

That afternoon, during library hour, she approached his desk by the window. Wooden, sunlit. The place where he always sat.

She held out the notes.

"These… are yours."

He looked up. Nodded.

"Did they help?"

"A lot," she said, her smile genuine.

He nodded again. A pause followed—comfortably quiet, like the space between two soft breaths.

Then:

"Do you write a lot?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Your notes," he said. "They read like… you're talking to someone. Even if it's just yourself."

She hesitated. "I keep a journal sometimes. Habit, I guess."

He didn't smile, but the sharpness in his gaze softened. "It's a good habit."

She tilted her head. "Then what would you call it?"

"Interesting," he said.

She returned to her seat with something light and indescribable swelling in her chest.

After gym class, she found another note beneath her pencil box:

"I'm not good at talking. But if you don't mind silence, I can try listening." — G.Y.

She stared at it for a long time before folding it neatly and slipping it into the back of her notebook.

She didn't reply.

Not yet.

But she smiled.

The days after that were filled with small, quiet exchanges:

"This formula confuses me too."

"You always draw tiny stars next to your to-do lists."

Once, she wrote:

"Have you ever wished people would just sit beside you without saying anything?"

He answered:

"That's how I measure closeness."

One rainy afternoon, during self-study, she was doodling on the back of her notebook. Swirls. A tiny umbrella. Two stick figures beneath it.

When she looked up, he was watching.

He nodded toward the sketch. "That's me."

She blinked. "What?"

"The umbrella. You drew it too small. I'd tilt it more toward you."

She laughed, surprised. "Would you really?"

"I'm not the type to share evenly," he said.

His tone was quiet. Honest.

Her cheeks warmed.

From the front row, Le Yahan turned and raised an eyebrow. She didn't speak—just watched.

But when class ended, she whispered, "Let me know when the umbrella becomes real."

Keqing didn't reply. She only smiled, gaze turned toward the drizzle outside.

That evening, Keqing opened her drawer.

Inside were seven small notes. Folded. Crisp. All in his handwriting.

She hadn't meant to collect them.

But now, seeing them together, it felt like something more than coincidence.

A silent conversation.

An unfolding connection.

The quiet between words.

And somehow, it was beginning to matter.