Three days had passed since Lin Keqing transferred to Class 11A1.
She wasn't quite used to it, but she was no longer entirely foreign to the space. She now knew which faucet had cold water, which hallway lockers squeaked when opened, and which window in the library let in just the right amount of light in the afternoon.
Most of all, she had started—unintentionally—to notice the boy who sat beside her.
Cao-collared white shirt. Neatly folded sleeves. A habit of tapping his pen lightly when he was solving a tough equation. He didn't speak much—almost never—but that didn't mean he wasn't present.
His presence was like gravity. Quiet, but undeniably there.
On Friday afternoon, storm clouds gathered over the city. The sky was the color of bruises, and the wind whistled against the glass windows. During Chemistry, Keqing felt a flicker of movement from her side.
A small, folded slip of paper slid gently across her desk.
Light blue. Familiar.
"Which school were you in before this?"—G.Y.
She blinked. A question. For the first time, he was asking something.
She bit back a smile and replied:
"City B. Experimental High School No. 2."—L.K.
When he reached over to get a ruler from her side of the desk, she slipped the note beneath his open notebook.
She didn't know why she felt the urge to smile again.
During break, Le Yahan turned around in her seat, eyes gleaming.
"Did he just talk to you again?"
"Not exactly," Keqing said.
Yahan gasped theatrically. "Another note?! This is turning into one of those campus dramas where everything starts with paper messages and ends in rain-drenched confessions!"
Keqing laughed. "You're overthinking it."
Yahan smirked. "No, I'm just watching a slow-burn romance unfold in real time."
The last period was Biology. The teacher handed back the diagnostic test results. Keqing had scored 8 out of 10—not terrible, but not great either.
She glanced at Gu Yuyan. He looked over briefly at her paper, then back down at his own notes. She thought it was her imagination until he scribbled something into his planner with precise strokes.
When she opened her math notebook after class, another note was waiting:
"I have Biology notes from last year. You can borrow them if you want."—G.Y.
No fluff. No niceties. Just facts.
Still, she found herself rereading the line once, then twice.
She turned toward him, intending to thank him—but he was already pulling on his headphones, eyes fixed on the rain through the window.
That night, she sat at her desk, reviewing her notes. The new Biology material he had given her was clear, meticulous, and organized down to the subtopics. On a small sticky note, she wrote:
"Thank you. I'll return it soon."—L.K.
On Monday morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained moody.
When Keqing arrived, a tiny mint candy sat on her desk.
She picked it up slowly. No note this time. No signature.
But she knew.
She slipped the candy into her coat pocket, heart oddly warm.
Later that afternoon, she returned the borrowed notes during library period.
She approached his desk—a wooden table tucked near the window—and stood quietly until he looked up.
"This… is yours," she said.
He gave a brief nod. "Did it help?"
"Very much," she smiled. "Thank you."
There was a pause, not awkward, but thick with something unspoken.
Then he asked, "Do you write a lot?"
The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean?"
"The way you write your notes," he said, "it feels like… you're talking to yourself."
Keqing blinked. "I guess that's a habit. I keep a journal sometimes."
He didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened. "It's not a bad habit."
"What is it then?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Just… interesting."
As she walked back to her seat, her chest felt strangely light.
Later that day, when she returned to her desk after gym class, another note was tucked beneath her pencil case.
"I'm not great with words. But if you don't mind silence, I can try listening."—G.Y.
She stared at it for a while, then slowly folded it, tucking it into the back of her notebook.
She didn't reply. Not yet. But she smiled.
The Days That Followed
The notes continued.
They weren't daily, and they weren't long.
Sometimes it was just:
"This formula confused me too."Or"You always draw small stars next to your to-do lists."
Once, she sent one that said:
"Do you ever wish people talked less and just… sat beside you quietly?"
He replied:
"That's how I measure closeness."
One rainy afternoon, Keqing was sketching in the back of her literature notebook during free study period. She wasn't great at art—just idle doodles. Swirls, rain, an umbrella. A silhouette of two people standing under it.
When she looked up, Gu Yuyan was watching her.
Not judgmental. Just… watching.
Their eyes met.
He pointed to the page and said softly, "That's me."
She blinked. "What?"
"The umbrella. You drew it too small. I would've tilted it more to your side."
Keqing laughed, caught completely off guard. "Would you, really?"
"I'm not the type to share evenly," he said.
Something about the honesty in his tone made her cheeks warm.
In the front row, Le Yahan turned slightly in her seat, watching them. She didn't say anything. Not yet.
But when class ended, she whispered, "Tell me when the umbrella becomes real."
Keqing didn't respond. Just smiled faintly and looked out the rain-streaked window.
That evening, she sat on her bed and opened her drawer.
Inside were seven notes—each carefully folded, each unmistakably from him.
She didn't realize she'd been collecting them.
But now that she saw them together, it felt… significant.
A silent conversation between two people who barely spoke, and yet—understood more with each quiet exchange.