Notes of Youth

The first morning of the new term dawned soft and golden, as if the sun itself were trying to be gentle with the students of Class 11A1.

Except, there was no more Class 11A1.

The division had come quietly, but it left behind a trail of changes that couldn't be ignored. Desks were rearranged. Classrooms were re-numbered. Friends who once sat side by side now wandered into different halls. The hallway chatter had shifted—no longer about dreams, but decisions.

Lin Keqing stepped into her new classroom.

It smelled the same: chalk dust, sunlight, the faint trace of winter on jackets. But it didn't feel the same. She glanced around, searching instinctively for the familiar tilt of Gu Yuyan's shoulders, the way Le Yahan would wave casually from the back row.

But they weren't there.

Only Chen Yuke sat by the window, waving at her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You got in early," she said as she took the seat next to him.

"Didn't want to deal with the crowd," he replied, tapping his pen rhythmically on the desk.

Keqing nodded. The classroom was filling up with unfamiliar faces—students from other classes, other hallways. She tried to match their names with memories, but there were few.

Over in the Natural Sciences track, Gu Yuyan sat in his own new seat, second row from the window. Le Yahan was seated diagonally in front of him, one earbud in, pretending to listen to music while watching students trickle in.

No one spoke to either of them.

Not yet.

Yuyan pulled out his notebook and stared at the blank page. His pen hovered, hesitating.

Somewhere in the building, Keqing was probably adjusting her glasses, organizing her pens by color. Somewhere, Chen Yuke was probably talking too much—or not at all. Yuyan couldn't be sure.

Le Yahan turned slightly in her seat and asked without looking at him, "Do you think we'll start forgetting them?"

Gu Yuyan didn't answer right away. His fingers curled around the pen. A breath passed.

"I don't think we can," he said quietly.

During the lunch break, Keqing and Chen Yuke sat on the stone benches outside the library. It had become their default spot, shaded by old trees whose branches now reached out bare like skeletal fingers.

Keqing opened her lunchbox. Two steamed buns and a boiled egg. She offered one to Chen Yuke, who shook his head and unwrapped a rice ball from his own container.

"I miss our old class," he said eventually.

"Me too."

"You think Yahan's eaten yet?"

Keqing gave him a look. "Why don't you text her?"

He shrugged. "It's weird. It feels like... we're in different worlds now."

She was silent for a moment, then said, "I saw her walking with Gu Yuyan this morning. They looked... quiet."

Chen Yuke gave a small smile. "When do they not?"

They both laughed, but it didn't last long.

The cold air settled between them, unspoken but heavy.

Back in the Natural Sciences classroom, the afternoon sun cast slanted light across Le Yahan's desk. She tilted her head back, letting the warmth rest on her closed eyelids.

"I forgot how boring physics can be," she whispered.

Gu Yuyan didn't respond. He was looking outside, gaze unfocused.

Yahan followed his eyes. From where she sat, the Social Sciences wing was just visible through the glass. She thought she saw someone leaning on the third-floor railing—small, still, like they were waiting.

She blinked. The figure was gone.

That evening, as the bell rang to signal the end of the day, the four of them stepped out of their classrooms almost at the same time.

But from opposite sides of the building.

Keqing on the stairs near the east corridor.Gu Yuyan in the shade of the west entrance.Yahan walking past the old music room.Chen Yuke crossing the courtyard, earbuds in but nothing playing.

For a moment—just a moment—they each paused.As if they sensed something missing.As if they were listening for footsteps that no longer fell beside them.

But no one moved.No one crossed the invisible lines.

The day ended, just like that.

But some things lingered—like the echo of footsteps after a hallway emptied, or the way sunlight left a ghost of warmth even when it was gone.

That night, Lin Keqing found herself sitting by the window, not studying, not even reading. Just... sitting. Her books were spread open, but the words didn't enter her mind. The classroom arrangement replayed in her memory again and again, like a film on loop. She thought of the empty seat by the window in the old room, and of how Gu Yuyan had always looked like he belonged there—quiet, unmoving, but somehow holding the class together.

She missed that silence. Not the kind that filled a room when no one spoke, but the kind that existed only when someone you trusted was nearby—even without words.

She picked up her phone, opened the contacts list, and hovered her finger over his name.

Then she locked the screen.

Some things were better left untouched for now.

In another part of town, Gu Yuyan sat at his desk, solving physics problems with mechanical precision. His handwriting was exact, his lines clean. But every once in a while, his pencil paused mid-sentence, eyes drifting toward the closed curtains.

He didn't draw them open.

The memory of Keqing's voice echoed in the back of his mind—not a specific phrase, but the way she used to ask questions, even when she already knew the answers. He wondered if she had spoken much today, and whether anyone had noticed how her voice dipped slightly when she was nervous.

He turned the page of his notebook, but didn't write.

Le Yahan was curled up on her bed, one leg bouncing lazily as she scrolled through her messages. None from Chen Yuke. Not that she expected any. They'd never made a habit of texting, anyway.

Still, she found herself typing something, then deleting it. Typing again.

Eventually, she sent:

[Yahan]: Did you eat lunch?

No response. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

"He's probably just sulking," she muttered to no one. "Or being dramatic."

She didn't admit how much she missed hearing his quiet complaints about cafeteria food, or the way he used to always save her a seat even when she was late.

Meanwhile, Chen Yuke sat in his room, headphones around his neck, a blank word document open on his laptop. He had planned to start an essay, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Le Yahan. He remembered the way she had smiled at something the physics teacher said earlier—and how he wasn't there to see it firsthand.

It felt... wrong.

He opened his messaging app, saw her text, and hesitated.

Then he replied:

[Chen Yuke]: Yeah. You?

She responded a minute later:

[Yahan]: Kinda. It wasn't the same without someone complaining about the rice.

He stared at the screen for a long time before smiling.

[Chen Yuke]: I'll complain in person tomorrow.

Somewhere in the quiet night, each of them prepared for the next day—not with excitement, not with dread, but with a quiet understanding:

Things had changed.

But maybe… not everything was lost.