Chapter 5 — Swept into the Wave of Love

She stood still for a long time on the sand, her eyes avoiding Viet Khoi's face, looking out at the dark sea in the distance where occasionally the lights of a squid fishing boat were anchored. The wind blew stronger, carrying a few fine grains of sand and splashed against the two people's feet, but neither of them moved, as if a small movement was enough to shatter the fragile balance hanging between them.

"Yes," she finally spoke, her voice hoarse than usual, carrying a long-pent-up fatigue. "It's really me. The person you met at Vong Trieu restaurant is me."

Viet Khoi let out a long breath. Even though he had anticipated this answer for a long time, hearing her admit it from her own mouth still made his chest choke a beat. "So why did you hide it? Why did you have to make up a whole layer of hats, glasses, and even a one-word nickname to avoid me and everyone?"

"Not to avoid you," she replied, turning to look directly at him for the first time since the conversation began. "You just happened to appear in this picture. The reason I hide my face has nothing to do with you personally."

"Then tell me. At the very least, I deserve to know your real name, if nothing else."

She was silent for a long time, her eyes glanced over him and then stopped at the dark horizon, as if considering whether to cross the boundary she had set for herself or not. Finally, she took a deep breath, and spoke, each word slowly as if it took all her courage to utter it.

"Vu Lam Khue. That's my real name."

Viet Khoi repeated that name in his head, feeling like he was grasping an important piece of the puzzle even though he didn't fully understand the whole picture. "Vu Lam Khue," he said softly again, as if to make that name more real, associated with the person standing in front of him instead of just a lifeless nickname on the competition registration board. "Okay, Lam Khue. Now tell me, why do you have to hide your real name when competing?"

Lam Khue clenched her hands, her eyes flickered with hesitation before she shook her head. "Not now. I... I'm not ready to tell everything, especially to you."

"What difference does it make to me?" Viet Khoi asked, his voice a bit proud.

"Because you're the defending champion," she replied directly, without evading. "You are the face of this tournament, the person whose every move is followed by the entire organizing committee and the entire media. Anything I say to you runs the risk of being exposed, whether you intend it or not. I can't take that risk, not now."

That answer made Viet Khoi pause. He realized he had never thought about that aspect — that his position, his reputation, became a barrier that prevented others from fully trusting him. That feeling was both strange and somewhat bitter.

"I understand what you're worried about," he said, his voice softening. "But I promise, whatever you tell me, I won't reveal it if you don't want it to. I'm not a reporter, nor am I one of the organizers."

"What value is a promise from someone I've only known for less than two days?" Lam Khue asked, her voice was cold but no longer as harsh as before, mixed with more fatigue than attack.

"Not much, I know," Viet Khoi admitted. "But you could start by giving me a chance to prove it, instead of closing the door from the beginning."

Lam Khue did not respond immediately, just stood there, letting the sea breeze blow through her long hair, her eyes looking out at the rolling white waves under the faint moonlight partially obscured by clouds. Viet Khoi stood and waited, without urging, so that she had enough time to organize the thoughts that were scattered in her head.

He sat down on the sand, signaling that she could also sit if she wanted, not forcing her, simply creating a less tense space than the original upright confrontational position. A moment later, Lam Khue also sat down, keeping a sufficient distance, holding her knees with both hands, looking out to sea instead of looking straight at him, as if not having to face him directly made it easier for her to open up.

"You know," she said, her voice slow, "I thought I would never register to officially compete. For many years, I only practiced alone, on deserted beaches that no one knew about, no coach, no teammates, just me and the ocean."

"So what made you change your mind?"

"A promise," she replied, her voice slightly choked. "For someone who's no longer here to see me do it."

Viet Khoi remained silent, did not ask further, just let that sentence settle between them, feeling its weight even though he did not fully understand the meaning. He guessed, it was probably part of the story she wasn't ready to tell, some loss big enough to make a person hide behind a hat and glasses for an entire season.

"I don't want to reopen your pain," he said softly. "I just want you to know, I'm willing to listen, whenever you're ready."

Lam Khue turned to look at him, her eyes in that moment were no longer defensive like before, but carried a fragile warmth. "Thank you," she said, her voice small but sincere. "Not many people are willing to wait without demanding immediate answers."

"Maybe because I'm also used to waiting for waves," he replied, slightly smiling. "The most beautiful waves always come to the most patient person, not the most hurried person."

That sentence made Lam Khue laugh lightly, the first laugh he had heard from her since the tense conversation began, and it made the atmosphere between the two soften significantly, like a warm wind suddenly blowing through the cold ocean night.

"I have reason not to trust the people of this tournament," she said at last, her voice low, carrying an undertone of barely concealed sadness. "It's not because I'm suspicious for no reason. There's an old story, related to my family, that makes me more careful than anyone else when entering this environment."

"What's going on?" Viet Khoi asked softly, trying not to appear too eager so as not to make her cower again.

Lam Khue hesitated, then shook his head. "Not now. I need time. But I promise, if the time is right, I will tell you everything."

Viet Khoi nodded, even though his heart was still filled with hundreds of unanswered questions. He understands that forcing someone who is trying to protect an important secret only makes things fall apart faster, while patience, sometimes, is the only way to reach the truth in the most complete and sincere way.

“Okay,” he said. "I'll wait. But there's something I want to say right now, before you can rebuild that defensive wall."

"What?"

"The night at Vong Trieu, for me, is not something I regret, even though I now know that you are my direct opponent in the tournament. I don't know what is going on in your life, but I don't want to pretend that night never happened, just because now everything becomes more complicated."

Lam Khue looked at him, her eyes shining with a complex emotion, both touching and aching for some invisible fear that had not yet been named. "You shouldn't say things like that, Viet Khoi. Not now, not in this situation."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to drag you into my problems," she replied, her voice choking. "You have everything to lose — title, reputation, career. As for me..." she paused, taking a deep breath, "I only have to prove myself with my own hands, without relying on anyone, not even you."

That sentence was like a knife cutting into Viet Khoi's self-esteem, but he was not angry, he only felt a surge of sadness when he realized that behind Lam Khue's cold, proud appearance was a deep loneliness, a burden she was trying to carry alone without wanting to share it with anyone, not even the person who had been by her side on an emotional moonlit night.

"Okay," he said, taking a step back, respecting the distance she needed. "I won't force you. But if one day you need someone to stand by your side, I'll be here."

Lam Khue did not answer, just nodded slightly, her eyes flashed with something like gratitude before she turned and walked along the sandy beach, her figure gradually disappearing into the darkness of the night. Viet Khoi stood alone on the beach, looking after her until he could no longer see her shadow. His heart was both relieved because he finally knew her real name and heavy because he realized that the story behind the name Vu Lam Khue contained much greater things than he could imagine.

He sat down on the sand, letting the ocean waves gently lick his bare feet, raising his head to look up at the sparkling night sky with a few rare stars filtering through the clouds. The name Vu — her last name — briefly evoked a vaguely familiar feeling in him, as if he had heard it somewhere before, perhaps in the gossip of old coaches, but at the moment he couldn't connect it to any specific memory.

Perhaps, he thought, the complete answer still lay ahead, hidden deep in the past that Lam Khue was not ready to share. But no matter how bumpy the road ahead was, Viet Khoi knew he had made a decision right from this moment: he will not leave her, no matter how long he had to patiently wait for her to open her heart. That last name Vu was still stuck in his head like a grain of sand that hasn't washed away from his shoe, and he knew for sure that sooner or later he will remember which story it belonged to, a story that he had a hunch about will not be simple.