Notes of Youth

Physical education was one of the few times Class 11A1 broke free from its usual hush. That morning, the sky above the school was a clear, gentle blue, and golden sunlight spilled onto the track where students lined up, yawning and stretching. It was the kind of weather that felt like a reward for surviving the first week of school.

Lin Keqing stood near the back of the line, arms folded, watching with mild dread as their PE teacher barked instructions. Running laps. Always running laps.

She sighed quietly.

"Let me guess," a voice beside her chimed in, cheerful and familiar. "You hate running too?"

Keqing turned to see Le Yahan, her ponytail swinging and a smirk playing on her lips.

"I hate it more than I hate math," Keqing muttered.

"That bad, huh?" Yahan grinned. Then she nodded toward a boy approaching the track. "See that guy? Tran Vuka. Transferred from Class 11A2. Supposedly good at everything. Basketball, violin, straight As, dimples—the whole student council dream package."

Keqing followed her gaze. A tall boy in a black sports jacket was lazily spinning a basketball on his fingertips as he walked. He had an easy smile and that kind of self-assured energy that didn't feel loud, just quietly magnetic. As he passed by, he offered Keqing a casual nod.

"You don't look like you wanna run," he said with a grin. "If you trip, I'll catch you. Deal?"

Keqing blinked. Then, surprisingly, she laughed. "I'll think about it."

Not far away, Gu Yuyan sat alone on the bleachers with a notebook in hand. He wasn't participating—an old injury or medical exemption, perhaps—but he was present. Watching.

Keqing glanced his way.

And found his gaze already on her.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he looked away.

But her pulse had already skipped.

...

Back in class, as the students filed into Literature, Keqing opened her book and felt something slide from between the pages.

A folded note.

"He talks a lot." — G.Y.

She stifled a smile.

On the back, she scribbled:

"You're observing me?" — L.K.

Later, during math, another reply arrived—this time tucked subtly beneath her worksheet.

"You were laughing." — G.Y.

Lunch found her sitting in the usual spot by the library window. Her sketchbook lay open but untouched. Le Yahan was across from her, stabbing tofu with an unnecessary level of vengeance.

"You're quiet," Yahan said. "Which usually means one of two things: You're either tired or thinking about a certain poetic, paper-note-writing deskmate."

Keqing shrugged. "Maybe both."

"Mmmhmm," Yahan said, narrowing her eyes.

Just then, a tray clattered down beside them. Tran Vuka slid into the seat next to Keqing like he'd always belonged there.

"Hope you two don't mind. The cafeteria was too noisy."

Yahan raised an eyebrow. "That was definitely not a question."

"I'm a man of conviction," he said with a grin. Then, to Keqing: "What're you drawing?"

Keqing quickly closed the sketchbook. "Nothing. Just some lines."

"Can I see it sometime?"

She hesitated. Then: "Maybe."

Strange. She had said the same thing to Gu Yuyan not long ago. But somehow, the word carried an entirely different weight now.

...

After lunch, Keqing's feet carried her somewhere unexpected. The school rooftop—technically off-limits, but no one enforced it. The sky was pale, the wind crisp. She leaned against the railing, scarf tugged higher around her neck.

She wasn't alone for long.

She didn't turn around. She didn't need to.

Gu Yuyan stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the cityscape.

They didn't speak.

Not at first.

Below them, the school thrummed with distant laughter and footsteps. But here, it was still.

"I didn't know you came up here," she said at last.

"I do. Sometimes."

A pause.

"You don't like people?"

"I don't like noise," he answered. "But I like moments."

She turned slightly. "Is this a moment?"

He looked at her.

And this time, neither of them looked away.

...

That evening, back in her room, Keqing opened her sketchbook. A new note had been tucked inside—clean handwriting, pale blue paper:

"If you stop writing, I would notice. If you stop showing up, I'd notice more." — G.Y.

Her fingers lingered over the words.

She smiled.

...

Later that week, as she exited school, someone caught up to her.

"You dropped this, I think," Chen Yuke said, holding out a pencil.

Keqing blinked. "Oh—thanks. I didn't even notice."

He walked alongside her, hands in his pockets. "You looked like you were somewhere else."

"Maybe I was," she said. "But it's nice to be pulled back."

Chen Yuke chuckled. "Well, anytime you need grounding, I've got you."

From across the sidewalk, Le Yahan raised an eyebrow and gave Keqing a look.

Keqing just smiled, hiding the newest note deeper into her bag.

That night, she drew again.

Not just lines.

Two silhouettes on a rooftop. One umbrella.

Somewhere between silence and scribbled words, something real was beginning to take shape.

Maybe more than one thing.