[Flashback]
It started the way most quiet things begin — unnoticed by the world, but unforgettable to those who lived it. After that first note in the poetry book, things didn't bloom overnight.
But they began.
"My name is Sun Ruolin. Nice to meet you Li Zeyu. ^^"
She'd replied with a new, pink coloured sticky note.
She found more notes in the same book over the weeks — sometimes observations, sometimes questions, sometimes nothing but a single word circled in ink from a random poem on the page.
One time, she asked:
"You read this too?"
And he replied with:
"It seems interesting. Yes."
The next time she came, her usual seat was empty, and on the table was a paper cup of barley tea with her name written neatly on the lid. No note this time, but she smiled anyway. And before they knew it, it has became their rhythm.
The first time they spoke was weeks later, just as autumn settled deep enough that the gingko trees turned gold at the edges.
Ruolin always arrived thirty minutes early. She liked the stillness of the classroom before the chatter came. The smell of chalk dust, the sun stretching across cold tile floors, the way her seat by the window caught the first light of morning.
That morning, though, someone caught her attention as she turned the corridor.
Him.
"Li Zeyu, wasn't it?"
He was sitting at the front of his classroom, sleeves rolled perfectly to his elbows, head bent slightly over his notebook. His pen twirled between fingers like he did it without thinking. He wasn't wearing his glasses today. There's a small bottle of sanitizer sat by his hand.
She paused — hesitated — then peeked just slightly into the classroom that wasn't hers to bother. This classroom is usually empty whenever she walked past, she didn't even know their classes are just beside each other until now.
Perhaps he sensed something staring at him... Li Zeyu looked up.
Their eyes met.
And that was the first time they interacted with words.
She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. "So it is you," she said softly. "The one with the good handwriting."
Li Zeyu blinked once, slowly, like the moment hadn't surprised him, just taken a little longer to register. "I thought you might've figured it out earlier," he replied.
Ruolin smiled, faint and almost shy. "Well, I wasn't sure. You left barley tea, not a business card."
That made the corner of his mouth twitch. "You drank it."
"Only after checking it wasn't poisoned."
He gave a quiet hum, tapping his pen once against his notebook as he leaned his chin into his palm, propping his elbow on the table comfortably, still looking at her. "Does it taste good?"
She scrunched her nose. "It tasted… healthy."
His lips tugged, not quite a smile. "That's not a real answer."
"It is when the tea is suspiciously bitter." She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. "You're not one of those 'no sugar, no milk, drink warm water every day' kind of people, are you?"
He didn't answer immediately, just looked at her like he was weighing how much to admit. Then he said, "I believe in prevention."
She blinked her eyes and gasped. "You are one of those."
"You're judging me over tea?" he asked, amused.
"I'm judging you over lifestyle."
He chuckled under his breath — soft and short, like the sound surprised even him.
A moment passed. The air between them was comfortable now, familiar in a way that felt like the pages of their notes had already paved the road here.
Ruolin looked around the classroom, then back at him. "You're different from what I imagined."
He raised a brow. "How so?"
She pretended to think. "I thought you'd be… more serious. Less likely to talk."
"I am serious."
"You just made a joke about my tea standards."
"That wasn't a joke," he deadpanned.
Ruolin laughed quietly, the sound light and real. "Okay, fine. Maybe a little serious. But you're not as scary as you look."
"I don't look scary."
"You do," she said, a grin forming. "In a quiet top-student, 'don't talk to me' kind of way."
He stared at her, pen still in hand. "And you're the girl who re-reads the same poetry book but never checks it out."
Ruolin stilled. "You noticed that?"
He only looked at her.
Her smile softened, lips parted as if she might say something more — but instead, she hugged her bag a little tighter and murmured, "Anyway… thanks for the tea."
He nodded. "Don't drink it too fast next time. You flipped the lid like you were opening a soda."
Ruolin turned to the door, laughing again, then paused before leaving. She looked over her shoulder, hand rising in a small wave. "See you later?"
He nodded gently. "Same place?"
"Same book," she smiled.
He watched her turn and disappear into the hallway — the sleeves of her cardigan swinging at her sides, the softest little bounce followed in her step.
From his desk, Li Zeyu looked down at the page of notes he was writing. And for the first time in a long while… he'd messed up his notes with words that weren't meant to be in a biology textbook. And he could only sigh.
~×~
"Do you always wear long sleeves?" he asked one morning when they decided to take a walk before class started. Their new, quiet routine after arriving early — morning walk.
She blinked down at her cardigan, munching on a barley biscuit he gave her after muttering, "I have a feeling you didn't eat breakfast."
She hadn't.
"Yes," she replied, her words muffled slightly through a bite.
"It's 29 degrees," he said, not judging, just stating facts like he always did.
She smiled anyway. "I like the feeling."
Without thinking, Zeyu reached out and pinched the edge of her sleeve between his fingers, tugging it slightly like he was testing its durability.
"Looks like something my grandmother knitted."
She laughed. "That's kind of the point."
He let go of the sleeve, eyes still on her arm for a moment before they drifted up to her face. "You like vintage things?"
"I like things with stories," she said. "Even if they don't belong to me."
He hummed softly, hands sliding back into his pockets. "You're a strange girl."
"Would it kill you to just say I'm interesting?"
"Strange is interesting," he replied, unfazed.
Ruolin looked at him, squinting against the morning sun. "You're just bad at compliments."
"I gave you breakfast," he said.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Right. The universal love language of a future doctor, nutrition."
He glanced at her sideways. "I'll take that as a thank you."
She nudged his arm with her elbow. "Don't get used to it."
He didn't answer. Just kept walking beside her, the silence between them so comfortable it no longer needed words. But a small smile tugged at his lips anyway — the kind only she got to see.
~×~
Their friendship grew like wildflowers between cracks in concrete. Quiet, persistent, and impossible to pull out once it took root.
He would pass her notes, always folded three times, always written in his careful handwriting she once said she liked:
"You forgot a citation on page 3."
"Lunch today? Got extra bread."
"Don't stay up too late. You looked tired yesterday."
In return, she left small offerings in his desk drawer. A freshly sharpened pencil. Barley biscuits wrapped in wax paper. A folded origami star with his name inked delicately in pale pink.
Zeyu.
They weren't in the same class. They didn't even sit together in the cafeteria. But somehow, the notes kept finding their way. Tucked between textbooks, slid across desks during breaks, hidden between the pages of library books.
She was the first to call him by name without hesitation.
And he, the boy who had always kept himself somewhere between responsibility and distance, began to lean — quietly, gradually — toward the warmth that is her.
~×~
Once, while they were doing homework in the library, she found herself drifting — eyes unfocused, pencil idle, attention caught by the rain tapping softly against the windows.
"Ruolin," he said, not even looking up from his notebook.
She blinked, then turned toward him with a dazed expression. "Hmm?"
"Focus."
"I am."
He glanced at her then, skeptical. "On what?"
She leaned her cheek into her palm, eyes drifted back to the raindrops sliding down the glass like ink trails. "The way the light falls," she murmured.
There was a pause.
He stared at her for a second longer, like trying to figure out if she was serious, or just strange in a way that couldn't be explained by logic or textbooks.
"Strange girl," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned back to his notes.
But he didn't say it unkindly. In fact, the corner of his mouth almost curved. And after that, he didn't ask her to focus again.
~×~
And when they finally held hands — it wasn't dramatic. No sudden music. No accidental brush of fingers that sparked lightning like those in romance drama.
It was behind the school library when she sat beside him on the old bench with peeling paint. The gingko trees rustled above, casting patchwork shadows across their laps.
He was the one who reached out first. And she let her hand slide into his naturally.
There's no grand confessions. No dramatic promises. Just warmth and the silent agreement of something beginning.
It was young love.
Quiet. Honest. Uncomplicated.
But even then... Even in the golden days of chalk dust and soft sweaters… Neither of them knew how short forever could be.