Chapter 14 — No One Wants to Lose

The semi-finals are set to take place two weeks later, giving the team time to prepare more thoroughly. During that time, Lam Khe and Nam Phong spent many afternoons after official practice practicing together, sometimes simply sitting and chatting in the canteen or park near the school.

One Sunday afternoon, while the two were sitting on a bench in a small park near Lam Khe's house, where she often passed by and saw old people playing Chinese chess, the conversation accidentally turned to the topic of family.

"My dad asked about the tournament today," Lam Khe said, looking into the distance where a few children were playing on the grass. "He seemed happy when I told him about our team reaching the semi-finals."

"He must be very proud of you," Nam Phong said, his voice gentle.

Lam Khe was silent for a moment, her fingers unconsciously curled into the hem of the thin jacket she was wearing. She looked towards the old people playing Chinese chess under the shade of a tree, her eyes distant, and Nam Phong, noticing the change in the atmosphere, waited silently, without urging.

"Do you remember when you asked me about my father?" She finally spoke, her voice quiet. "At the gym, the day we stood in the hallway on the second floor."

"I remember," Nam Phong replied, turning completely to look at her, his eyes completely focused.

"I think I'm ready to tell you today," Lam Khe said, taking a deep breath as if preparing to enter something difficult.

She recounted, slowly, detail by detail, about when she was twelve years old, about how her father had been a successful man, with a small but stable business, about the evenings he taught her to play Chinese chess before everything changed. She told how her father gradually got caught up in gambling on the Chinese chess board with a few acquaintances at a local pub. At first it was just small games for fun, but gradually became an uncontrollable addiction.

"The climax was one evening, my father bet all the money he had saved to renovate the house on a game of chess, believing that he would definitely win," she continued, her voice starting to tremble slightly as the memories came back. "He lost. All that money, disappeared in just one evening. My mother cried all that night. Later I found out, it wasn't the first time he lost, it was just the biggest loss, the time that made everything fall apart."

Nam Phong listened in silence, did not interrupt, only occasionally nodded slightly to let her know he was still attentively following every word she said.

"It took my family nearly a year to pay off all the debt, we had to sell some valuable items, and my mother had to take on a part-time job," Lam Khe continued, her voice gradually becoming calmer as she got through the most difficult part. "My father, after that incident, seemed to change completely — never touching any form of gambling again, working harder, trying to make it up to the family. But from then on, I also never played chess the same way again. I told myself that I would never let myself be in a situation where I bet everything on a single decision, whether on the board or in any aspect of life."

"That's why you always play defense," Nam Phong said, not a question, but an understanding that had just come together.

"Yes," Lam Khe nodded, her eyes a little wet. "I think, if I never took risks, I would never have to experience the terrible feeling of loss like my father did, like my whole family did. I lived like that for six years, not only on the chess board, but in every decision of my life — choosing a safe major, keeping a distance from any relationships that could hurt me, never letting myself really bet on anything."

Nam Phong was silent for a long moment, letting her words sink in completely before speaking. "Thank you," he said, his voice deeply sincere, "for trusting me to tell me this. I know this is not an easy thing to share."

"I've never told this story to anyone other than Yen Chi," Lam Khe admitted, gently wiping the corners of her eyes. "And even with Yen Chi, I only told part of it, not in detail like I just told you."

"Then I appreciate this even more," Nam Phong said, his eyes gently looking at her. "Lam Khe, I want you to know, your caution is not a weakness, it comes from a truly traumatic experience, a way of protecting yourself from what you witnessed. I don't think you need to be ashamed of it."

"But it also made me miss out on a lot of things," Lam Khe said, her voice still filled with self-blame. "Six years, Nam Phong. Six years I lived in fear, not daring to truly win a single game of chess, not daring to truly pursue anything I was passionate about."

"But now you are changing," Nam Phong said, his voice firm. "And that's the most important thing. You don't need to agonize over the past six years. You just need to continue what you're doing now — learn to balance the necessary caution with the courage to live life to the fullest."

Lam Khe looked at him, a gentle, grateful smile appeared on her face even though her eyes were still wet. "You know, I think this is the first time I've felt real relief telling this story. Not because I've forgotten the pain, but because I no longer feel like I have to carry it alone anymore."

"You will never have to carry it alone again, if you don't want to," Nam Phong said, gently holding her hand, a simple gesture of comfort but filled with so much sincerity. "I'm here, Lam Khe. No matter what."

That handshake, although brief, made Lam Khe's heart pound, but this time, that feeling was not accompanied by panic or the instinct to retreat like before. She let her hand rest in his for a moment, fully feeling the warmth and safety of that gesture, before gently squeezing it as a wordless response.

They sat quietly together on a park bench, the sunset gradually falling, dyeing the sky in the distance orange, while the old men playing Chinese chess under the shade of the trees continued their slow game, completely unaware of the important conversation that had just taken place not far away, a conversation that had drawn two hearts closer than ever.

"I should go home," Lam Khe said after a while, even though she didn't want to leave this peaceful moment.

"Let me take you home," Nam Phong suggested, standing up, still holding his hand, only when they walked out of the park did he gently let go, as a respect for the implicit boundary between the two.

On the way home, Lam Khe felt a deep relief spread throughout her body, as if a burden she had carried for six long years had just been partly relieved. She realized that telling that story to Nam Phong did not make her weaker as she had feared, but on the contrary, made her feel stronger, more understood, and more ready to face any challenges that lay ahead, both on the chessboard and in life.

When she got home, she stood in front of the door for a long time before entering, letting the emotions she had just experienced subside completely. Through the living room window, she saw her father sitting alone, the soft yellow light shining on his face, which had a few more wrinkles over the years. For the first time, instead of looking at him with an invisible distance as usual, Lam Khe felt a new closeness, a deeper sympathy for the man who had to live with the burden of guilt and repentance for the past six years, no less than the burden of fear that she herself had carried.

She entered the house, sat down next to her father on the old sofa, a small but unusual action compared to her usual habit of quietly going straight to her room. Her father was a bit surprised, but didn't ask anything, just smiled slightly, giving her half of the half-read newspaper as a gesture of inviting her to share this quiet moment.

"Did you have anything fun today?" he asked after a while, noticing his daughter's strange expression.

"I was just telling a friend about my family, about my father, about what happened when I was twelve years old," Lam Khe said, her voice gentle, without any blame. "I think, now that I've told it, I feel much lighter."

Her father was silent for a moment, put down the newspaper, looked at his daughter with eyes that were both surprised and deeply touched. "I'm glad you have someone to share it with," he said, his voice a little choked. "I'm sorry for letting you carry that burden alone for so long."

"It's not entirely dad's fault," Lam Khe replied, saying this frankly to his father for the first time. "I think we both need time to learn how to let go of that fear, in our own way."

Her father nodded, did not say anything else, just gently patted his daughter's shoulder, a simple gesture but containing so much emotion that both of them were not used to expressing in words.