Notes of Youth

The morning light filtered through the windows of the small apartment, casting soft gold across the wooden floor. Lin Keqing sat at the kitchen table, dressed and ready, her fingers wrapped around a warm mug of ginger tea.

Her grandmother adjusted the scarf around her neck for the third time.

"It might get windy later," she said gently. "This will keep your voice steady."

Keqing nodded with a soft smile. She didn't speak much that morning—she didn't need to. The warmth in the tea, the perfectly cooked porridge, and the quiet way her grandmother brushed lint off her sleeve all said the things that didn't need words.

On the table, a cream-colored envelope waited beside her breakfast. Her name was written on it in clean, deliberate handwriting.

"It came from your father yesterday," her grandmother said.

Keqing opened it slowly. Inside, a note in dark ink read:

"You don't have to win. Just don't forget why you write."—Dad

Beneath it was a familiar notebook—small, leather-bound, with a maple leaf pressed between two pages. She had once given her father that leaf after a school trip when she was younger.

She touched the paper briefly and closed the notebook with care. Her chest felt full, not heavy—just quietly alive.

When she arrived at school, the campus was quieter than usual. Everyone walking toward the contest venue wore expressions of calm tension. Keqing moved steadily, her bag light, but her heart anchored in something warm.

As she passed the gate, a familiar voice stopped her.

"Miss Lin, wait."

She turned to see her grandmother approaching—surprisingly, not alone. Standing beside her was Gu Yuyan, wearing his usual gray sweater, holding a paper bag as if he'd just been handed it.

Her grandmother gave Keqing a wink.

"I ran into him just now. Thought he might need something, too."

She turned to Gu Yuyan and handed him the paper bag again.

"There's a few sweet buns in here. For focus, not sugar," she said with a light smile.

Gu Yuyan blinked, visibly surprised.

"Thank you… I—" he hesitated. "I'm not even taking the test."

Her grandmother waved it off.

"You're still here for someone, aren't you? That counts."

He gave her a small bow of gratitude.

When Keqing and Gu Yuyan fell into step together moments later, neither said anything right away. But she noticed how he clutched the paper bag gently, like it held something important.

In the contest waiting area, Keqing found a quiet bench near a window. The mechanical pencil Gu Yuyan had returned to her yesterday rested in her pocket.

As she reviewed her notes one last time, she heard a small voice.

"Um… excuse me."

She looked up to see a younger student—a girl in the grade below—clutching a notebook to her chest.

"You're Lin Keqing, right? The one who wrote 'The Quiet Hour' in the first round?"

Keqing nodded slowly, surprised.

"I read it. It… stayed with me. I was wondering—if it's okay—could I see more of what you write?"

Keqing hesitated, but then smiled softly.

"I don't usually share much. But… maybe I can show you something."

She pulled a folded sheet from her folder—a short piece she'd written last week and never submitted—and handed it over.

The girl took it like it was something delicate, valuable.

"Thank you. I'll take care of it."

Keqing nodded. And for the first time that morning, she felt the anxiety loosen, replaced by something steadier—like what she wrote really mattered.

Before entering the contest room, Keqing stood near the door and glanced back down the hallway. Gu Yuyan hadn't followed her inside, but she knew he was nearby.

And somehow, that was enough.

During the exam, Keqing sat near the window, sunlight casting warmth across her desk. The pencil moved steadily in her hand.

She thought of her grandmother's hands folding her scarf. Her father's simple words, written with care. The surprised kindness of a younger student. And Gu Yuyan, holding a paper bag of sweet buns like it meant something.

She wrote not just for the judges. Not just for herself.

But for all of them.

For the people who didn't say much, but always stayed.

Outside the examination hall, time moved slowly. As the door closed behind Keqing, Gu Yuyan remained standing beneath the maple tree nearby, the brown paper bag still warm in his hand. He didn't leave.

Instead, he walked to the common room, where a few students were gathered. He passed by quietly but paused for a moment at the student bulletin board. Pinned at the center was a note someone had left:

"Today is already a success if you showed up as yourself."

There was no name, but something about the handwriting felt familiar. He didn't smile, but he lingered.

Meanwhile, Le Yahan and Chen Yuke were arranging small handwritten cards along the classroom windowsill. It wasn't an official project—just something spontaneous.

"It's strange," Yahan mused. "We're not even in the contest, but it feels like we're part of it."

Chen Yuke replied without looking up, still aligning the cards evenly.

"We are. Not every kind of support needs to be loud."

She glanced at him.

"That was surprisingly poetic."

"I've been hanging around poetic people lately," he muttered, and she laughed.

On one of the cards, Yahan had written:

"Courage sometimes looks like a pencil in a trembling hand."

As Keqing walked out of the exam room, an hour later, she stepped into the courtyard light feeling… emptied, in a quiet way. Like she had poured something of herself onto paper and wasn't sure what remained.

Gu Yuyan was still there.

He didn't ask her how it went. He simply walked beside her, their steps falling into rhythm.

"You waited," she said, her voice softer than usual.

"I said I would."

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Then she said, as if thinking aloud:

"I thought it would feel like a finish line. But it feels more like a door."

"Maybe it's both," he replied.

She turned slightly to look at him.

"If it is a door… I hope it doesn't close behind me."

"It won't," he said. "Some doors never do. You just carry them with you."

And for the first time that day, Lin Keqing smiled — not from relief, not from pride, but from knowing someone truly saw her.