Chapter 1 — The Arrow That Missed the Mark

Part I — Pressure From Sisters

On the wall of Ly Thanh Tam's living room, a large photo frame hangs solemnly in the center - a picture of her older sister, Ly Thanh Van, standing on the podium receiving a medal at the national student archery tournament five years ago, smiling brightly, bow held high proudly. Thanh Tam has passed by that photo countless times in her life, and each time, a familiar feeling arose in her heart — half admiration, half heaviness.

"Have you seen this semester's schedule?" her mother asked during dinner, her voice filled with concern. "I see the school is opening an Archery Club this year, do you want to try it? Maybe you have the same talent as Ms. Van."

That question, even though it came from good intentions, still made Thanh Tam clench the chopsticks in her hands. This is not the first time her mother accidentally mentioned the possibility of "being like Van", and each time, Thanh Tam felt like she was being placed on an invisible scale, compared to a standard that she had never really chosen for herself.

"I'll try it and see," Thanh Tam replied, trying to keep her voice normal, even though she had secretly decided right then and there - she would participate, not because of passion, but because of a hidden determination to prove that she could be just as good as her sister.

The first club activity took place at the archery field behind the school, a newly renovated area with long rows of practice targets spaced at standard distances. Thanh Tam arrived half an hour earlier than the appointment time, having taught herself how to hold the bow and pose through online instructional videos, determined not to look amateur in front of anyone.

"You're early," a voice rang out from behind, causing Thanh Tam to turn around in surprise. A tall, relaxed-looking young man was walking up with a bundle of bows of all sizes on his shoulder. "I'm Do Nam Khanh, captain of the Archery Club. Are you a new member?"

"Yes, I'm Ly Thanh Tam," she replied, trying to keep her voice as calm and professional as possible.

Nam Khanh's eyes flashed with surprise when he heard her name. "Thanh Tam... is Thanh Van's sister? She used to be a legend of this club, even though it was a few years ago before I joined."

That question, although completely unintentional, still made Thanh Tam feel a familiar pain in her heart. "Yes, that's right," she replied, trying to keep her smile, even though in her heart she wondered how many more times she would have to hear this question during her time joining the club.

The first training session begins with basic exercises on posture and aiming. Thanh Tam, thanks to practicing at home, performed the moves quite fluently right from the start, making several other members unable to hide their admiration.

But when it was her turn to shoot at the target, Thanh Tam tightened her bowstring so tightly that her hands shook slightly, her eyes fixed on the center of the target as if the whole world depended on that shot. The arrow flew away, hitting round nine, only a very small distance from the center.

"Wow, that's a great shot for the first time," another club member exclaimed in admiration.

But Thanh Tam did not feel happy at all. She stared at the arrow sticking out of the target's center, a heavy feeling of disappointment rising in her heart, as if that ninth round was an unacceptable failure.

"Why is your face so serious?" Nam Khanh asked, walking closer, noticing her unhappy expression even though she had just achieved impressive results for a newcomer. "Round nine on the first shot is excellent."

"I think I can do better," Thanh Tam replied, his voice stiff, his eyes still not leaving the center of the beer. "Should have hit right in the middle."

Nam Khanh looked at her for a long time, his eyes full of thought, as if trying to better understand the invisible pressure this new girl was placing on herself right from the first practice session.

"You know," he said, his voice gentle, "when Thanh Van first started practicing, she didn't hit the target right from the start. I watched her old practice videos, and it took a month to get used to the feel of the bow."

"So how is she as good as she is now?" Thanh Tam asked, unable to hold back her curiosity even though her voice was still tense.

"Just be persistent," Nam Khanh replied, shrugging his shoulders. "There is nothing magical. Archery is not a sport of perfect moments, but a sport of repetition, of accepting error and slowly narrowing it with each practice session."

Thanh Tam remained silent, those words somehow made her think, although she was not completely convinced. For the rest of the practice session, she continued to shoot a few more volleys of arrows, her results fluctuating between rounds eight and nine, never hitting the center of the target - something that made her even more upset with herself even though no one else in the club had the same reaction.

At the end of the practice session, when everyone started packing up their equipment, Nam Khanh approached Thanh Tam again. “I noticed you kept staring at every arrow that didn't hit the mark the whole time,” he said, his voice frank but not judgmental. "Is there something that puts you under so much pressure?"

"It's nothing," Thanh Tam replied quickly, following the familiar reflex of always appearing okay in front of others. "I just want to do the best I can."

"Doing the best you can and requiring yourself to be perfect immediately are two different things," Nam Khanh said, his eyes full of delicate observation. "But okay, I don't force you to share right now. Just take it slow, our club operates regularly on Tuesdays and Fridays, I hope you will continue to participate."

Thanh Tam nodded, packed her things and left, her heart still heavy with the feeling of being dissatisfied with herself, although deep down, Nam Khanh's words had begun to plant a small seed of doubt in her heart about the way she had always evaluated herself over the years.

On the way home, she stopped by the house of Ngo Yen Thao, her best friend since elementary school, to vent as usual after a stressful day. "I don't know why I'm sad about a round nine," Thanh Tam said, plopping down on her friend's bed. "I should be happy because it's already a good result for a newcomer."

"Because you always compare yourself to Ms. Van," Yen Thao replied directly, without beating around the bush. "You've been doing that since elementary school, Tam. Whatever you do, you wonder if Ms. Van could do it better."

"I didn't mean to do that," Thanh Tam objected, even though in her heart she knew her friend was right.

"I know you didn't mean it," Yen Thao said, her voice softening. "But maybe it's time for you to ask yourself, are you doing these things because you really like them, or just because you want to prove something to your parents, or to yourself?"

That question made Thanh Tam silent for a long time, unable to find a satisfactory answer right away. She remembered the intense tension she felt when drawing her bow, a feeling completely different from the pure joy she had imagined when thinking about a new sport.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice quiet. "Maybe I need more time to find the answer."

"It's okay," Yen Thao said, putting her arm around your shoulder, her voice warm. "Just take your time. But remember not to let yourself get exhausted just trying to reach a standard that even Ms. Van herself may never have asked of you."

That night, when she got home, Thanh Tam stood in front of her sister's photo on the living room wall for a long time, looking at the radiant smile in that frame with a completely different look than usual - no longer completely filled with the familiar admiration mixed with pressure, but starting to mix with a new question about whether her own path ahead would necessarily be exactly the same.

She went up to her room, opened her phone and searched for old competition videos of Ms. Van that she often watched to "learn", but this time, instead of just focusing on shooting technique, she noticed something else - in a short interview after the tournament, Ms. Van once said: "I don't think I need to be perfect, I just try to shoot better than I was yesterday."

Thanh Tam stopped the video and rewinded that part a few times, a strange feeling rose in her heart. She had never paid attention to this statement before, always only focusing on the moments when Ms. Van perfectly hit the center of the target. Perhaps, she thought, she had completely misunderstood what had truly made her sister successful all these years.

She turned off her phone, lay down on the bed, looked up at the ceiling in the dark, her heart still mixed between the old pressure and a new ray of hope that had just rekindled, wondering if tomorrow, when she returned to the training ground, she could try to look at each arrow shot with a different, gentler, less harsh look towards herself.