Notes of Youth

The morning rain drizzled softly against the windows of Class 11A1, drawing quiet trails down the glass. Inside, the class was still settling into its usual rhythm. Lin Keqing arrived early, hair slightly damp, fingers cold as she clutched a thermos of warm soy milk. Her eyes looked tired, but she smiled faintly when she saw the familiar silhouette already seated.

Gu Yuyan sat at his desk, absorbed in a book. He didn't greet her with words, but he didn't need to. As she sat down, he gently nudged something toward her side of the desk. A folded piece of paper—neatly creased.

She opened it quietly.

"Rain will get heavier after lunch. Don't forget your umbrella."

Her smile deepened.

At the back of the room, Chen Yuke slumped in his seat, balancing a pencil between his nose and upper lip.

"Can you stop doing that?" Le Yahan muttered from the next desk over.

"I'm cultivating balance," he said solemnly.

"You're cultivating annoyance."

He turned to grin at her. "Then I must be a master cultivator."

She tried to suppress her smirk. The boy was impossible—but sometimes, amusingly so.

During literature class, the teacher brought up a poem titled "The Memory of Rain." It was lyrical and haunting. Few students paid full attention.

Gu Yuyan raised his hand to read.

The class turned. He rarely volunteered for anything.

His voice, when he spoke, was clear and soft—like ink spreading across wet paper. Lin Keqing listened carefully, letting every word settle into her chest like droplets on still water.

When he finished, the room held a beat of silence.

Then came polite applause.

Even Bai Andui, seated at the edge of the room, tapped his fingers slowly against his book. His eyes flicked toward Keqing, measuring.

During the lunch break, Keqing and Yahan escaped to the art room. The scent of linseed oil and paper greeted them.

Keqing pulled out her sketchpad. A new idea had bloomed in her head: two figures standing under a single umbrella, their shadows overlapping.

Yahan leaned over to watch. "You're getting mushy again."

"It's weather-inspired," Keqing said defensively.

"You mean Yuyan-inspired."

Keqing just smiled and dipped her brush into the water.

"Seriously," Yahan said, propping her chin on her hand. "You two keep dancing around each other like you're in a slow-burn K-drama."

"It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that. And you better write me in as the chaotic best friend if your life gets adapted."

Keqing rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

As they laughed, the door creaked open. A girl in crisp uniform stepped in—hair tied back into a sleek ponytail, posture perfect, with the air of someone who never missed a deadline.

It was Liu Tianxue.

"Hey," she said, eyes scanning the room. Her gaze landed briefly on Keqing, then flicked to the painting.

"That's beautiful," Tianxue said. "Is it for the interschool exhibition?"

Keqing blinked. "Not yet. Just a draft."

Tianxue smiled. "I'm submitting a short story. Maybe we'll represent the class together."

"Maybe," Keqing said.

There was a brief pause. The air felt… still.

Yahan, sensing tension, leaned back on her stool and sipped from a juice box. "Small world, huh? Rain inspires artists and writers."

Tianxue turned toward her. "Chen Yuke mentioned you're quite the illustrator too."

Yahan arched an eyebrow. "He talks about me?"

Tianxue just smiled.

The room suddenly felt very small.

Later that afternoon, Keqing lingered in the hallway after class. Her steps were slow. She kept thinking about Tianxue's tone—friendly, but... measured.

Back in the classroom, Gu Yuyan was packing his books. Tianxue stood beside his desk, holding a notebook.

"I found an old photo of our literature club," she said. "You remember this?"

He looked briefly. "Yeah."

"I'm still writing, you know. Just like you still read."

Yuyan nodded. "Some things don't change."

From the doorway, Keqing saw them.

She hesitated, then turned away.

But she hadn't gone unnoticed.

Tianxue's gaze briefly flicked toward the door. Her smile returned, softer now. Calculated.

That evening, Keqing couldn't focus on painting. She picked up her brush, only to set it down moments later.

In frustration, she flipped open her sketchbook and began drawing without thinking.

The result startled her.

It was a figure of a girl—hair pulled back, eyes sharp, standing in a crowd but apart from it.

Tianxue.

She stared at the drawing for a long time.

Then, slowly, she turned the page and began sketching another: a boy reading under a tree, oblivious to the world.

Then another: two silhouettes walking side by side under a blue umbrella.

And finally: a paper plane flying toward the sunset.

At school the next day, Keqing found a folded note in her locker.

"Your rain painting—don't overuse blue. It dulls the warmth."

—B.A.D.

She frowned. Bai Andui was the only one who ever signed with initials.

She tore the note in half and threw it away.

But she did switch out her ultramarine for a gentler cerulean that afternoon.

Meanwhile, in the library, Yahan sat across from Chen Yuke.

"Are you even studying?" she asked.

"I'm absorbing knowledge through osmosis."

"You're absorbing dust."

He grinned. "You always nag me. Are you my mom?"

"No, I have higher standards."

He leaned forward slightly. "So... what are we, then?"

She paused.

The usual witty comeback didn't come.

Instead, she said, "Something... interesting."

Their eyes held for a moment.

No jokes. No teasing.

Just something unspoken.

Then a voice called from the shelves. "Yahan! Your class rep needs you!"

She stood up quickly, knocking her pen to the floor.

Chen picked it up and handed it to her.

"Later," she said softly.

"Yeah," he replied. "Later."

The day ended with soft light pouring across the quad. Keqing stood at the edge of the steps, watching clouds shift into shades of pink and peach.

A flutter of paper caught her eye.

A paper plane landed near her foot.

She picked it up. Gu Yuyan's handwriting.

"Colors change, even skies do. But some things stay."

She looked up.

He stood by the art room window, watching her.

She smiled, unfolding the plane, and carefully tucked it into her bag.

Sometimes, small things meant everything.

Even a paper plane.