Chapter 17 — No One Wants to Lose

The next morning, Lam Khe woke up with swollen eyes from crying too much last night. She lay quietly on the bed for a long time, looking up at the ceiling, trying to sort out the chaotic emotions in her heart before facing a new day.

When she got downstairs, her father was already sitting at the dining table, a bowl of cold porridge was placed in front of him. It was clear that he had woken up very early but had not touched breakfast. His face was haggard, dark circles were clearly visible under his eyes, showing that he had experienced just as much sleepless night as her.

"Sit down to breakfast," he said, his voice low, not daring to look his daughter straight in the eyes.

Lam Khe sat down, but did not touch the bowl of porridge her mother had put out before going on a business trip. She just remained silent, her eyes avoiding her father.

“I want to explain it to you clearly,” her father said, after a long, oppressive silence. "Uncle Bay is an old friend. In the past, he lent me money to pay off the debt. He didn't blame me at all. On the contrary, he helped me a lot in the most difficult times. Now he's in trouble, someone is claiming an old debt that is indirectly related to him, and he thinks if he wins a game of chess, he can use that money to pay off the debt."

"So you really intended to play," Lam Khe said, her voice unusually cold, a coldness she had never used with her father before.

"I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice shaking. "I struggled a lot. I know I made a promise to my family, but the feeling of indebtedness to Uncle Bay made it difficult for me to refuse outright. I intended to just sit and listen to him talk, but he kept persuading me, and I... I'm not sure I would have been strong enough to refuse until the end if you hadn't appeared."

That honesty, although admirable, made Lam Khe even more panicked. "So that means that if you hadn't happened to pass by there, I would have actually sat down to play?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Dad, do you know what that means to me? I spent six years believing that you had completely changed, to rebuild that trust little by little. But now I discover, that trust can crumble just because of a phone call from an old acquaintance."

Her father remained silent, unable to refute those painful but completely accurate words. "I'm sorry," he could only repeat, his voice choked up. "I know apologizing isn't enough to fix what happened, but I'm really, really sorry."

"Does mom know about this?" Lam Khe asked, suddenly remembering his mother who was away on a business trip.

"No," her father replied, panic flashing through his eyes. "Are... are you going to tell me?"

Lam Khe didn't answer right away, sensing a fierce internal struggle — between protecting her father from the complete breakdown of her family, and feeling the need to be honest with her mother about what was happening. In the end, she just said: "I haven't decided yet. But you have to promise me, really promise, that this will never happen again, no matter what the reason."

"I promise," he said, his voice more certain, looking straight into his daughter's eyes for the first time since she came downstairs this morning. "I will find another way to help Uncle Bay, which has nothing to do with gambling. I ask you to trust me again."

Lam Khe nodded, although his heart was still full of doubts that could not be completely erased after just one conversation. She stood up and prepared to go to school, but all day, her mind was constantly haunted by images of last night, making her unable to concentrate on any class.

At school, Yen Chi immediately noticed her best friend's strangeness and pulled Lam Khe to a deserted corner during recess to ask about her. Lam Khe told the whole story, her voice still shaking even though she tried to stay as calm as possible.

"Are you okay?" Yen Chi asked, holding her friend's hand tightly, her eyes full of sincere worry.

"I don't know," Lam Khe answered honestly. "I'm angry, scared, and feel guilty for being angry with dad. I don't know how to feel anymore."

"You don't have to know right now," Yen Chi said, her voice gentle. "You just need to allow yourself to feel what you're feeling, no matter how complicated it is. You've already told me, are you going to tell Nam Phong?"

That question made Lam Khe pause. She thought of Nam Phong, of the afternoon at the park when she told him the whole story of the past, of the warm, comforting hand held. But this time, she felt a different kind of hesitation — the fear that if she told him about her father's almost recidivism, he would look at her, at her family, in a different way, a pity that she didn't want to receive, especially right before the important finals where the team was counting on her.

"I don't know," Lam Khe replied, her voice small. "I don't want this to affect the team's preparation for the finals. Maybe I'll keep it a secret for a while."

Yen Chi looked at her friend, a little worried about that decision but did not force it. "It's up to you, but remember, hiding your emotions isn't always the best way, Lam Khe. You've learned that already, remember?"

That reminder made Lam Khe pause, realizing the irony in her own decision - she had learned how to face fear on the chessboard, but now, when faced with real pain in life, she chose the old familiar path - hiding, suffering alone, not letting anyone else know the burden she was carrying.

But she is not ready to change that decision, at least not now, when the wound is still too fresh, too painful, and the important final is approaching day by day.

That afternoon's practice session, Lam Khe came to room 203 with an effort to appear normal that anyone observant could see the awkwardness behind it. She smiles when she needs to smile, answers when asked, but her eyes often wander somewhere, losing focus even when analyzing a simple chess position.

"You look tired," Nam Phong commented as they sat together reviewing some opening variations for the final match. "Didn't get enough sleep?"

"Yes, probably," Lam Khe replied, avoiding his eyes, pretending to pay attention to the chess board in front of her. "There's been a lot of homework lately, and also worrying about the finals."

Nam Phong looked at her for a moment, seemingly not completely believing that explanation, but did not ask further questions, just gently suggested: "If you need to leave early today to go home to catch up on sleep, just tell me, don't try to push yourself too hard. There are still three weeks until the finals, there's no need to put it all in one session."

"I'm fine," Lam Khe said, trying to smile that didn't really reach her eyes. "Let's keep going."

They continued their practice session, but Lam Khe clearly noticed her own lack of concentration — she made a few basic calculation errors that she would normally never let happen, causing Nam Phong to gently remind her a few times. Each time, she felt even more pressure, a vicious cycle between worries about her family and worries about not being able to perform well before the important match.

When I got home that night, the atmosphere in the house was still heavy. Her father tried to have a normal conversation during dinner, asking about the training session, but Lam Khe only answered briefly, lacking the warm openness like recent meals before the incident happened.

"Are you still mad at me?" her father asked, his voice a bit slack when he saw the long silence between the two of them.

"I don't know," Lam Khe replied honestly, putting down his chopsticks. "I'm not mad at you the way I was when I was little. I'm just... I'm scared. I'm scared that everything I've believed in for the past six years might not be as solid as I thought."

Her father was silent, his face full of pain before that confession. "I understand," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "And I will prove to you, with actions and not just words, that I am worthy of your trust again."

Lam Khe nodded slightly, did not say anything more, ended the dinner in a heavy silence that still prevailed, a new distance had just formed between father and son, even though neither of them really wanted it to exist.

That night, before going to sleep, she opened her notebook, intending to jot down a few thoughts as usual, but the pen kept hovering on the blank page without being able to write a single word, as if the tangled emotions in her heart were also stuck, unable to find a way out.