Chapter 67 – Lines We Draw

The hallway was loud with the shuffle of shoes and the slam of locker doors, but Lin Keqing walked slowly, hugging her books to her chest as if the world might slip from her grip otherwise. The banner above the main stairwell read in bold scarlet letters:

"120 DAYS UNTIL THE ENTRANCE EXAMS."

A number so sharp it cut into the air, looming larger than any festival lantern or holiday poster from the year before. It wasn't just a countdown—it was a declaration, and for many, a warning.

She slid into her seat in Class 12A3. The desks had been pushed closer together, almost shoulder to shoulder, like they were all being corralled toward the same finish line. The smell of chalk hung heavy. On the board, the homeroom teacher had written:

Mock Exam Schedule – October 15th

Keqing stared at the date until the numbers blurred. A month. That was all.

"Morning," Xu Yujin greeted, dropping into the chair beside her with an elegance that somehow survived the weight of two fat textbooks.

Keqing blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "Morning."

"You look like you just saw the apocalypse," Yujin teased, peering at the notes Keqing hadn't yet started writing.

"Maybe I have," Keqing murmured.

Before Yujin could reply, Liu Tianxue leaned over from behind, whispering conspiratorially, "Apocalypse? I'd settle for a minor earthquake to cancel this mock exam."

"Please," Yujin snorted. "Even the Earth wouldn't dare mess with our teachers right now."

Their laughter fizzled out when the homeroom teacher strode in with a stack of papers and an expression sharp enough to pierce armor. Conversations died like candles in the wind.

The announcements were brutal in their simplicity: mock exams, consultation sessions, ranking reports. Every word landed like a stone in Keqing's stomach. When the teacher pinned the latest score distribution on the board, a collective breath sucked the air from the room. Names in neat columns, like soldiers lined for inspection.

Keqing scanned the list. Her name wasn't at the bottom—but not where she wanted it either. Middle ground, a no-man's-land between mediocrity and ambition. She felt her fingers curl tight around her pen.

The day dragged on with formulas and historical dates blurring into static. When the lunch bell finally rang, Keqing slipped out, tray in hand, and joined her friends at their usual spot under the stairwell where sunlight pooled in fractured shapes.

Le Yahan was already there, balancing a carton of milk and a mischievous smile. "Guess what?" she said before anyone could sit. "They're bringing in alumni this weekend. Career talk. Parents welcome."

Chen Yuke, arriving behind her, groaned. "Fantastic. A room full of people telling us how our entire future depends on one exam. Can't wait."

"Aw, don't be dramatic," Yahan teased, though the twist of her straw suggested she wasn't entirely at ease either.

"Easy for you to say," Chen Yuke shot back. "You're probably at the top of your class."

"Please." Yahan rolled her eyes. "You think I'm some perfect student? That's cute."

The banter carried them through bites of rice and half-hearted jokes, until Fang Zichen, piped up: "Okay, new rule. No talking about exams for five minutes. Let's… I don't know. Share the best memory from high school so far."

Keqing blinked. "That's random."

"Random is good," Fang said simply.

Yahan was the first to play along. "Fine. Dạ ngoại in sophomore year. Remember when we got lost on the hiking trail?"

"Oh yeah," Chen Yuke said, laughing at the memory. "You insisted you knew the way."

"I did!" Yahan protested. "I just… didn't account for dead ends."

"You nearly cried."

"I did not cry," she said indignantly. "And you weren't much better, trailing behind like a sulky bodyguard."

''At least I found the path back," he pointed out.

Yahan smirked. "Only because I yelled loud enough for someone to hear."

"Sure, take the credit," Chen Yuke said, but there was warmth under the sarcasm.

"Fine. Next time we get lost, I'll leave you behind," she teased.

He grinned. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Keqing smiled faintly, watching them volley words back and forth like waves meeting the shore. For a second, it almost felt like last year—before countdown banners, before the weight of futures pressing down.

After lunch, reality returned with a vengeance. Pages of math problems stared back at her during afternoon study hall, but Keqing's mind wandered. To the message her mother had sent that morning—Call me when you can. Dad and I need to talk about the counseling day. The words sat like pebbles in her shoe, small but impossible to ignore. Her parents weren't at war. Far from it. But peace could still feel like fragile glass.

When the final bell released them, most students bolted. Keqing lingered, half from habit, half because she knew where she wanted to end up.

The library smelled faintly of paper and dust, sunlight slanting through high windows. Keqing found him at the back table, head bent over a notebook, pen moving with precise strokes.

Gu Yuyan looked up when she approached, and something in his expression—soft, steady—untied a knot she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.

"Hi," she said, setting her books down.

"Hi." He nudged a chair out with his foot. "You stayed late."

"So did you."

He didn't answer that, only slid a practice booklet toward her. "Want to trade essays?"

She nodded, flipping open her notebook. For a while, silence settled like a fragile truce. Pens scratched. Pages turned. Time thinned to nothing.

Then, as she shifted to reach her bag, a folded slip of paper slipped from between her notes and landed on the table. Before she could snatch it, Yuyan's fingers brushed it first. His eyes skimmed the line written in her careful hand:

I wish I could study what I love without disappointing anyone.

Keqing froze, throat tight. "That's… just—"

"I understand," he said simply, folding the paper and placing it back on her notebook like it was something precious, not shameful. "More than you think."

His voice was calm, but there was weight in it, like stones resting under clear water.

For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, the sun dipped lower, bleeding gold across the shelves.

They left together, their steps echoing in the empty corridor. At the door, Yuyan paused.

"This weekend," he said. "The career day thing. You going?"

Keqing nodded reluctantly. "Parents are coming."

"Mine too." He gave a humorless smile. "That'll be fun."

She wanted to say something—anything to smooth the edge in his voice—but all she managed was: "We'll survive."

His eyes lingered on hers, and for a second, it felt like a promise. Or maybe a plea.

Later that night, Keqing lay on her bed, textbooks stacked like fortresses around her. Her phone buzzed.

Gu Yuyan: Thanks for staying today.

She stared at the words until they blurred, then typed back:

Anytime.

And for the first time that day, the weight on her chest eased—just enough to breathe.