Notes of Youth

The week after the stream selection forms were handed out, a subtle change swept through the air of Class 11A1.

It wasn't loud. No one made dramatic declarations. But the usual laughter was softer. Glances lingered longer. Even the desks, which had stood side by side for a year, seemed to carry a quiet tension—as if they, too, wondered how much longer they'd stay that way.

Lin Keqing felt it all.

During breaks, classmates huddled in pairs, whispering about science or humanities, what their parents said, what their teachers hinted at. Some had already made up their minds. Others, like her, were still caught in the middle—between instinct and expectation.

One morning, homeroom began differently.

Miss Zhao, their homeroom teacher, walked in holding a small stack of colored envelopes. She placed them gently on the front desk and looked out over the class.

"Today," she said, "we're going to pause from exams and choices and just… think about ourselves."

A few students exchanged confused glances.

"I want you to write a letter," Miss Zhao continued, her voice calm but steady. "To yourself. To the version of you who will graduate next year. Write whatever you want. Dreams, fears, regrets. Questions you hope will be answered. You won't see it again until the end of senior year."

She smiled gently. "No one else will read it."

There was a quiet murmur. Some students groaned. Others smiled.

But Keqing's chest tightened. Something about the idea—the permanence of it—sent a ripple through her.

Each student was handed an envelope, a piece of parchment-like stationery, and a moment of quiet.

Keqing sat at her desk, pen poised over the paper, but unmoving.

What would she even say?

"Dear future me..."

She wrote the words, then stopped. It felt too simple. Too big.

Around her, pens were scratching softly. Chen Yuke leaned back with his pen between his lips. Le Yahan had already started scribbling with a kind of amused intensity.

And beside the window, Gu Yuyan sat still, eyes lowered, not writing. Just... thinking.

Keqing turned back to her own page.

"Are you still unsure about everything?""Have you figured out what matters most?""Did you tell him? Did he know?"

She didn't sign it.

She folded the letter carefully and sealed it inside the envelope, heart beating oddly fast.

When the bell rang, the students placed their letters into a small wooden box at the front of the room. Miss Zhao promised to keep them safe until the end of senior year.

"It's like a time capsule," she said, placing the lid gently over the box. "A promise between who you are now and who you'll become."

Keqing lingered for a moment near the front.

"What happens," she asked softly, "if we don't become who we hope to be?"

Miss Zhao smiled with a quiet kind of warmth. "Then maybe, the letter will remind you of who you once were. And that's just as important."

After school, the sky was streaked with pale pink clouds. A soft wind rustled the bare trees lining the path behind the building.

Keqing walked slowly, hands tucked into her coat pockets, the cold nipping at her cheeks. She wasn't sure where she was going—only that she needed air, space, distance from the echo of all those unwritten thoughts.

She didn't expect to hear footsteps behind her.

"Keqing."

She turned.

Gu Yuyan stood a few steps away, scarf loose, eyes unreadable.

"I saw you didn't write anything," she said.

He looked away. "I started. Then stopped."

"Why?"

He hesitated, then said, "Maybe I didn't want to know what future me would think of now-me."

Keqing smiled, a little sadly. "I think future you would be proud."

There was a long silence.

They walked a few steps in sync, neither speaking, until they reached the back staircase that led to the upper balconies of the school. The wind was stronger here, but the view opened wide—rooftops, fields, and the sky turning lavender at the edges.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, watching the day slip away.

Then, softly, Gu Yuyan asked:

"If we're in different classes… will you still look for me?"

The question fell between them like snowfall—silent, soft, impossible to ignore.

Keqing turned to look at him.

His eyes weren't pleading, but there was something fragile in them. Something uncertain.

And beneath all his usual stillness, she could feel the tension—the unspoken don't forget me.

She didn't answer immediately.

Then she said, voice barely above the wind, "Will you still be where I can find you?"

Gu Yuyan looked at her. And for a moment, the quiet between them felt like a promise.

The next day, Chen Yuke was called to the guidance office. Keqing and Yahan waited for him at lunch, only for him to return with a blank expression.

"They're finalizing placements," he said, slumping into his seat. "I'm officially going to the social sciences stream."

Yahan nodded. "It suits you."

He smiled, half-hearted. "Yeah. Doesn't mean I like it."

"You'll survive," she teased gently.

He glanced at her. "You haven't said what you chose."

"I haven't submitted it yet," she said, twirling her pen. "But don't worry. I'm not changing just because someone's being dramatic."

Chen Yuke grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Keqing watched them quietly. There was something beautiful in how they didn't need to define anything. How even their teasing carried a weight that was more than friendship.

That night, Keqing sat at her desk, the stream form resting beside her notebook.

She had circled "Humanities" and erased it.

Then circled "Science."

Then erased it again.

She didn't know the answer. Maybe she never would.

But her thoughts returned to Gu Yuyan's question.

"If we're in different classes…"

And to her own response.

"Will you still be where I can find you?"

She wasn't sure what that meant yet.

But she hoped, deep down, that when the time came—she wouldn't be afraid to look.