Chapter 3 — The Arrow That Missed the Mark

Two weeks have passed since Thanh Tam joined the Archery Club, and during that time, she has gradually gotten to know most of the other members - a small group of only eight people, each with a different personality and reason for coming to this sport. Among them, the person who caught Thanh Tam's attention the most, besides Nam Khanh, was a boy named Binh, in grade 11, who always grinned no matter how many shots he missed.

"Why are you so happy?" Thanh Tam couldn't help but ask, one afternoon when Binh just shot a shot and missed completely outside the scoring circle, flying to the target next to him, but he just shrugged and smiled.

"Because I just came here to have fun," Binh replied, scratching his head. "I like the feeling of pulling the bow, the feeling of the arrow leaving my hand. Whether it hits or not... is also fun in another way. You look too serious, Tam, as if you're competing in the Olympics."

Binh's joke made a few people around laugh, but Thanh Tam only forced a smile, secretly thinking that she could not understand the feeling of "happy acceptance" that Binh had just mentioned. To her, each arrow carries an invisible weight, a small test of her self-worth that she cannot get rid of, even though she has tried to apply Nam Khanh's "consistency is better than perfection" advice in recent sessions.

During that day's practice session, Nam Khanh dedicated half an hour to teaching the group about breathing techniques and anchor points — two factors that he emphasized are the foundation of every stable shot. "Breathe in as you raise the bow," he explained as he demonstrated, "exhale halfway as you pull the string back to the anchor point, then keep your breath steady as you release the arrow. It sounds simple, but most beginners forget to breathe properly when they're too focused on aiming."

Thanh Tam carefully notes every word he says in a small notebook, her pen moving quickly across the page as if she were copying down an important mathematical formula for the final exam. Nam Khanh glanced at that scene and couldn't help but smile slightly.

"You don't need to take such detailed notes," he said, stepping closer. "Archery is a physical skill, not book knowledge. Taking notes helps you remember the theory, but your body is what needs practice, not your memory."

"I'm used to doing that," Thanh Tam replied, a bit flustered at being caught. "I find writing it down helps me not forget any details."

"It's okay to take notes," Nam Khanh said, "but don't turn note-taking into another way for you to control everything perfectly. There are things that can only be learned through making mistakes many times, not through re-reading notes."

Those words made Thanh Tam pause a bit. She realized Nam Khanh had seen through something in the way she faced things — not just in archery, but perhaps in the way she studied, the way she lived. She always tries to control every controllable variable, as a way to reduce her fear of failure.

"So how can we reduce the fear of making a mistake?" she asked, her voice quieter, as if revealing something more personal than she intended.

Nam Khanh sat down on a nearby bench, signaling her to sit next to him while the other members were still practicing in the distance. “I don't think anyone is really afraid of making a mistake,” he said, his voice thoughtful. "Even the best athletes I've ever seen compete are still a little nervous before every important shot. But they learn how to not let that fear control their movements. I think the key is not to eliminate fear, but to learn how to shoot well despite still being afraid."

"It sounds more difficult than not being afraid," Thanh Tam said, laughing softly, the first time she laughed out loud in front of Nam Khanh without forcing it.

"Yes, it's more difficult," Nam Khanh laughed, "but it's also more realistic. No one can turn off fear like turning off a light switch."

The practice session continued, and this time, when it was her turn to shoot, Thanh Tam tried a different approach — she didn't try to banish the familiar feeling of anxiety, but simply let it coexist with her shooting process: inhale, raise the bow, exhale half a breath, pull the string back to the anchor point, hold steady, release the arrow. The arrow flew away, sticking into ring nine, close to the edge of ring ten.

She didn't jump for joy like some other members did when they got good results, but she also didn't put down her bow with disappointment like before. She just stood still for a moment, looking at the arrow stuck on the target, feeling a strange calmness that she had never felt in the past two weeks.

"Very good," Nam Khanh said from behind, his voice not too excited, simply noting. "Not because of the ninth round, but because of the way you just shot that shot. Do you feel any different?"

"I feel... calmer," Thanh Tam admitted, a bit surprised by her own answer.

"That's exactly what I want you to feel," Nam Khanh said, nodding in satisfaction. "The score is just a consequence. Calmness is something you can carry, no matter where you shoot or who you compete with."

At the end of the session, when the group dispersed, Binh ran to pat Thanh Tam on the shoulder. "See, just relax a little and you'll shoot better. I'm not wrong."

"You're right," Thanh Tam replied, smiling sincerely this time. "Thank you for reminding me."

On the way home, Thanh Tam cycled more slowly than usual, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze instead of rushing home like the previous days. She thought about Nam Khanh's quote — about learning to shoot well despite being scared — and wondered if that lesson could be applied to other aspects of her life, not just archery. Maybe, she thought, she could also learn to live well, study well, do things well, even though there was still the fear of being compared to her sister lurking somewhere in her mind.

That evening, she called Yen Thao, recounting the practice session, her voice for the first time in many weeks no longer carrying the familiar tension. “I think I'm starting to understand something,” she said. "Not the kind of understanding that immediately changes, but the kind of... starting to look at things a little differently."

"Sounds fun," Yen Thao replied, her voice warm over the phone. "There must be something special about that club, or is there someone special?" Her best friend teased her, making Thanh Tam blush even though no one could see through the phone.

"Don't think nonsense," Thanh Tam hastily protested, although she couldn't deny that the image of Nam Khanh sitting next to her on the bench, her voice calm as she explained her fear, had lingered in her mind longer than she wanted to admit.

"I'm just saying," Yen Thao giggled. "But I'm happy to see you happier. Let's keep this momentum going, Tam."

After hanging up the phone, Thanh Tam lay down on the bed, took out a notebook and wrote a few lines as her new habit. "Today I learned that you don't have to stop being afraid to do well. You just need to learn how to do well while still being afraid. It sounds counterintuitive, but perhaps that's the most realistic way." She closed the book, turned off the light, and fell asleep with a rare feeling of relief, as if a small rock had just been removed from her chest, even though it was only a very small part of the pressure she was still carrying.

The next day at school, during recess, Thanh Tam accidentally overheard two classmates talking about the regional tournament that was about to take place at the end of the semester, a tournament in which the school's Archery Club would participate for the first time after many years of hiatus. That news made her heart sink a little — part excitement, part familiar anxiety resurfacing, wondering if she was good enough to not disappoint the team as the tournament approached. But this time, amidst that worry, she also felt a small spark of excitement, a feeling of anticipation that she had never had with any previous activity since entering high school.

After school, she stayed in the library for a while, not to study but to read more about the rules of student archery competitions — shooting distance, number of arrows per round, how to calculate points when two people have the same score. She knew she was doing exactly what Nam Khanh had just warned her about, turning preparation into another form of control, but she couldn't stop herself from that habit completely after just one practice session. Change, she realized, was not an instant on-off switch, but rather like the lessons of breathing and anchoring — needing to be repeated many times before it became a natural reflex.

While busy taking notes, she heard the chair next to her being pulled out. Looking up, she saw Binh sitting down, holding a can of soft drink, staring at her pile of notes with an expression both amused and admiring.

"You really can't get rid of the habit of taking notes," Binh said, chuckling. "But okay, I think everyone has their own way of preparing. I like to practice more than think a lot, and you like to think carefully before practicing. There's no wrong way, as long as you still have fun doing it."

"I'm not sure if I'm happy or just trying to control everything," Thanh Tam replied honestly, surprised by her openness in front of a friend she had only known for a short time.

"Let's just keep an eye on it," Binh said, shrugging his shoulders in his usual philosophically careless fashion. "If one day you start to hate picking up a bow, then you need to worry. As for you still coming back to the practice field every session, still excited even if a little nervous, then I think you're fine."

That simple comment surprised Thanh Tam, not because it was particularly profound, but because it came from a completely different perspective from the way she usually analyzed herself — not with complex reason, but with a simple question: do you still want to come back. And the answer, she realized immediately, was definitely yes.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at Binh. "I think I need to hear that."

"Nothing," Binh replied, standing up and stretching. "Let's go home now, we have to wake up early for school tomorrow. See you at the training ground on Friday, Tam."

Looking at Binh's shadow disappearing behind the library door, Thanh Tam closed the notepad again, this time with a much more relieved feeling when she opened it. She realized that the people around her in the club, each with their own different personalities, were silently teaching her a common lesson — that there are many ways to love something, and none of them require perfection as a prerequisite.