Chapter 7 — Forgot Admission Notice

The roommate's name is Trinh Niem, a local, with a soft Southern accent. She knew my situation, but never asked much. It's just that every time he goes out, he casually invites me along. If he goes to the cafeteria to get food, he'll help me bring an extra portion of soup. “Ran Ran, are you really not coming back for National Day?” She asked once. “Not coming back.” "So let's go eat hot pot tonight? I invite you." "Okay." While eating hot pot, she suddenly said something: "You know, I think you're especially good." “What?” "It's the type that can solve everything by yourself. But I feel like this type of skill is actually very sad." I dipped a piece of beef in the pot and said nothing. “But now you have me.” She smiled and picked up a chopstick of shrimp rolls into my bowl. "If anything happens in the future, just say it, don't bear it alone." I looked at the shrimp patties in the bowl and nodded. "Okay." That night, when I returned to the dormitory, I lay in bed and thought for a long time. Trinh Niem said I was good. But I know, this type of talent is not something you are born with. Is being forced out. A child who has never had anyone to catch him either falls and breaks, or learns to stand on his own. I choose the latter. But choosing the latter doesn't mean it won't hurt. It's just been painful for a long time, and I don't feel the pain anymore. Just like my mother used to say: peace of mind. The child who makes people feel secure is not in need of attention. It's that the attention paid to it has been wasted. 10 Second semester of first year of university. March, school writing contest. I wrote an essay, the title is "Peace of mind". Write about a child in the family who will never be remembered. No real names are used, no specific events are written, but every word seems to be plucked from the bones. The article won first prize. The school newspaper republished it and a new local media site also shared it. The title is: “When ‘peace of mind’ becomes a kind of hurt.” The number of reads is not large, but the comment section is very active. A lot of people say “it's like writing me”. I don't mean to go viral, but the internet has memories. One day in May, I received a phone call. It's my sister calling. I hesitated for three seconds, then answered the phone. "Older sister." Your voice is different from what I remember. Less sweet pampering, a little more cautious and careful. "YES." "I read your other article. A classmate passed it on to me." I said nothing. “Sister, are those things true?” “What things?” "The story about the admission notice being treated like an advertisement by my mother. The story about the envelope being written under her name. There's also the story about the two days of my university entrance exam, I went to the test site alone." “What do you think?” The other end of the line was silent for a long time. Then I heard the suppressed cry of a fifteen year old girl. "Sister, I'm sorry. I really don't know. I thought you were taking the university entrance exam next year. I thought your results weren't good, you didn't like studying, I thought you didn't need those things. Mom never told me about your results, I really don't know anything." “I know you don't know.” “So can you forgive me?” "Duong Duong, I never blamed you. You were only fourteen years old at that time, this is not your fault." I cried even harder. "But mom, sister, you really know you're wrong. In the past half year, you've become a lot thinner and your hair is all gray. Every night, mom sits in my sister's room, just sitting there, without turning on the light. Dad is the same, now he speaks very little, often standing alone on the balcony smoking drugs in a daze." When I heard these words, there weren't too many ripples in my heart. Not cold-blooded. It took me too long to learn not to expect anymore. "Sister, can you come back once? Just once." “Duong Duong, you are living very well now.” "I know, but without you in the house, it's really not the same as before. Before, I felt like everything was good, but now every time I eat and see that chair, I feel especially uncomfortable." That chair. From childhood to adulthood, on that chair there always sat an invisible person. Now that the invisible person has left, the last chair is truly empty. They finally saw it. But n

I can see it because it was already empty before I saw it. Not because when I sat there, they saw. “Duong Duong, say something to my parents for me.” “Say it.” "Say, I don't hate them. But I won't come back again. At least not now." "Why?" “Because it took me eighteen years to learn how to stand alone, I don't want to go back to a place where I have to squat down to be able to stay.” The other end of the line was silent. A long time later, my sister's voice rang out again, carrying a nasal sound. "So what happens later? Will you come back later?" "I don't know. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. But regardless of whether I come back or not, I'm still To Ran. Not the eldest sister, not that reassuring one, not anyone's older sister. It's To Ran." “I remember.” The sister said. “Sister, I remember.” I hung up the phone. Outside the window is a night scene of a Southern city, neon lights twinkling, and downstairs someone is playing music.