Notes of Youth

The heater hummed softly in the back of Class 11A1, a low undercurrent to the sleepy winter morning. Outside, frost coated the windowpanes in delicate white veins, but inside, the students were bundled in scarves and sweaters, hunched over their desks. The morning began with math, and the familiar rhythm of chalk tapping against the board echoed through the room.

Mr. Zhao, their math teacher, was in a rare energetic mood. He had written a challenging geometry problem on the board involving intersecting planes and ratios. The class stared at it like it had grown horns.

"If anyone can solve this in under five minutes," he declared, adjusting his glasses, "you may skip the next homework set."

That got everyone's attention.

Bai Andui's pen was already moving. Gu Yuyan, calm as ever, tapped his fingers lightly on the desk before beginning to write. The room fell into tense silence.

Three minutes later, Bai Andui raised his hand. "Answer: 7:5. I can explain the proof."

Mr. Zhao looked impressed. He turned to the board and gestured for Andui to come up. As the boy explained with precise, clipped phrases, a few classmates clapped softly. When he returned to his seat, his eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Gu Yuyan.

Gu Yuyan didn't speak, but he had finished the same answer. He closed his notebook quietly.

From the middle of the room, Lin Keqing watched both of them. She didn't understand the whole solution, but she recognized the quiet tension in the air. She felt like a spectator in a duel where no swords were drawn.

When the bell rang, Mr. Zhao reminded the class of the upcoming mock test. "Remember," he said, pointing at the board, "there's no shortcut for thinking."

Second period was English, and the contrast couldn't have been starker. Ms. Hu entered wearing a pale green scarf and her usual serious expression. "Today, we'll read a short passage and answer some comprehension questions aloud."

Lin Keqing sank in her seat.

English was her weakest subject. The text on the page seemed to shift the more she tried to focus. She prayed not to be called.

"Lin Keqing, could you read the first paragraph for us?"

A few stifled giggles sounded from the back. Keqing stood slowly, her voice barely audible. "T-The winter... sun... sh-shimmered on the... rooftops..."

Her pronunciation faltered, and her cheeks flushed. Chen Yuke tried to discreetly mouth the words behind his textbook, while Le Yahan nudged him with a smirk.

"Thank you, Keqing," Ms. Hu said gently, then turned. "Liu Tianxue, please read the next section."

Tianxue stood, voice clear and steady, her accent polished. "The narrow alleyways carried the scent of baked sweet potatoes..."

The entire class fell silent. When she finished, Ms. Hu gave a small nod of approval. "Excellent intonation."

Keqing bit her lip and stared at her paper.

Later, Ms. Hu wrote a complex sentence on the board. "Who can tell me the meaning of 'bittersweet'?"

Several hands went up. Tianxue spoke first. "It means something that brings both happiness and sadness. Like remembering a moment you can never have again."

Ms. Hu looked genuinely pleased. "Beautifully said."

At break, the class buzzed with idle talk.

"I didn't know Tianxue spoke English like that," Fang Zichen said, flipping open a notebook covered in cat stickers.

"Apparently, she used to attend cram school in Shanghai," Yahan replied. "Or maybe she's just naturally good."

"Her tone was really smooth," added a student nearby. "Like someone on TV."

Tran Vuka sat nearby, quietly memorizing vocabulary from a small flashcard stack. No one noticed, but he was muttering pronunciation to himself under his breath.

Gu Yuyan, standing by the window, jotted something into his notebook. When Chen Yuke passed by, he glanced over.

"You didn't write down today's homework," Yuyan said.

"I'll just copy yours later," Yuke grinned. "You're my backup memory."

"Try not to rely on me forever."

"I won't," Yuke said, then added after a pause, "unless I really have to."

Le Yahan joined them, holding two cups of warm soy milk. She handed one to Chen Yuke with a smile. "Your hands are always cold."

"So are yours," he said.

"Mine are stylishly cold," she replied, lifting her chin.

Keqing passed by them, holding a stack of returned quizzes. She looked at her own and sighed. A red 61 stared back at her.

The day ended with a short essay assignment: "Describe a moment in class that made you think."

Keqing tapped her pen on the desk, then began to write.

Today, I learned that silence can be loud. That people compete without speaking. That one voice can shake a room, and another can tremble like frost. And maybe that's okay. Because we're all trying.

She paused, reread the lines, and didn't erase a word.

At the same time, Gu Yuyan sat a few rows away, staring out the window before writing a single line:

The most precise equation in class today wasn't on the board.

And somewhere in the back, Bai Andui was already working on extra problems from a university entrance prep book, ignoring the world around him.

As the final bell rang and students packed their bags, Lin Keqing lingered by the window. Her eyes followed the trail of condensation her breath left behind.

"Still thinking about the essay?" a quiet voice asked.

She turned. It was Gu Yuyan, standing a few steps behind.

"Sort of," she admitted. "Just wondering if mine made any sense."

"It usually does," he replied. "Even when it doesn't try to."

She gave a small smile. "That sounds like something only you'd say."

He nodded once, almost amused. "Maybe. But I meant it."

They walked out together, not saying much more, but not needing to. The corridor was cold, but the silence between them was not.