Notes of Youth

The rehearsal room still smelled faintly of paper and watercolor. Afternoon sunlight painted warm squares on the floor, and outside, a soft breeze stirred the ivy near the windows. Inside, the "Creative Reading" group gathered around the long table in a hush of paper rustles and soft voices.

Lin Keqing sat with a folded page in her hand, her handwriting slightly smudged where her fingers had held it too long. Across from her, Liu Tianxue traced the rim of her paper cup with one finger, her copy marked with clean highlights and sharp pencil notes. Though their tones differed, both girls spoke with conviction.

"Your piece," Tianxue said, eyes lingering on Keqing's paper, "has a certain hush to it."

Keqing didn't flinch. "Not all stories need to be loud."

For a moment, neither smiled, but neither looked away.

Before the conversation could shift, Gu Yuyan spoke from beside the bookshelf.

"You're pausing too early," he said, not looking up. "Line three—'forgotten.' Let it settle after that."

His voice was quiet but carried weight.

Keqing blinked, just slightly. "I'll try again."

She read it aloud once more. This time, her pacing shifted. Something softened. As she reached the end, her voice trembled—but just faintly.

When she looked up, Yuyan was watching her. He said nothing more. He didn't need to.

Xu Yujin, seated near the back, tapped his pen once, twice. His notebook lay open but untouched. For a moment, his gaze rested on Keqing—then on Gu Yuyan. Then he looked away.

On the far side of the room, Le Yahan and Chen Yuke were preparing the quote board. A simple task—choosing a meaningful line, decorating the edge—but somehow, it had become their quiet ritual.

"What about this quote?" Yahan asked, holding up a card:

"Even words left unspoken leave their mark."

Yuke raised an eyebrow. "That's the exact one I wrote down this morning."

She laughed. "Guess I'm stealing your thoughts again."

"Or we're just orbiting the same planet," he said, carefully lining up the quote on the poster.

They worked in silence for a moment. The faint hum of music buzzed from someone's phone nearby. As Yahan reached for a bottle of watercolor ink, her sleeve brushed against Yuke's hand. Neither of them moved away immediately.

"You've got a red dot on your wrist," Yuke said gently.

She glanced down. A drop of red paint had landed on her skin.

Before she could react, Yuke handed her a folded napkin. But it wasn't just a napkin—it had been creased into a tiny paper crown.

Yahan looked up at him. "Is this your new emergency protocol?"

Yuke shrugged. "It's the creative reading group. Might as well make first aid poetic."

She chuckled softly, then slipped the crown into her pencil case without a word.

During the break, Chen Yuke wandered to the corner bookshelf. One drawer stuck out slightly. Inside, hidden between old novels, was a hand-bound notebook tied with string.

He whistled low. "Hey… treasure alert."

The group gathered curiously.

Inside was a collection of handwritten short stories and poems, decorated with sketches and notes—left behind by students from years ago. The first page read:

"To whoever finds this: we were here. We wrote. We felt things. Maybe you will too."

Keqing gently turned to a story titled The Door of Wind. It followed a girl who left anonymous letters under a classroom door each day. No reply ever came. But she kept writing.

By the final paragraph, Keqing had stopped blinking.

Her own habit—folded messages, paper whispers, moments that existed only once—suddenly didn't feel so unique.

She looked out the window for a long moment, her heart strangely full.

Across the room, Gu Yuyan had stopped stacking chairs. His gaze found her for a second, then quickly moved away.

As the afternoon waned, students packed up slowly, reluctant to let the golden hour end.

Keqing's phone buzzed in her pocket.

Congratulations. Your piece has advanced to the citywide finals. Please check the updated schedule for presentation time.

She read the message twice. The room around her had faded into a blur of movement and laughter, but she stood still, watching dust spiral in the sunlight.

From beyond the glass door, Gu Yuyan stepped outside with a group of students. He glanced back.

Their eyes met.

There was no wave, no words. Just a simple, quiet nod—and a smile so faint, she could have imagined it.

But she didn't.

Only one person remained behind: Fang Zichen.

He sat with his headphones around his neck, sketching something in a thick notebook. His drawing was of the group—unfinished, but full of movement.

Keqing approached, surprised to see him still there.

"You didn't go?"

He shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."

She hesitated, then asked, "What are you drawing?"

He flipped the book shut halfway. "A rehearsal. Or maybe a memory."

Then, almost as if to himself, he asked, "Do you think anything we write… actually matters to someone out there?"

Keqing didn't speak right away. The room was quiet again.

"I think," she said softly, "the fact you're asking means it already does."