Chapter 20 — The Arrow That Missed the Mark

Three weeks after her bad competition, Thanh Tam still has not returned to the Archery Club, and during that time, the individual event of the Provincial Championship took place without her participation - she silently texted Mr. Kien to withdraw from the individual competition, citing health reasons that did not allow it, even though both of them implicitly understood that was not the real reason.

The news spread throughout the club, and the general atmosphere became much heavier. Even though the team was eliminated in the first round, it still has the opportunity to participate in a provincial friendly tournament at the end of the semester for teams with good results, but according to regulations, each team is required to have three permanent members registered at the beginning of the season to participate. Without Thanh Tam, Ly Thuong Kiet's team is not eligible to participate, which means that the opportunity to practice and gain valuable experience for both Nam Khanh and Binh before they graduate will also disappear.

"Is there any way to convince Thanh Tam to come back?" Binh asked Mr. Kien in a small club meeting, his voice full of worry. "Without her, we would have lost our spot in the friendly tournament."

"I'm also looking for a way," Mr. Kien replied, his voice thoughtful. "But I think the most important thing right now is not the competition, but Thanh Tam herself. She is going through a very difficult period, and I'm worried that if no one helps her get through it, maybe she will completely give up this sport, not just this tournament."

Nam Khanh sat silently throughout the meeting, his face had a thoughtful look different from usual. He had tried to text Thanh Tam many times in the past three weeks, but most of the messages went unanswered, or only received short, social answers, completely different from the openness she used to give him.

Meanwhile, at home, Thanh Tam spends most of her free time isolating herself, avoiding any conversations that might touch on the topic of archery. The personal bow she once cherished and regularly cleaned and maintained after each practice session now lies covered in dust in the corner of the room, a silent symbol of the break in the journey she once persistently pursued.

One evening, while cleaning the room, mother accidentally saw a dusty bow in the corner of the closet, stopped for a moment, then brought it out and placed it on Thanh Tam's desk. Without saying anything, she just quietly left. Thanh Tam saw the bow when entering the room, feeling a sharp pain in her heart, but she still did not touch it, just pushed it to a corner of the table, continuing to do her homework as if nothing happened.

Yen Thao, after many unsuccessful attempts to persuade her, decided to change tactics. On a Sunday afternoon, she came straight to Thanh Tam's house without warning, carrying a bag of snacks that the two of them often shared in elementary school.

"I'm not here to lecture you," Yen Thao said as soon as she sat down on Thanh Tam's bed, opened the bag of food and divided it in half. "I just want to sit with you for a bit."

Thanh Tam silently accepted the food, feeling somewhat comforted by the non-judgmental presence of her best friend. The two sat eating in silence for a while, until Yen Thao broke the silence with a gentle but powerful question.

"Do you remember the feeling of holding a bow?" she asked, not looking directly at Thanh Tam but looking out the window, as if trying to avoid applying direct pressure.

Thanh Tam paused, that question touched something she had tried to bury for the past three weeks. "I... don't know," she replied, her voice low. "I think maybe I'm not suited for this subject. Maybe I should stop, before I ruin anything else."

"Do you really think so?" Yen Thao asked, turning to look straight into your eyes. "Or are you just afraid of facing the possibility of failing again?"

That question made Thanh Tam silent, unable to find an immediate answer, because deep inside, she knew Yen Thao had touched the truth that she did not dare to admit to herself.

"Tam," Yen Thao continued, her voice gentle but firm. "I've watched you change over the past few months, from someone who always tormented himself over a nine round, to someone who knows how to laugh happily after every practice session, who knows how to love something for its own sake, not because of the pressure to prove it to anyone. I don't want to see you lose all of that just because of one bad match, even though I know how much it hurts."

Thanh Tam felt tears welling up again, but this time not because of shame or self-blame, but because of a deep feeling of understanding from the friend who had accompanied her since the first days. "I'm scared," she admitted, her voice shaking. "I'm afraid if I go back, I'll ruin everything again. I'm afraid to look into Mr. Khanh's eyes, afraid to look into Ms. Van's eyes, afraid to face that I may never be good enough."

"No one asks you to be good enough," Yen Thao said, holding her friend's hand tightly. "You just have to be yourself, even when you miss, even when you fail. That's what you've learned over the past few months, don't let one bad day erase everything you've worked hard to build."

Thanh Tam sat quietly, letting those words slowly sink into her heart, feeling a small, fragile ray of light begin to glimmer in the darkness where she had confined herself for the past three weeks. She looked toward the bow lying motionless on the corner of her desk, and for the first time since that terrible day of competition, she felt a little something different—not an immediate readiness to turn back, but at least, a small openness to the possibility that perhaps, the path ahead wasn't completely closed yet.

"I heard that without me, the team wouldn't have enough people to attend the final friendly tournament," Thanh Tam said after a moment of silence, his voice still choked. "Mr. Khanh and Binh must be very sad."

"They don't blame you," Yen Thao replied, although she did not deny that fact. "But I think it's true that they really want you to come back. Not because they need enough numbers to compete, but because they miss you, miss Thanh Tam who always tries his best no matter how clumsy."

"I don't know where to start again," Thanh Tam said, lowering her head to look down at her hands. "I've been avoiding everyone for so long, I don't know if I have the face to come back."

"Just start with one small step," Yen Thao suggested, her voice gentle. "There's no need to go back to the training ground right away. Sometimes just sending a text message, apologizing for being silent for so long, is a start."

Thanh Tam nodded slowly, even though her heart was still full of fears that had not been completely removed. After Yen Thao left, she sat alone in the room, picked up her phone, reopened the conversation with Nam Khanh, re-read all the messages he had sent over the past three weeks that she had never really responded to - patient messages, never once blaming, just always gently asking and affirming that he was still there, waiting.

She typed a few words, deleted them, then typed again, not knowing how to begin after such a long period of silence. Finally, she put down the phone without sending anything, telling herself that she needed a little more time, a little more courage, before she could truly face all that was waiting ahead — not only for Nam Khanh, but also for Ms. Van, for the whole club, and most importantly, for herself.

That night, before going to bed, she opened her study desk drawer, took out the notebook that had been forgotten for three weeks, and turned to the last page she ever wrote - the line about Ms. Van calling, about the worry of needing to talk frankly with her one day. She reread those words, clearly feeling the gap between the Thanh Tam of a few weeks ago, who was gradually learning to love herself, and the current Thanh Tam, who was immersed in self-isolation and torment.

She picked up the pen, intending to write something more, but then put it down, unable to find words honest enough to express the mixed emotions in her heart right now. She closed the notebook, placed it on the table next to the dusty bow, the two objects that once symbolized her journey to maturity, now lay dormant, waiting for the day she had the courage to pick them up again, continuing the story she had temporarily left unfinished.

She turned off the light, lay down on the bed, but did not immediately close her eyes, but looked up at the dark ceiling, listening to the sound of the late night wind blowing through the window. She thought about Yen Thao's question that afternoon — do you remember the feeling of holding a bow — and realized that, even though she had tried to hide it for the past three weeks, the real answer in her heart had never been no. It's just that the fear has been greater than that nostalgia for a while, and perhaps, what she needs now is not an immediate decisive decision, but simply allowing herself to admit that she still loves what she gave up, as a first step before she can think about going back.