Chapter 19 — Second Floor Library Girl

Ngoc told Phuc the truth, but didn't finish, and that made the distance between them longer than the stairs from the first floor to the second floor.

The story started when Phuc found an email printed in the photocopier. That was An Nhien's letter to the school, requesting a survey of the building and asking for usage data. The sender's name is Ngoc's father's department.

Phuc placed the paper on the librarian's desk.

“You know this email?”

Ngoc read. "Knew the company is conducting a survey. Haven't read the letter yet."

“Do you know before the group?”

“I know dad is considering.”

“Since when?”

Ngoc shut up.

Phuc did not get angry. He just asked again: "Since when?"

“Since before I was on library duty.”

“So from the beginning you knew the property could be changed.”

"I know there's a possibility. I wonder what they'll offer."

“Did you ask dad?”

"Have."

“And you didn't tell the group.”

Ngoc wanted to say that she was afraid that people would look at her like a spy. She wanted to say she needed time to understand. But those reasons do not erase the fact that Phuc collected data while she retained part of the information.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Phuc looked out the window. “I don't need your apology to feel better.”

“I can say more.”

“You say when you're ready.”

“I'm ready.”

“No. You're scared.”

Ngoc felt that sentence as if her chair was pulled away. She also knew he was right.

"I'm afraid that if I say it from the beginning, people will think this was arranged. I'm afraid the reading room will become the reason for me to stay, and if I lose it, I'll have nothing left at school."

Phuc looked at her. “Do you think I'm with you because of the reading room?”

Ngoc did not answer.

“You don't believe me?”

“I don't know.”

“So we are the same.”

Phuc took the email and brought it to Ms. Hanh. Ngoc followed. Ms. Hanh read and said that the group needed to know all documents related to the survey if the school allowed it. Ngoc agreed to send a summary, not to send internal documents that have not been made public.

Afternoon, meeting. Ngoc said she knew An Nhien was surveying before the project started. She makes no excuses. She answered each person's questions.

Minh Chau asked if she intentionally signed up for library duty to collect information for her father. Ngoc said no. Lam asked if she could make the project unfair. Ngoc said yes, if she used her family's privacy or money to decide. Bao asked her if she really ever got on the wrong bus.

Ngoc replied: "Yes."

Bao nodded, as if that was the most important thing.

Phuc didn't ask much. He just said the group needs one rule: Ngoc does not make decisions about any documents related to the company; All information must be viewed by at least three people.

Ngoc agreed. She asked Phuc to be the third tester with Minh Chau and Lam.

“I don't want to be your supervisor,” Phuc said.

"I don't want you to supervise. But the team needs someone who isn't afraid to say no."

Phuc looked at her, then nodded.

After the meeting, Ngoc stood alone in the reading room. She took out the phone to call her father, but Phuc turned back to get his raincoat.

“You don't need to stay,” he said.

“I want.”

“For the reading room?”

Ngoc looked at him. “Because I want to be here even though you don't believe me today.”

Phuc hugged his raincoat. “I'm not saying I don't believe it.”

"You don't need to say it. I know."

"I believe you want to keep the second floor. I don't know if you will say everything when needed."

“I will learn.”

“Don't promise too big.”

“Then I will notify you in advance when I know anything that could affect the group.”

“That's enough promise clearly.”

Ngoc smiled lightly. “You like conditional sentences.”

“Conditions help people know what they are agreeing to.”

The two of them went down the stairs together. No one went too close, but didn't go too far either.

That evening, Ngoc's father sent a text message asking if she was okay. She replied that the group already knew. He said sorry for leaving her between work and friends.

Ngoc wrote: "I don't want you to apologize because the company exists. I want you to let users have a say in where they use it.”

Father: “I will include that request in the plan.”

Ngoc: “Don't give it to me. Give because it is right.”

Father did not answer immediately. A moment later, he sent: “I understand.”

The next day, the group received information from Ms. Hanh that An Nhien agreed to provide an independent assessment to the school, without requiring the school to sign exclusively. This is a transparent step. Ngoc did not take credit, just wrote it on the board.

Phuc read and said: "Your father is doing the right thing."

“I will tell him.”

"No need."

"Why?"

“Let him do the right thing without waiting for praise.”

Ngoc laughed. “You are strict with people you have never met.”

“I did.”

“During dinner.”

“He let Bao use the wrong spoon.”

Bao heard it from the other shelf and said you used it correctly. Everyone laughed, the atmosphere became less tense.

In the following days, Ngoc and Phuc still worked together, but they asked each other more questions. “Do you want me to see?” “Do you need my opinion or just listen?” “Who can this information be shared with?” Questions make the work slower, but it no longer feels like one person is guessing for the other.

At the end of the week, Phuc returned a book exactly three days late. Ngoc looked at the date on the card and asked:

“Are you going to report?”

“I'm paying.”

“You said this before.”

“I'm improving.”

Ngoc recorded the date. “No penalty this time.”

“Because I fixed the shelf?”

“Because you pay.”

Phuc nodded, a small smile. There are things that don't need to be turned into big lessons. Just do it right next time.

At the weekend, his father invited Ngoc to An Nhien's office for a small meeting. There was no fancy glass room, just four people at a long table and a screen showing a drawing of the school grounds. The financial representative said the plan to rebuild the first floor would be more profitable, while the second floor could be converted into a storage facility for the first three years.

Ngoc asked who would be responsible if the warehouse lost books, who had the right to take the documents, and where students still had a place to read. The representative did not immediately respond. He said he would add more after a survey. Ngoc opened the group's report, presenting the number of uses, length of stay and a list of needs that could not be abandoned. She did not speak in the voice of the general manager's daughter. She spoke like someone who had to write down each piece of paper stuck on the board.

Father looked at the map and asked why the group didn't suggest keeping everything the same. Ngoc said keeping it the same is a wish, but a plan is not based solely on wishes. They suggested keeping the reading floor, reducing storage areas, renovating windows and turning part of the hallway into open shelving. If there is not enough funding, they have a phased plan, each phase has a checkpoint.

The financial representative asked An Nhien if her name was on the sponsorship board. Ngoc said you should ask the school and students first. She didn't want a big sign that made people think the room existed because of a brand. Father turned to look at her, the corner of his mouth slightly raised as if trying to hide a smile.

After the meeting, he said: “I know I am debate with dad?

"Know. But I also know I could be wrong.”

Father nodded and said he would ask the design team to survey the common use plan. Ngoc did not consider it a victory. She sent the meeting notes to Ms. Hanh and asked to confirm the missing points. She also texted Phuc that she could come to the bread stall later this weekend.

Phuc replied: "When I'm free. The bread does not run away.”

Ngoc smiled. A very normal sentence, but it made her feel more relieved than a compliment in the meeting room.

Phuc sent her a schedule to return to school. One day he couldn't come because he had to take a practical exam. Ngoc asked him if he wanted her to keep the meeting records. Phuc said he only needed the minutes, no summary of emotions needed.

“Don't you want to know what you've been missing?”

“I want to know after reading the minutes, then ask which part is unclear.”

Ngoc nodded. They no longer try to tell each other every minute of the day. Trust isn't about sending every detail, it's about knowing the other person will ask when needed.

At the library, a 12th grader asked her if she could use Ngoc's story in her discussion. Ngoc said it would be okay if she changed her name and didn't assign thoughts she never said to her. She thanked me, then wrote it herself.

Ngoc realized that narration is also a type of property. People can share, but they cannot use other people as material for their ideas.

Phuc called at the end of the shift. He heard the sound of the fan and asked Ngoc if he was still there. She said she was about to lock the door. He told her to check the left window because the latch was a bit loose the other day.

Ngoc checked and found the pin was correct. She texted: "This time you remember better than me."

Phuc: “I have a board.”

Ngoc: “I have it too.”

Phuc: “So we are equal.”

A week later, Ngoc proactively sent the group a summary of all the information she knew about An Nhien, some of which was public, and some of which was not allowed to be shared. She marked the areas she wasn't sure about and wrote down who could verify. No one asked her to do so, but she wanted the group to not have to guess.

Minh Chau read and said the summary was clearer than she thought. Lam asked why his father's name was not written at the top. Ngoc said because the document talks about school use rights, not family history.

Blessed to see in the end. He didn't comment right away. A moment later, he texted: "Thank you for speaking first."

Ngoc replied: "I'm practicing."

“That's enough practice.”

The two met on the second floor that afternoon. Phuc stood next to the window, Ngoc sat at the librarian's desk. She asked him if he was still angry. Phuc said he was partly angry, partly worried and partly confident.

“What do the three parts add up to?”

“It's not over yet.”

Ngoc nodded. “I accept.”

Phuc placed the leaf-shaped clip on the notebook. “I'm not done talking straight yet.”

“You can start with a sentence.”

Phuc looked at her, but only said: “I'm glad you're still here.”

Ngoc did not ask further. She was happy too, and this time there was no need to turn her joy into proof that everything was perfect.