Notes of Youth

The week after the second round of the literature contest passed like a quiet stream. Nothing dramatic happened—no major announcements, no school-wide discussions. Just a stillness that lingered, soft and slow, like the echo of a song that had just ended.

Lin Keqing walked to school that Monday with a calm heart. There was no more pressure of submissions, no anticipation of results. And yet, the memory of writing, of pouring her truth onto paper, still lingered on her fingertips. It wasn't pride that remained—it was something quieter, like the aftertaste of something honest.

In class, no one asked her how the exam went.

But Chen Yuke walked over during break and quietly placed something on her desk. It was a folded paper—familiar in size. She unfolded it: a copy of the note she had written on the classroom board days ago.

"I thought you'd want to keep it," he said, then returned to his seat.

Le Yahan leaned over from the next desk. "He's becoming surprisingly sentimental these days."

Keqing smiled. "Maybe some things are contagious."

Later that day, Le Yahan called for a small meeting at the common room during lunch break. There were only five of them—Keqing, Gu Yuyan, Chen Yuke, herself, and Tran Vuka, who had recently been quietly joining their circle.

"Let's do something new," Yahan suggested, her eyes sparkling.

She pulled out a small box filled with slips of colored paper and pens. "Everyone writes one line. Just one. About something that recently made you feel more like yourself."

Gu Yuyan looked skeptical. "What for?"

"For us," she replied. "No judging, no names. We'll hang them near the windows. A quiet collection of our moments."

They agreed.

Keqing wrote slowly, then folded her slip. Chen Yuke twirled his pen before writing. Gu Yuyan, after a long pause, scribbled quickly and set his aside. Vuka smiled quietly and slipped his into the box without a word.

When they were done, Yahan read a few aloud:

"The way sunlight hits the floor beside the piano bench." "Hearing someone laugh because of a joke I didn't mean to make." "Walking home slower than usual—just to notice things." "Writing something and not deleting it."

Keqing recognized her own in that last one. She didn't say anything.

They pinned the slips along the window frame with small wooden clips. As students walked past, a few stopped to read, some smiled, and one even added her own anonymously. It became something unexpected: a soft chorus of unseen thoughts.

"We should make this a weekly thing," Yahan said.

"As long as no one's forced to share," Gu Yuyan replied.

"Of course not. Sharing only counts when it's freely given."

They lingered a while in the common room, sipping warm barley tea Yahan had brought from home. As the sun filtered through the large windows, the papers fluttered slightly in the breeze, each one holding a sliver of someone's quiet courage.

That afternoon, as students filtered out of the school gates, Keqing stayed back a little longer. She wandered into the art room where she hadn't been in days.

On one of the easels stood an unfinished sketch—hers. From weeks ago. The lines were softer than she remembered, tentative but sincere.

She picked up a pencil and began adding to it—slowly, without pressure. Not to finish it. Just to stay with it a little longer.

She heard the soft sound of someone entering the room but didn't turn.

Tran Vuka's voice drifted gently: "I always thought this one felt like a beginning, not an end."

She looked over her shoulder and saw him holding a folded music sheet. "Mind if I stay?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

He took a seat at the piano bench, softly pressing a few keys, the sound blending into the hum of the room. The music wasn't loud. It didn't demand. It just existed—like quiet understanding.

She kept sketching, and he kept playing. No words exchanged, but something soft built between them: not friendship quite yet, but maybe recognition.

Outside, Gu Yuyan waited. He didn't know when she would be done, and he didn't check the time.

He just waited.

That evening, as Keqing wrote in her journal, she paused mid-sentence and looked out the window. The streetlamps were just beginning to glow.

She thought of the people who never asked for explanations but stayed close anyway.

Then she wrote:

"There's a kind of love that waits without asking, stays without needing proof, and believes without demanding answers."

She didn't know who would read it. Maybe no one.

But it felt real.

And that, as always, was enough.