Chapter 64 – Pathways of the Heart

The first Monday of the second week arrived with a crisp breeze, carrying the scent of chalk dust and autumn leaves. Students filed into school grounds in uniformed waves, their backpacks heavier, their footsteps quicker. The rhythm of senior year was beginning to take hold.

Lin Keqing stood by the vending machine in her building's corridor, waiting for the water bottle to drop. As it clinked into the tray, she turned and saw Gu Yuyan approaching from the natural sciences hallway.

They were in different classes now, but somehow, moments still found their way to them.

"Late night study session?" he asked, noticing the light bruises of fatigue under her eyes.

"Three essays and a history quiz," she replied, cracking open the bottle. "You?"

"Chem lab and physics homework. My sleep schedule is a myth."

A soft chuckle escaped her. "We should be sponsored by coffee at this point."

"Or herbal tea, if we want to survive till June."

The bell rang, pulling them back into their separate timelines. But as they parted, a lingering glance said what neither voiced: see you later.

In Class 12A3, Le Yahan twirled her pen as the math teacher went over trigonometric functions. Her mind wasn't on the board but on the conversation from the weekend.

"Then start by being honest with yourself."

Chen Yuke's words echoed in her mind like a song stuck on repeat. They had studied for hours, argued over formulas, then laughed about jelly drinks and aspirations. It had felt... grounding.

Across the hallway in 12B2, Chen Yuke stared at a blank notebook page. For someone who'd been drifting for most of high school, the sudden clarity from helping Yahan left a strange kind of warmth in his chest. Not quite romance, not yet. But something was there—quiet and steady.

He doodled in the margin of his paper: a tiny tree, roots deep and branches stretching. It reminded him of her.

During the lunch break, the courtyard was awash in sunlight. Students lounged under trees or huddled on benches. Keqing sat beneath the tall maple with Xu Yujin and Liu Tianxue, unpacking rice balls and slices of apple.

"Your essay yesterday," Yujin said, chewing thoughtfully, "was too poetic. The teacher gave you a side comment about metaphors."

Keqing blinked. "Too poetic? But it was about historical reflection."

"You quoted a Tang poem. In a paper about trade routes."

Tianxue smirked. "Honestly, I liked it. Shows you're not a robot."

Keqing flushed lightly. She wasn't used to compliments, especially not when they came in casual slices.

"You should write more," Yujin added. "Not just for school. For yourself."

Keqing considered this as she bit into her apple, eyes wandering to the opposite end of the courtyard where Gu Yuyan sat with two classmates from his homeroom. His attention seemed focused on their conversation, but his gaze wandered now and then—settling, just briefly, on her.

After school, Keqing lingered in the library. The silence there was different—a space to breathe rather than retreat. She skimmed through an anthology of essays when she heard a chair pull back.

Gu Yuyan sat across from her, setting down his calculus notes.

"Didn't expect to see you here," she said.

"Didn't plan to be. Just... wandered in."

They studied in parallel for a while, pencils scratching, pages turning. At some point, their feet touched under the table and neither moved away.

As they left the library, the hallways were mostly empty. They walked slowly, as though stalling the moment. As they reached the gate, Gu Yuyan hesitated.

"Hey... about the university fair this weekend."

"Yeah?"

"Would you want to go together?"

There was a pause—the kind of pause where time waits for an answer.

Keqing nodded. "I'd like that."

He gave her a rare, soft smile. "Then it's a plan."

Later that evening, Keqing sat at the dining table with her grandmother. The television played softly in the background, but neither of them paid much attention.

Just as she was finishing her homework, her phone buzzed with a message.

Dad: Are you free to talk later tonight?

She paused. It wasn't unusual—they still messaged often. But calls were rare.

When she picked up later, her father's voice came through warm and even. "Hey, kid. How's senior year treating you?"

"Busy. Tiring. But... manageable."

"That's my girl. Listen, I wanted to tell you something. I might be moving to another city for a while. A project came up."

She was quiet for a second. "Will it be far?"

"About four hours away. Not forever. Just a few months. I'll still call, and maybe come visit."

Keqing looked down at the spiral in her notebook. "Okay. As long as you take care of yourself."

Her father chuckled. "You sound like your grandmother."

There was a soft pause.

"I'm proud of you, Keqing. Just wanted you to know."

Her eyes stung, but she smiled. "Thanks, Dad. I'm proud of you too."

That night, in his room, Chen Yuke scrolled through past university brochures. None of them called out to him. Then he remembered Yahan's sigh, her hesitation.

He opened a blank document and began typing: not an application, not yet, but a list. A list of things that mattered to him. A start.

In her own room, Le Yahan was looking up universities abroad, half-serious, half-curious. But when she paused at the thought of leaving everything behind, her phone lit up with a message:

Chen Yuke: Try page 132 in the chemistry workbook. It actually makes sense there.

She smiled.

Sometimes, guidance came not in answers, but in reminders that someone else was walking beside you.

Keqing wrote in her journal before bed:

"In a world moving too fast, it's the pauses that hold meaning. In glances, in casual greetings, in footsteps matched without intention. Maybe that's what connection really is—not in declarations, but in the quiet patterns we share without even realizing."

She flipped back through earlier entries and paused on one from a month ago: a small ink sketch of two shadows standing under a tree, nearly touching but not quite.

She drew a line to connect them.