Notes of Youth

The snow was almost gone by the time Lin Keqing returned to school. Only the shadows of melted patches lingered along the edge of the courtyard, and the bare trees stood like quiet sentinels outside the gates. Winter break had passed in a breath. Now came the inevitable rhythm again: uniforms, bells, notebooks with scribbled pages, and the scent of newly sharpened pencils.

As she stepped through the gate, the usual chatter of classmates surrounded her. Some laughed over holiday photos. Others complained about forgotten homework. But her mind felt oddly distant—still caught in the echoes of her reunion with her parents.

She hadn't told anyone yet. Not Yahan, not Chen Yuke, not even Gu Yuyan.

Gu Yuyan.

Her gaze wandered across the schoolyard automatically, scanning for him. But what she found was unexpected.

He was there—leaning against a pillar near the administration building—but he wasn't alone.

A tall man stood beside him, sharply dressed, expression stern. A woman, likely his mother, wore a dark green coat and kept her voice soft but firm. From a distance, they didn't seem to be arguing—yet nothing about the scene felt gentle.

Gu Yuyan's posture was still, almost too still. His hands were in his coat pockets, head slightly lowered. He nodded once, then again, like someone enduring a monologue he already knew by heart.

Keqing stood frozen for a moment. She had never seen him like this—with adults, in the role of a son rather than a classmate, a rival, or a quiet shadow in the library.

Then, without warning, he looked up.

Their eyes met across the courtyard.

He didn't smile. He didn't wave. But something flickered—acknowledgment, maybe. Or warning.

Then he turned back toward his parents, and Keqing looked away.

Inside the classroom, the windows had been wiped clean. The whiteboard had a new seating chart posted beside it. Some names had shifted. There was talk that in a few weeks, students would have to choose their stream: natural sciences or social sciences.

Le Yahan sat at her desk, twirling a pen between her fingers. She gave Keqing a wink as she walked in.

"Back from the mountains of poetry and snow?" she teased.

Keqing smiled faintly. "Something like that."

Chen Yuke arrived a few minutes later—but something was off.

He dropped his bag beside his seat and leaned forward, resting his head on his folded arms. When Yahan reached out to nudge him, he didn't move.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

"I had a fight with my parents this morning," he muttered, voice muffled.

Keqing overheard and turned slightly, concerned.

"They want me to choose the humanities track," he continued. "Which makes sense—I'm better at it. Literature, history, economics... That's me."

"So what's the problem?" Yahan asked.

He looked up.

"I want to go into natural sciences."

There was a long pause.

Yahan blinked. "But... why? You hate chemistry."

"I don't hate it that much," he said defensively. "I just... I want to stay in the same class. With you."

Keqing turned back to her notebook, but her hands paused.

Yahan's voice dropped. "Yuke..."

"I know it's stupid," he said quickly, eyes cast down. "But I don't want to be in some other building. I don't want to go months barely seeing you. I'd rather struggle a little than be apart."

Yahan didn't answer right away.

Then, with unusual gentleness, she said, "You don't have to choose your path because of me."

"I want to," he said quietly.

That lunch break, Keqing sat beneath the gingko tree, watching its bare branches etch patterns against the sky. It was the same tree where she had once found a note tucked beneath the bench. A different season. A different self.

She heard footsteps approach and looked up.

Gu Yuyan.

He didn't say anything as he sat down beside her.

"Your parents," she said softly. "I saw them this morning."

He nodded.

"They're not from around here, are they?"

"No," he said. "My father works overseas. He comes back once or twice a year. My mother travels a lot for research."

There was a silence.

"So why were they at school?"

"They came to talk about class placement," he replied. "They want me in natural sciences. It's what they've always wanted."

"And what do you want?"

He hesitated.

"I don't know," he said at last. "They expect me to follow a certain path. It's easier than resisting."

Keqing looked down. "Do you always do what they want?"

"Usually," he said. "It saves time."

She didn't answer.

But something in the stillness between them changed. The quiet wasn't awkward—it was weighty, shared. Like two puzzle pieces resting near each other, not yet touching, but aligned.

That afternoon, homeroom began with an announcement: in two weeks, students would need to submit their stream selection forms. Teachers would provide guidance. Parents' opinions would be considered.

And behind it all, a quiet current of change stirred through the room.

Some students looked excited. Others anxious.

Keqing stared at the blank form on her desk, where two boxes waited to be ticked.

Science. Humanities.

She had never liked being boxed in.

After school, as the sky turned pale gold, Keqing walked alone toward the school gate. She had planned to head straight home, but a voice called her name.

"Lin Keqing!"

She turned.

It was Chen Yuke.

He jogged toward her, hair messy, scarf loose.

"You free?" he asked.

"I guess."

"Wanna take a walk?"

She nodded, surprised.

They walked along the back street behind the school, where the bakery sent out warm smells and the convenience store buzzed with students buying snacks.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I'm just... frustrated. My parents don't get it. They think I'm throwing away my future if I don't follow my strengths. And maybe they're right."

He kicked at a pebble on the pavement.

"But I don't want to choose a future where Yahan's not there."

Keqing was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Have you told her that?"

He gave a tired laugh. "Sort of. I don't know if she took it seriously."

"She did," Keqing said. "She always does. But maybe she's worried about the same thing—about you giving up too much."

He stopped walking. Looked at her.

"Is that what love is?" he asked. "Giving things up?"

Keqing thought about her parents, about their reunion, about years lost and words unspoken.

"No," she said softly. "Maybe it's choosing to stay. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when it hurts."

Chen Yuke didn't speak. But his eyes were softer when he nodded.

That night, Keqing sat by her window, watching the city lights shimmer. Her desk was covered in revision sheets and forms, but her mind wandered.

She had seen two kinds of families that day.

One, fractured by silence but trying to repair.

The other, bound by expectations that suffocated.

And somewhere between all of it, she sat—wondering which kind of person she wanted to become.

Not for her parents.

Not for anyone else.

Just for herself.