Notes of Youth

The week unfolded slowly, filled with gray skies and a soft chill that seeped through the sleeves of school uniforms. Though the announcement of Lin Keqing's qualification for the city-level literature finals had created a ripple of excitement among her classmates, her own thoughts remained inward. The feeling wasn't quite joy or pride. It was something quieter, more fragile.

On Wednesday afternoon, just after the final bell, students poured out of the school gates in noisy clusters. Lin Keqing walked alongside Le Yahan and Chen Yuke, the three of them talking idly about the upcoming club presentation. Behind them, Gu Yuyan followed in his usual silence, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded in thought.

As they reached the front gate, a sleek black car waited by the curb.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Crisp shirt. Sharp gaze.

He said nothing, only gave a subtle nod in Gu Yuyan's direction.

Gu paused for a heartbeat, then gave a polite bow and walked toward the car.

"Is that... his dad?" Le Yahan asked under her breath.

No one answered. But Lin Keqing, watching the exchange, felt a sudden coldness that had nothing to do with the weather.

The door closed. The car pulled away.

Gu never looked back.

That evening, the library was almost empty when Lin Keqing returned. She had brought her writing notebook, hoping to draft something new for the creative showcase. But her pen hovered over the page, unmoving.

Her thoughts kept returning to the moment outside the school gate.

Gu Yuyan had looked... smaller, somehow. Not physically. But in the shadow of that man's presence, something in him had folded inward.

She glanced down and began to write.

Some silences are heavier than words.

Some distances are measured not in meters, but in how carefully we speak.

She paused, then closed the notebook gently.

As she headed out, she passed by the glass wall of the music room. Inside, Tran Vuka was practicing the piano again — soft notes drifting through the corridor like distant thoughts. The same melody Lin Keqing had heard weeks ago. She paused for a moment, letting it wash over her, and continued walking with a strange tightness in her chest.

On Thursday, the class was unusually noisy during lunch. Someone had taped a copy of Lin Keqing's anonymous poem to the back bulletin board – the one titled "If the Sky Could Listen." Several students gathered around it, reading aloud with exaggerated emotion.

"It's hers, right?" one whispered. "It has to be. Who else writes like that?"

Chen Yuke gave Keqing a sly smile. "Your secret identity is in danger. Should we prepare a disguise?"

She laughed softly, grateful for the deflection.

Nearby, Gu Yuyan remained quiet. He looked at the poem once, then turned back to his notes. But Lin Keqing noticed his hand lingered over the edge of the page, as if tracing invisible lines.

Later that day, in a brief lull between classes, Gu passed her a folded paper note — simple and clean.

"When words are hard to say, I listen better in silence."

She smiled faintly, fingers closing around the note like it was something precious.

That afternoon, a new poster was added to the school courtyard: a sign-up sheet for volunteers to help with the winter charity book drive. Lin Keqing, on a whim, wrote her name down.

After school, she stopped by the old storage room behind the library, where books for donation were being sorted. To her surprise, Gu Yuyan was already there, sleeves rolled up, quietly stacking paperbacks into neat boxes.

"You're helping?" she asked softly.

He looked up, eyes unreadable. "I like quiet rooms."

She smiled. "I do too."

They worked side by side without many words. Occasionally, their hands brushed as they reached for the same book. One of the boxes tipped slightly, and both reached out to steady it — fingers overlapping for a brief, warm second.

Neither said anything. But both felt it.

After school on Friday, Keqing stayed behind in the art room, helping Fang Zichen sort through some handmade cards for the club. The windows glowed gold with late sunlight. The air smelled faintly of glue and dry paint.

"He doesn't talk about his family," Fang said suddenly.

She looked up. "Who?"

"Gu Yuyan."

A pause.

"I used to think it was just his personality. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Keqing didn't answer right away.

"He... chooses silence," she said finally. "Maybe because words don't feel safe."

Fang nodded slowly. "That's a hard way to live."

Outside, students were beginning to leave the building. Laughter and bike bells echoed faintly from the courtyard. Keqing lingered by the window a little longer, watching the soft silhouettes pass by like shadows of another life.

That night, Keqing passed the front of the school again on her way home. The street was quiet. She looked toward the place where the car had been days earlier.

In her bag, her notebook pressed lightly against her side, full of things unsaid.

And in her heart, a new resolve formed — not to fix what could not be fixed, but simply to be there.

Even for the quietest stories.

As she reached her building, a familiar figure stood under the streetlight — her grandmother, holding a small umbrella.

"I thought you might take the long way home," the older woman said gently.

Keqing tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.

"I did."

They walked inside together, steps quiet against the tiles.