Chapter 21 — I Shall Never Set Foot in Nam Thanh Again

Tucked inside the backpack were the acceptance letter, a brochure for my chosen major, and a fragile, thin registration slip. The July sun beat down with relentless, searing intensity. Tan Tu Bach sat on the park bench outside the entrance of the residential compound. His right leg was still encased in a protective brace, and his entire frame had withered away, leaving him looking gaunt and frail. There was a time when he had always radiated a brilliant, magnetic energy—whether he was sprinting on the track, hovering at the edge of the basketball court, or standing beneath the camphor trees of our neighborhood. Back then, simply by standing there, he would draw every gaze toward him.

But now, everything was different. He sat with his head bowed low, clutching an unopened bottle of water in his hands. He looked like a faded, weather-beaten poster left to disintegrate in the rain. Upon seeing me, he stood up abruptly. The movement was too sudden, sending a spasm of pain through his injured leg. His face paled instantly. I stopped three paces away from him.

"What is it?"

Tan Tu Bach looked at me. His eyes were rimmed with a faint, weary red.

"Thanh Chi, can we talk?"

"No."

He looked as if he had already anticipated my answer, offering a bitter, wry smile. "I won't take much of your time."

He had always been like this. First, he would make a small, seemingly insignificant request. Then, bit by bit, he would expand his intrusion. *Stay at the gym with me for a little while. Just take a quick look at these documents for me. Go explain things to my mother on my behalf. Wait until you graduate before worrying about your own life.* Step by step, piece by piece, until finally, he had consumed my entire life.

"Say what you have to say from where you are standing," I replied.

Tan Tu Bach looked down at his leg. "The list for the key project in Nam Thanh... they have temporarily removed my name."

I uttered a simple "I see." He clearly hadn't expected such calm indifference from me. He looked up, his expression searching. "You knew this would be the outcome all along, didn't you?"

I held his gaze. "I only knew that violating the training protocols would inevitably lead to trouble."

"Then why didn't you warn me?"

The question was sickeningly familiar. Man Tri Ha had asked me the exact same thing once. They both seemed to believe that if I knew where the pitfall lay, I was obligated to lay down cushions before they stepped into it.

"Did I not warn you?" I asked. Tan Tu Bach froze. I continued, "I told you repeatedly that your training and the state of your leg had absolutely nothing to do with me."

His face went ghostly white. "You meant that, back then?"

"What else could I have meant?"

His throat tightened as if he were choking on the words. "I thought you were just sulking."

I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "Tan Tu Bach, do not flatter yourself. Not everything I say is a calculated attempt to gain your attention."

He stared at me, dumbstruck, unable to utter a single word for a long time. A breeze swept through the treetops, accompanied by the deafening, shrill drone of cicadas. Suddenly, I was transported back to that summer in Nam Thanh from my past life—a summer even more stifling and oppressive than this one. There had been a row of camphor trees outside Tan Tu Bach's practice hall, too. I used to sit there waiting for him, from the golden light of the afternoon until the world turned dark and the streetlamps flickered to life.

Once, I remembered Man Tri Ha walking out, carrying his gym bag. Upon seeing me, she had smiled and said, "Sister Thanh Chi, Brother Tu Bach is exhausted today, so he fell asleep inside. Why don't you come back tomorrow?" I hadn't believed her. I went inside to find him, only to discover him resting his head on the sofa in the lounge, with Man Tri Ha’s jacket draped over him. They hadn't done anything, yet a vital part of me collapsed right then and there. When I confronted him later, he only said, "I was too tired, I didn't think about it that much."

He never thought about it that much. I was the one who was hurt. I was the one who was left humiliated. I was the one who was cast aside. He, of course, had no need to think about anything at all.

Tan Tu Bach reached into his pocket and produced a small box. It was that jade pendant—his Aunt Chu had insisted he bring it to me. He held the box out. "My mother told me to give this to you."

I did not reach for it. He pressed on, "I know the things you said that day were just out of anger."

I cut him off.