Notes of Youth

Chapter 58: Chapter 58 – Under the Same Sky



The air was cool that Saturday morning, with the kind of gentle breeze that whispered through leaves and tugged softly at one's sleeves. Lin Keqing arrived early at the city book fair, her satchel lightly swinging at her side. She hadn't expected to feel nervous — not over a book fair, not at this point — but the thought of seeing Gu Yuyan outside of school made her fingers tighten around the strap.

He found her first.

"Morning," he said simply, stepping up beside her, hands tucked in his pockets. His voice was no longer quiet like before — not hidden in notes or glances — but steady, low, and real.

"Morning," she replied, looking up. His eyes met hers for a moment before they both turned toward the rows of white tents and fluttering banners.

They walked together in comfortable silence at first, weaving through crowds of readers and colorful displays. Then, without preamble, Gu Yuyan asked, "Do you still write poetry?"

Keqing blinked, caught off guard. "A little. Why?"

"You wrote one after the festival, didn't you?"

She nodded. "How did you know?"

"You left the notebook open on your desk in the study group. I didn't read all of it—just one line: 'Some feelings bloom better when unspoken.'"

Her cheeks flushed. "That line wasn't finished…"

"I thought it was," he said, stopping at a table of classic literature. He picked up a copy of Norwegian Wood, flipped through the pages, and handed it to her. "This reminded me of you."

She tilted her head, taking the book. "Because I'm depressing?"

He laughed — a short, rare sound. "Because you notice things others miss."

She was quiet, running her fingers over the cover. "Then... what reminds me of you?"

They continued walking until she paused at a table of slim, old poetry volumes. Without hesitation, she picked one up and handed it to him. Letters to a Young Poet.

"This," she said.

He read the title, then looked at her. "Why?"

"Because you used to write to me without words. But I think now... you've started speaking your own language."

Their hands brushed as he took the book, and this time, neither of them pulled away.

Later that afternoon, they made their way to the auditorium where the school's career orientation seminar was being held. The lights were dim, the air full of quiet whispers and rustling papers.

Keqing leaned in and whispered, "Do you ever think about the future?"

Gu Yuyan glanced at the stage, then back at her. "All the time. But it used to scare me."

"Used to?"

He exhaled. "Because I thought no one would be beside me in it. But now…"

He turned slightly, just enough so that she could see the softness in his gaze.

"Now, I'm not so sure I'll be alone."

She didn't reply. Her chest felt tight with something fragile and beautiful.

After the seminar, on the way out of the hall, Keqing said quietly, "You know... you used to be late to everything. The first study session, the art exhibition…"

"I know." He glanced sideways at her. "But this time, I wanted to be early."

On Sunday, the class gathered in the media room to finalize the commemorative video project.

Keqing was on the computer, carefully editing transitions and background music. Gu Yuyan sat beside her, murmuring observations — not written, but spoken. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, but neither moved away.

Chen Yuke, standing nearby with Le Yahan, smirked. "Hey, the silent couple is being suspiciously unsilent today."

Gu Yuyan didn't react at first. Then, without turning his head, he said, "We're just... less silent around the right people."

Keqing blinked, trying to suppress a smile.

"Look at him talking like that," Le Yahan whispered, nudging Chen Yuke.

"You jealous?" she teased.

"Of that guy?" Chen Yuke muttered, but his eyes lingered on Yahan a second too long to be convincing.

That evening, the final version of the class video played on the projector. The room was quiet as each student's voice narrated a part of their journey — memories from class, field trips, quiet afternoons, tearful nights. Laughter, too.

At the very end, Gu Yuyan's narration came in over a montage of the class's quietest moments — heads resting on desks, books open under lamplight, shadows on classroom walls.

His voice, calm and clear, said:

"Someday, you'll forget the formulas, the notes, the stress.But you'll remember someone who noticed when you were quieter than usual."

The room stayed silent for a long while after the video ended.

And under that silence — under the same sky they all looked up to — something unspoken gently found its place in the open.

After the class dispersed from the media room, Keqing lingered behind to turn off the projector and organize the leftover papers. The room had returned to its usual quiet, but it felt warmer somehow — filled with invisible echoes of laughter and soft voices.

As she stepped into the hallway, she saw him.

Gu Yuyan was leaning against the wall just outside, arms crossed casually, eyes cast downward in thought.

"You're still here?" she asked, walking up to him.

"I didn't want you walking back alone tonight," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They walked side by side down the dim path toward the dormitories. The air was cooler now, and the streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement. Neither of them spoke, but the silence no longer felt uncertain. It felt steady, shared.

Near the entrance to the girls' dorm, Keqing slowed to a stop.

"Gu Yuyan," she said quietly. "I... have something I never gave you."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a slightly worn cream-colored envelope — its corners bent, as if it had been carried around for a long time.

"I wrote this letter to myself," she said, voice soft. "But I think... part of it was meant for you too."

He looked at the envelope, then back at her.

"I'm not very good with words. At least, not when I'm speaking. But if you ever read this... maybe you'll understand why I always kept so much to myself."

Gu Yuyan didn't take the letter immediately. He studied her face — the faint nervousness in her eyes, the way her fingers gripped the envelope just a little too tightly.

Then he asked, "Do you want me to read it now?"

She shook her head and gave a small smile. "No. Read it when you feel like you need to."

Only then did he reach out and take it from her — carefully, with both hands, as if it was something precious.

He didn't put it in his backpack. He folded it once more and tucked it into his coat pocket, over his chest.


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