Notes of Youth

The library was quieter than usual that afternoon.

Golden sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long, dappled rectangles onto the wooden floor. Dust floated lazily in the air, caught in the light like suspended thoughts. The usual scent of old paper and ink was tinged with something softer—jasmine, faint and fleeting, as though someone had passed by and left behind a trace of themselves.

Lin Keqing sat near the window, a thick anthology open before her. But the words on the page slipped past her gaze like water. Her attention kept drifting—not to the story, but to the boy sitting across from her.

Gu Yuyan, focused as ever, was writing in a black notebook. His posture was effortlessly straight, the pen in his hand moving with quiet certainty. His left hand pressed gently on the edge of the page, anchoring the moment. He hadn't spoken since they sat down.

And yet, it didn't feel like silence.

It felt like presence.

Keqing glanced at him, then down at the blank corner of her scrap paper. She picked up her pencil, hesitated, then wrote:

Do you ever feel like silence says more than noise?

She slid the note across the table.

He didn't look up right away. He finished his line, closed his notebook gently, then picked up her message. His eyes lingered on the words. For a brief second, something flickered in his expression. Not a smile—but something close.

He wrote back:

Silence is just another language. Most people forget to learn it.

Keqing read it once. Then twice. Then again.

A warmth bloomed quietly beneath her ribs.

They were working on their literature project—The Sound of Silence. Mr. Ha had given them freedom to interpret the theme however they wished. Some students chose films, some wrote poems. Keqing and Yuyan had decided on a visual collage: half artwork, half fragmented prose. It was her idea at first. But now, every piece felt like it belonged to both of them—like the project had become a soft translation of their unspoken conversations.

That day, Keqing brought colored ink and stencils in a small canvas pouch.

"I thought we could add some texture," she said.

Yuyan nodded.

She began sketching a bare tree—its branches outstretched and skeletal. He took up a pen and added a bird, perched near the trunk. Not in flight. Just waiting.

Keqing leaned in, her hand brushing across the page. In small, careful handwriting, she added:

When words run dry, I'll read the spaces in your pauses.

He looked at her. Just for a moment.

But the air between them changed. Not heavier. Just closer.

Outside, a gentle rain began to tap against the windowpanes.

Keqing's thoughts wandered—to her grandmother's voice the night before, over dinner:

"Thinking about someone?" she'd asked with a knowing smile.

Keqing had laughed then, but now the question felt like a whisper coming back to her.

She turned another page and wrote:

Have you ever wanted to say something, but decided silence was better?

She passed it across.

Yuyan stared at it for a long moment. Then wrote:

Yes. More times than I can count. Silence doesn't cut the way words sometimes do.

His handwriting was like him—precise, unhurried, deliberate. As though every word had earned its place.

Keqing hesitated, then scribbled:

Do I make you nervous?

He paused. Then answered:

Not nervous. Just not used to someone who hears the quiet things.

The library bell rang. Study hour had ended.

Students began rising, chairs scraping, laughter returning. Keqing and Yuyan packed up slowly, the shared quiet stretching between them like the last thread of a dream.

At the stairwell, she glanced out the window.

"It's still raining," she murmured.

"I didn't bring an umbrella."

Yuyan didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a pale gray umbrella. One of its corners was slightly bent.

He opened it and tilted it toward her.

"You'll get wet," Keqing said.

"I don't mind."

They walked side by side under that umbrella.

Her shoulder brushed his once, then again. She didn't pull away.

That night, Keqing returned home and opened her sketchbook.

A folded note had been slipped between the pages. She hadn't put it there.

She unfolded it slowly.

You said silence doesn't scare you. I hope that's still true. Because I don't know how to say most things without breaking them.

Her fingers hovered over the page.

Then, quietly, she picked up a pen and wrote beneath it—not to return it, but to keep it.

I'll be careful with the things you can't say. I promise.

Elsewhere in the city, Gu Yuyan sat by his window.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, tracing paths down the glass.

Inside, he opened his sketchbook—not to draw buildings or empty stairwells as usual.

This time, he drew a girl with a pencil in hand, eyes full of thought, and a smile that didn't need sound to be understood.

The silence around him felt… different.

Not lonely.

Just full.