Notes of Youth

The days after the spring festival unfolded in soft, steady rhythm. Morning sunlight filtered through the classroom windows of 11A1, casting golden light on desk corners and half-finished notes. The celebration had passed, but something warm still lingered, woven between glances, smiles, and quiet conversations.

Lin Keqing sat by the window, watching the chalk dust swirl as Mr. Ha began class. She had always liked this seat—not just for the light, but for the way it made the world feel slightly slower.

Across the room, Gu Yuyan was already scribbling something in his notebook. She had come to recognize that focused expression: brows furrowed, lips parted ever so slightly, pen moving as if chasing a thought he didn't want to lose.

Their classes had diverged since the academic stream split—he in the natural sciences, she in the social sciences—but there were still shared moments. Literature class. Hallway pauses. Silent seats across library tables.

This morning, however, was ordinary. The kind of day Keqing had grown to appreciate.

By lunch break, Keqing and Le Yahan found themselves tucked beneath a tree behind the school, bento boxes open, their conversation drifting lazily between upcoming tests and summer plans.

"Do you ever think about how many days we have left in high school?" Yahan asked, chewing on a piece of carrot.

"Too often," Keqing replied.

Yahan grinned. "Then come with me to the bookstore this weekend. No boys. No textbooks. Just pens and overpriced notebooks."

Keqing chuckled. "Deal. I'll bring bookmarks."

That Saturday, the city air was mild and bright. The bookstore was tucked between two cafés, its windows fogged with warmth. Inside, the aisles smelled of fresh ink and aged paper.

Yahan darted ahead, already thumbing through a display of pastel highlighters. Keqing lingered near the poetry section, running her fingers over spines. Her gaze paused on a slim, blue-bound volume. The title was the same as a line Gu Yuyan had once mentioned: In Silence, We Begin.

She picked it up, heart quiet.

They spent an hour exploring corners of the store, picking out stationery, sticky notes, and a small leather notebook Yahan insisted Keqing needed for "writing things she'd never say out loud."

On the way home, the two of them walked slowly beneath rows of trees. Their bags were heavier, but their steps were light.

By midweek, the school halls buzzed with a different kind of energy. Exam prep was accelerating. Desks filled with review sheets, flashcards, and the scent of instant coffee. Sleepy students leaned on elbows while teachers reminded them of formulas and essay outlines.

But in the midst of it all, Mr. Ha announced a class project: A Time Capsule in Frames.

"Each group will create a collection of photos or short video clips that capture what you think you'll want to remember about this time," he said. "Not just big moments—small ones too. The daily things you'll miss without realizing."

Keqing blinked as she heard her name.

"Lin Keqing, Gu Yuyan, and Xu Yujin—you three will work together."

Yujin, seated a few rows away, gave Keqing a cheerful thumbs-up. Keqing glanced toward Gu Yuyan, who only nodded once, quiet as always.

They met that afternoon behind the school building, where the sun hit the outer wall just right.

"Let's start with little things," Yujin said brightly. "Like lunch spots, notebooks, hallway shoes."

Keqing pulled out her phone and began capturing simple frames: an eraser with frayed edges, a classroom doorknob smudged by countless fingers, the blurry silhouette of someone stretching in the sun.

Yuyan surprised her by taking out a vintage-looking camera. "Film?" she asked.

He nodded. "Sometimes I like how it doesn't let you delete anything."

He raised the lens, and for a moment, it pointed at her. Keqing turned away, laughing softly. "Take a picture of something else."

He lowered the camera. "But you're part of it."

Her heart caught in her throat.

They wandered the grounds, photographing a dropped bookmark, raindrops on the windows, a chalkboard still dusted with the previous lesson. Each image was a fragment, a whisper of routine made meaningful.

In the editing room two days later, they gathered again to compile the pieces. Yujin worked on transitions and music. Keqing arranged captions and wrote small notes under each photo.

Beside her, Gu Yuyan handed her a printed picture.

It was one she hadn't seen him take: her sitting beneath the sakura tree, sunlight painting her hair gold.

Underneath it, he had written in tiny letters:

In silence, she blooms.

She stared at it for a long time.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

That evening, Keqing sat by her window, the bookstore poetry book in her lap, the picture beside her notebook.

She began to write—not for class, not for anyone else. Just a thought, captured before it floated away:

"Some days pass without event, but they leave a softness behind. The kind that makes you believe something quiet is growing, even if you can't see it yet."

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Gu Yuyan:

Tomorrow, library? We still owe the project a title.

She typed back:

Yes. I think I found the right one.

And beneath her notebook cover, she wrote in pencil: