Chapter 6 — The Arrow That Missed the Mark

Part II — Learning to Let Go

October brings with it the first chill of the season, and with it, a new pace of practice at the Archery Club. Teacher Kien announced that the regional tournament will take place in mid-December, meaning the team has just over two months to prepare. The atmosphere at the training ground becomes much more serious, although it still retains the characteristic comfort that Nam Khanh always tries to maintain.

"From today, I will divide into small groups to train more thoroughly," Nam Khanh announced at the club meeting at the beginning of the month. "Those who want to officially compete in the regional tournament will focus on advanced techniques, and those who want to participate for fun will still practice as usual. Thanh Tam, teacher Kien and I have already discussed, you will be in the competition group."

That news made Thanh Tam's heart beat faster — both because of excitement and because of a familiar worry that had eased a lot compared to a few months ago but had not completely disappeared. She nodded to accept, and from that training session, she began private training sessions with Nam Khanh every Wednesday afternoon, in addition to the official club schedule on Tuesday and Friday.

"I've mastered the basic technique quite well," Nam Khanh commented during her first private practice session, watching her shoot a few test shots to evaluate. "The problem now is no longer the posture, but the way you release the arrow."

"There's nothing special about letting go of the name," Thanh Tam asked, a bit confused. "Isn't it just a matter of releasing your finger from the bowstring?"

"That is the most common mistake," Nam Khanh replied, shaking his head slightly. "Many people, especially perfectionists like me, often 'actively release' the bowstring — meaning they deliberately control the moment of letting go of the arrow, trying to time it so that the arrow flies best. But doing so will make the movement tense and unnatural. The correct technique is called 'loose' — you don't actively release the string, but let the muscles in your back and shoulders continue to tense until your fingers naturally slip off the string, almost like a controlled accident."

"A controlled accident sounds really strange," Thanh Tam said, frowning and trying to imagine.

"I know it sounds a bit counterintuitive," Nam Khanh laughed, "but just try it. This time, don't think about releasing the arrow. Just think about continuing to pull, pull, pull, until your body decides on its own when to let go because it can't pull anymore."

Thanh Tam raised the bow, pulled the string to the familiar anchor point under her chin, and this time, instead of focusing on the moment of letting go of the arrow as usual, she tried to maintain a constant pull, imagining pulling the string behind her shoulder, not in front of her face. There was a brief moment, almost suddenly, when her finger slipped off the bowstring without her even realizing it.

The arrow flew with a completely different smooth trajectory, landing neatly in the tenth ring, almost in the center of the stele.

"See," Nam Khanh said, his voice filled with rare excitement. "That's the 'loose' feeling I want you to remember. Not because you hit the shot because you tried harder, but because you stopped trying to control the last moment."

Thanh Tam looked at the arrow planted near the center, a feeling of happiness suddenly surged, but immediately after that, she also realized an interesting paradox in what Nam Khanh had just said - success comes not from trying harder, but from letting go at the right time, in the right place.

"So... the more you try to control it, the harder it is to succeed?" she asked, her voice thoughtful.

"It's not like there's no need to control," Nam Khanh explained further, sitting down next to her for a halftime break. "You still need to control your posture, breathing, traction — those things require clear initiative. But there are some moments, like when letting go of the arrow, that need you to learn to trust the process you've practiced, instead of trying to intervene at the last second. Life is the same, I think. There are things you need to prepare carefully, but there are also moments where you just need to trust and let things happen naturally."

Thanh Tam was silent, thinking about that statement. She recalls the countless times she tried to control every aspect of her life — from her grades, to the way she spoke in public, to the way she tried to act normal when compared to her sister. Perhaps, she thought, it was that excessive control that made her always feel tired, always feel inadequate, no matter how good the final result was.

"Where did you learn this from?" she asked, curious about the origins of his particular training philosophy.

Nam Khanh was silent for a moment, his eyes looking far away at the rows of practice markers in front, as if considering whether to share or not. "From my many failures," he finally replied, his voice deeper than usual. "Also, from an old teacher of mine, who taught me archery in middle school. I'll tell you more about it when I have a chance, but today I think I've talked about enough philosophy, now let's continue practicing."

The practice session continued until dusk, and for the rest of the time, Thanh Tam found herself shooting much more consistently as she applied her new loose technique — not every shot hit the tenth round, but most of them landed within nine or more, a marked improvement from the erratic fluctuations of the previous month.

When packing up to leave, Nam Khanh suddenly asked her, his voice seemed natural but his eyes were a bit avoidant. "Thanh Tam, are you free this weekend? I'm planning to go watch an archery competition at the city sports center, the national youth team practicing publicly. Do you want to go with me? I can learn a lot of cool things."

That question made Thanh Tam's heart skip a beat, a strange feeling that she had never had with any invitation before. "I'm... free," she replied, trying to keep her voice normal even though an excitement that was difficult to name began to rise in her heart. "I want to go."

"Then let's meet you at nine o'clock on Saturday morning at the school gate," Nam Khanh said, a gentle smile appearing on his face. "I'll take the bus, it'll take about half an hour."

On the bike ride home, Thanh Tam couldn't help the smile that appeared on her lips, even though she tried to tell herself that this was just a learning match, nothing special. But the small feeling of nervousness in her heart, the feeling of looking forward to Saturday more quickly than usual, spoke of something else she wasn't ready to name.

That evening, she texted Yen Thao to tell her about the practice session and the weekend invitation, deliberately writing in the most normal tone possible. But Yen Thao, with the acumen of a close friend of many years, immediately noticed something different in the way Thanh Tam told the story.

"Listening to the way you described this match-watching session," Yen Thao texted back, along with a sly smile emoji, "I have a feeling this isn't just about learning techniques."

Thanh Tam intended to type back a denial, but her finger stopped on the screen for a long time, and in the end she just sent a shy smiley face, neither denying nor confirming, leaving that space for herself to slowly explore in the coming days.

She put down the phone, sat down at her desk, opened her notebook as usual every night, but this time her pen hesitated for a long time on the blank page before writing the first line. "Today I learned the technique of letting go — not actively letting go of the string, but letting my body decide the moment to release the arrow. Mr. Khanh said it's not just archery technique, but also a way of life. I think I understand what he means, but I'm not sure I know how to apply it to other parts of my life — especially the part related to the strange feeling I get every time I mention his name."

Having written there, she stopped writing, reread the last sentence a few times and then laughed to herself, feeling a bit embarrassed with her own words. She had never written anything so personal in the notebook that was only used to record her feelings after each practice session, but she did not delete it, just folded the page and put it in a drawer, as if she was storing a new seed of emotions that she was not ready to expose, even to herself.

Lying down on the bed, she looked up at the ceiling, recalling the entire practice session this afternoon — the feeling of the arrow leaving her hand naturally without effort, Nam Khanh's excited eyes as she saw the arrow stuck near the center, and the unexpected question about going to watch the competition this weekend. She realized that over the past several months, since joining the club, her mind had gradually shifted in a way she had not planned for — from thinking only about how to prove herself to her sister, to truly enjoying every moment of training, and now, mixed with a newfound concern for the person who had patiently accompanied her throughout that journey.

She smiled in the darkness, pulled the blanket higher, and let her mind drift off to sleep with the last image of Nam Khanh's face as he said "controlled accident" in his signature serious yet humorous tone — an image that she knew she would remember long after today's practice session.