Notes of Youth

Monday came with an overcast sky, the kind that made fluorescent lights in the classroom flicker with too much sharpness. In Class 11A1, the air was laced with the faint scent of damp notebooks and the rustling of test papers.

Lin Keqing stared at the literature assignment she had received back from Mr. Ha that morning. 95/100 — not a bad score. But her eyes drifted across the paper toward the top corner of another sheet.

Liu Tianxue.

100/100.

"Ugh, she's good," Yahan whispered, leaning in. "Too good."

Keqing gave a wry smile. "She writes well."

"Yeah, and walks like she's on a runway and talks like she's recording an audiobook," Yahan muttered.

Chen Yuke, overhearing from behind, added, "She's a triple threat: grades, grace, and... grim determination."

"That's four Gs."

"She's so perfect, she broke the system."

Keqing chuckled but then glanced across the room. Tianxue sat at her desk, posture elegant, as she annotated a poem in cursive script that looked almost printed.

Gu Yuyan, seated not far from her, was sketching something into the margin of his notebook.

Later that day, Mr. Ha stood before the class with a sheet in his hands.

"As part of this term's interdisciplinary focus, the school will be selecting top works in both visual and literary arts. We will nominate two students per class to compete."

There was a buzz of curiosity.

"For literature, I'm nominating Liu Tianxue and Lin Keqing."

A small silence. Then a few murmurs.

Keqing sat frozen. Tianxue glanced over and smiled—polite, perfect.

"For visual art," Mr. Ha continued, "I'll be forwarding Chen Yuke's recent abstract project and Bai Andui's watercolor series. But other interested students are welcome to submit before the Friday deadline."

Keqing felt a strange tightness in her chest. She hadn't planned to compete. But something about Tianxue's serene expression nudged her.

That afternoon, the library was quieter than usual. Keqing sat curled in a corner with a stack of old poetry collections. Her pen hovered above her notebook, but her thoughts spun.

Across the table, Gu Yuyan quietly slid a folded note.

"Write something honest. Not impressive."

She looked up. He didn't.

But his words settled her more than any advice could.

She began to write.

The ink flowed easily this time. She wrote of rain on windows, of sunlight filtered through leaves, of small glances and unspoken understandings. She wrote of stillness, of trying, of not needing to be first to feel seen.

Meanwhile, in the corridor outside the art room, Le Yahan stood holding a sketchbook, glaring at the latest flyer on the wall. It was announcing the shortlist for exhibition pre-selection.

Chen Yuke strolled over, a juice box in one hand.

"You didn't submit?" he asked.

Yahan frowned. "I was going to. Then I saw the deadline and decided not to."

"You afraid?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. I just don't like losing."

"Then win," he said simply. "Just don't leave the canvas blank."

Her lips twitched. "Deep for someone who just drew a smiling fish in math class."

"That fish was having a great day."

They both laughed.

Then she sighed. "I'll think about it."

"Good," he said. "Because if you don't submit, I'll tell everyone your favorite plushie's name."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

He took a step closer, lowered his voice slightly. "Yahan... your art deserves to be seen. You do too."

That softened her glare. "Fine. I'll draw. But if I lose, I'm blaming you."

"I'll take full responsibility. I'm an excellent scapegoat."

As the school day ended, Keqing walked past the notice board again. Tianxue was already there, talking with Fang Zichen—the art club president, newly arrived in their class. His long fringe and paint-streaked fingers made him easy to recognize.

"I'm really looking forward to seeing more from you," Zichen said.

Tianxue smiled graciously. "Likewise. I've heard good things about Lin Keqing too."

"She's got potential," Zichen said. "But sometimes potential needs pressure to shine."

Keqing, hearing that, didn't stop walking.

But her grip on her notebook tightened.

She climbed the stairs alone, wind slipping through the open hallways. Her thoughts tangled like threads of yarn.

She reached the rooftop.

There, the sky was smeared with fading gray, clouds drifting lazily. Keqing leaned on the railing, feeling the breeze against her face.

It was peaceful. And yet, her mind raced.

Then came a voice from behind.

"You came up here too."

She turned. Gu Yuyan.

He stood with his bag slung over one shoulder, hands in his pockets.

"I like the quiet," he said simply.

"Me too."

They stood side by side, saying nothing for a while.

Then she asked, "Do you ever feel... like you're not sure who you're supposed to be?"

He looked at her. "All the time."

That was enough.

That evening, Lin Keqing returned home to the quiet clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Her grandmother was humming an old song as she stirred soup on the stove.

"You're home early today," her grandmother said, glancing over her shoulder.

Keqing placed her bag down and slipped off her shoes. "We didn't have club meetings."

Her grandmother turned down the heat. "You've been drawing a lot lately."

"And writing."

The old woman nodded. "Your mother used to write poems too. She always wanted to be a teacher."

"I didn't know that."

"She gave it up when she had you. But she never stopped loving stories."

Keqing paused, looking at her hands. "Do you think... she'd be proud?"

Her grandmother smiled gently. "She already is."

They ate dinner quietly. The warmth of the soup spread slowly through her, grounding her in something more than just the day's pressure.

Later that night, at her desk, she rewrote her poem three times. Then she paused, picked up a new sheet, and began again—simpler, braver, more hers.

Sometimes, quiet pens spoke the loudest.