Notes of Youth

It began with a single piece of chalk.

Mr. Ha wrote slowly across the blackboard, his strokes deliberate:"The Sound of Silence.""Your literature project theme this semester," he said, turning to face the class. "You'll work in pairs or small groups—interpret it however you like. Poetry, prose, painting, photography, even music. As long as it speaks to the theme."

A soft buzz rippled through Class 11A1.

Group projects always stirred up a strange mix of excitement and dread.

Lin Keqing lowered her eyes to her notebook. She could already hear whispers and shifting chairs, friends pairing off like puzzle pieces—some out of choice, some out of survival.

She was still staring at the title when Mr. Ha read out the names.

"…Lin Keqing and… Gu Yuyan."

Snickers flared from the back row. Someone muttered, "The paper-note pair again."

Keqing's pen paused. She didn't glance behind her. She didn't have to. She could feel the weight of the stares—curious, amused, expectant.

But her eyes flicked sideways, just for a second.

Gu Yuyan was staring straight ahead, unreadable as always.

They met that afternoon in the library.

Their table was tucked near a window that bathed the corner in soft gold. Outside, trees rustled gently in the breeze. Inside, everything felt suspended—still, like the inside of a snow globe.

Keqing had her sketchbook, three pencils, and a quiet kind of nervous energy.

Yuyan brought only a black pen and a small notepad.

"We could write something," she suggested.

"Or draw," he said.

They looked at each other.

"Both?" she offered.

He nodded.

It wasn't collaboration in the traditional sense. They didn't plan. They didn't speak much. But something began to form between them—a dialogue in shadows and words.

Keqing sketched a figure standing alone beneath rain clouds.Yuyan wrote beneath it:"Some silences come with storms."

She added a window.

He wrote:"And some are just shelter."

The page filled slowly. Not with noise, but with presence. It was a quiet unraveling—layers of thought, unspoken things blooming like ink in water.

On the other side of the library, Le Yahan was not having the same luck.

"You and me? Seriously?" she asked, arms crossed as she stared at Chen Yuke.

He raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Looks like fate likes irony."

"If you bail on this, I will personally glue your locker shut."

"I won't."

She narrowed her eyes. "Good. So, what's your brilliant idea?"

He tapped his pen against his notebook. "Friendship. As a kind of silence."

She blinked.

"…That's actually not bad."

"I know."

She frowned. "Don't get smug."

"I already am."

She tried to scowl, but her lips twitched. Just a little.

Back at the window, the sun had dipped lower. Shadows stretched like memories across the wooden table.

Keqing leaned her cheek against one hand, watching Yuyan as he wrote something on a new sheet. His fingers moved with purpose—not rushed, but certain, like he was tracing thoughts he'd memorized a long time ago.

Then he paused.

"Do you think silence always means something's being hidden?" he asked, voice soft.

She looked out the window.

"Not always," she murmured. "Sometimes it just… holds things together. Like a thread. Keeping everything from falling apart."

He was quiet.

"My brother used to say that," he said at last. "Before he… left for university."

She didn't press. The pause that followed wasn't heavy. It was delicate. Like a string of wind chimes barely stirred.

Instead, she turned the page and drew a paper airplane floating above a line of clouds.

He watched.

Then wrote beneath it:

"Some silences learn how to fly."

Elsewhere, in the quiet art room on the first floor, the door creaked open.

Tran Vuka peeked in.

"Anyone here?" he asked.

"Just me," Fang Zichen replied, seated near the back, sketchbook in lap.

Vuka stepped inside, bouncing a pencil between his fingers. "Heard Mr. Ha's theme. Got me thinking."

"You do art?" Fang asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I do concepts," he replied, grinning. "The execution part… that's negotiable."

Zichen smirked. "That wall's free. Try not to ruin it."

Vuka chuckled and set up at the far end. As he opened his sketchpad, he briefly thought about asking Keqing to help. But something stopped him.

Some things needed space to breathe first.

Even silence.

That night, back at home, Keqing sat by the window, flipping through the pages she and Yuyan had created. It was strange. None of it felt forced. Not the ink, not the art, not even the pauses in between.

At the bottom of one sheet—below a sketch of two people standing on either side of a pane of glass—she noticed a line she hadn't seen before.

"I used to hate silence.But I met someone who made it feel safe."— G.Y.

She stared at the words. Her hand touched the edge of the page.

She didn't smile.

But her heart did.

Later that evening, Keqing curled up beside her grandmother on the couch. The TV murmured in the background, forgotten. Her grandmother's needles clicked softly in rhythm, knitting warmth into something unseen.

"Still drawing?" her grandmother asked without looking up.

"Mmhmm," Keqing replied. "It's a school project."

"With the boy who writes you notes?"

Keqing turned, startled. "You knew?"

Her grandmother chuckled. "A grandmother knows. You've been smiling with your eyes lately."

Keqing leaned her head on her grandmother's shoulder. The room smelled faintly of ginger and tea leaves.

"I don't know what it means yet," she whispered. "But… it doesn't feel lonely. Being quiet around him."

Her grandmother paused her knitting just long enough to rest a hand on Keqing's. "That's how you know it matters, child. When even the silence feels full."

They stayed like that—two figures in a quiet room, connected not by words, but by warmth.

And just before the clock chimed softly in the corner, Keqing murmured:

"I think I want to learn more about his silences."

Her grandmother tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Then do it gently. Some hearts unfold like petals. One layer at a time."

Outside, the wind stirred the trees.

Inside, the silence grew softer.

Fuller.

Safer.