Notes of Youth

The sun had long since dipped beneath the school buildings, casting the hallways in a gentle grey that hinted at the end of the day. Most students had gone home, their footsteps fading with the last bell. The common room, tucked behind the faculty offices, was quiet—almost forgotten.

Lin Keqing stood in front of the bulletin board inside, flipping through a folder of guidelines for the upcoming city-level literary contest. Her bag hung loosely off one shoulder, and a pen was tucked behind her ear, forgotten.

A song played softly from the corner speaker—an instrumental piano piece, its melody slow and clean, like late autumn light.

She hadn't expected anyone else to be here.

But when she turned around to head out, a familiar figure entered the room, pushing the door open without sound.

Gu Yuyan.

He paused when he saw her. She froze too.

"Oh," she said softly. "I thought… no one would be here.""I thought the same," he replied, stepping in. "I came to return a book."

He held up a slim poetry volume in one hand. She recognized it—he'd borrowed it last week from the student literature shelf.

"Did you like it?" she asked."Some of it," he said. "The rest… I think I need more time.""That's fair," she said with a quiet smile. "Some poems don't unfold unless you're ready."

He set the book down, then didn't leave.

Instead, he sat on the edge of one of the long couches by the window, his fingers resting on his knees, eyes flicking to the side. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—just quiet in the way twilight always was.

Lin Keqing moved to sit in the armchair across from him.

"Are you preparing your piece for the next round?" he asked."I'm trying," she admitted. "But the more I think about what they want, the harder it is to write.""Maybe don't write for them," he said.

She looked up.

"Write for what you'd want to read ten years from now," he added.

Her heart stirred at the thought. She looked down at her folder, then back at him.

"What would you want to read ten years from now?" she asked.

He thought for a moment. The soft piano in the background filled the space between their breaths.

"Something that reminds me who I was... and what I didn't say," he said at last."That's... honest," she said."I think," he murmured, "that silence remembers, even when we forget."

Their eyes met across the room. She didn't say anything more. Neither did he.

Elsewhere in the school, in a quieter corner of the hallway, Le Yahan stood in front of a half-decorated bulletin board. Chen Yuke was crouched beside her, sorting through slips of colored paper with short quotes printed on them.

"This one's too cheesy," he said, holding up a pastel pink one."Says the boy who once described clouds as 'resting thoughts,'" she shot back with a grin.

He paused, mildly embarrassed. "That was private."

"Not when you accidentally printed it in our class newsletter," she said, sticking another quote to the board."'The small things that made today worth it,'" she read aloud. "It's not bad as a theme, right?"

Chen Yuke glanced up at her. "It's simple. But real."

She nodded. Then added, softly, "Maybe people will stop and read it. Even if just for a moment."

He didn't answer, but helped smooth the corners of the next quote she passed him.

"Today, someone held the door open for me without being asked.""I finally solved that math problem.""The sky was blue in a way I hadn't noticed before."

Tiny lines. Fleeting moments. But meaningful.

As they worked, their fingers brushed once—neither pulled away too quickly.

Back in the common room, outside the window, a faint drizzle tapped at the glass.

In that small room, time softened.

Gu Yuyan pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the coffee table between them—a folded square of paper. She looked at it curiously.

"What is it?""Just a line I couldn't use," he said.

She unfolded it carefully. In neat handwriting, it read:

"Even if I never said it, maybe I still meant it."

Her fingers hesitated on the page. The music in the room reached its final chord and fell into quiet.

"Thank you," she said, not looking up.

He stood.

"I'll see you tomorrow.""You always do," she said gently.

And when he left, the room didn't feel empty—just quieter.

Like something invisible had been passed between them.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Lin Keqing remained seated, the paper still open in her hands. The room felt still—not empty, but aware. Like it had held its breath for them.

She turned the folded paper over again, tracing the edge with her fingertip. Then she tucked it carefully between the pages of her notebook, as though it belonged there—not as something loud, but as something that knew when to be quiet.

On her way out, she paused by the bulletin board one last time. The soft hum of the school building settling into night surrounded her. She smiled slightly—not because anything dramatic had happened, but because something gentle had changed.

As she stepped into the hallway, the faint echo of her footsteps followed behind her. And in her mind, the sentence lingered:

Even if I never said it, maybe I still meant it.

For the first time that week, she knew exactly how she would begin her new story.