Chapter 7 — The Arrow That Missed the Mark

Saturday morning, Thanh Tam arrived at the school gate fifteen minutes early, even though he told himself many times on the way that this was just a normal study tour, nothing to be nervous about. But when she saw Nam Khanh standing there waiting, holding two bottles of water and a bag of bread, she still felt her heart beating a beat faster than usual.

"Wake up so early," Nam Khanh smiled, giving her a bottle of water. "I thought I was the one who arrived early."

"I'm afraid of missing the bus," Thanh Tam replied, taking the water bottle and trying to keep her voice normal.

The bus ride to the city sports center took nearly forty minutes, most of the time the two of them sat next to each other talking about all sorts of things unrelated to archery — about their favorite subjects, about recent movies, about their plans after graduating from high school. Thanh Tam realized this was the first time she had talked to Nam Khanh about something completely personal, not about technique or practice, and she was surprised at how naturally the conversation flowed.

"Which school do you plan to attend after graduation?" she asked, curious.

"I'm considering two directions," Nam Khanh replied, looking out the bus window. "One is to study physical education and sports education, then become a coach. The other is to study economics as my parents want. I haven't decided yet."

"Which direction do you prefer?" Thanh Tam continued asking.

"Of course the coach," Nam Khanh smiled, not hiding it. "I like the feeling of helping others find their potential, just like I'm doing with my sister. But my parents worry that this career is not stable and doesn't make much money. I understand their worries, but sometimes I also feel tired because I have to balance what I want and what my family expects."

That sentence made Thanh Tam silent for a moment, a sudden sympathy rose in his heart. She never thought that Nam Khanh, who always appeared steadfast and confident, would also face the same pressure as her, albeit in a different form.

"I understand that feeling," she said, her voice quiet. "It's not exactly the same, but I also understand the feeling of having to balance between what you want and what others expect of you."

Nam Khanh looked at her, his eyes full of understanding. "I know. That's also why I always try to be gentler with you in training, because I guess you're already under enough pressure from other places in your life."

The city sports center is larger than Thanh Tam imagined, with a separate outdoor archery area where the national youth team is practicing under the guidance of professional coaches. The two stood in the small spectator stands, watching the young archers perform their movements with amazing precision and consistency.

"Look closely at their posture," Nam Khanh whispered, pointing to a female athlete preparing to shoot. "None of them looked stressed at all, even though this was an intense training session for the upcoming national tournament. They had practiced to the point that the whole process became a natural reflex, no longer having to think too much."

Thanh Tam observed attentively and noticed that it was as Nam Khanh said - each archer performed his movements with surprising calmness, even when the arrow did not hit the target as expected. None of them showed excessive disappointment or self-blame, they simply made slight adjustments and continued on.

"Aren't they sad when they miss?" she asked, a little surprised.

"They're still sad," Nam Khanh replied, "but they don't let that sadness last more than a few seconds. That's a psychological skill that they have to practice in parallel with their shooting technique — the ability to quickly recover emotions. I think that's also what I'm gradually learning, even though I haven't perfected it yet."

After about an hour of observing, the two found a stone bench under the shade of a nearby tree to rest and eat the bread they brought with them. The cool late-autumn morning air, gentle sunlight filtering through the foliage, created a peaceful scene that made both of them feel much more comfortable than the serious atmosphere often found in the training ground.

"You said before that there was an old teacher who taught you the philosophy of consistency," Thanh Tam repeated, remembering the unfinished conversation the day before. "Can you tell me?"

Nam Khanh was silent for a moment, looking away toward the training ground, then began to speak, his voice slow, as if recalling an old memory. "In seventh grade, I studied archery with an old teacher at the ward club. He used to be an athlete but was injured and had to retire early. I remember back then I was a perfectionist just like you are now, even worse — I once broke a bow out of anger when I missed repeatedly during an important practice session."

"You did that too?" Thanh Tam asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"Yes," Nam Khanh nodded, the corner of his mouth curled up into a slight self-mocking smile. "My teacher didn't scold me at that time, he just sat down next to me, just like I'm sitting next to you now, and said something that I always remember to this day — he said, 'Do you think the bow is at fault because you missed the shot? The bow only does what you tell it to do. If you are angry, it will shoot out anger. If you are calm, it will shoot out calm.' That statement completely changed the way I look at this sport, and perhaps the way I look at life in general."

Thanh Tam listened, those words were deeply imprinted in her mind. "So now you train in such a gentle way," she said, as if she had just pieced together an important piece in the picture of Nam Khanh as a person.

"That's right," he confirmed. "I don't want anyone to have to go through the feeling of breaking a bow out of anger at themselves like I did. Every time I see you clenching your fists or frowning after a missed shot, I remember myself back then, and I just want to help you avoid the detour I had to go through."

Those words made Thanh Tam feel strangely warm, a feeling of deep concern that she rarely felt from anyone other than her family and Yen Thao. She looked at Nam Khanh, the sunlight shining through the foliage illuminating his face with moving streaks of light, and in that moment, she realized more clearly than ever that her feelings for him had gone beyond the scope of a student for the club captain.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice gentle. "I think that helps me understand why every piece of advice you give sounds so sincere, unlike the empty advice I hear somewhere else."

"Because I speak from real experience, not book theory," Nam Khanh smiled, standing up and stretching. "Okay, let's watch a little more and then go home. Do you still have to study in the afternoon?"

"Yes," Thanh Tam replied, standing up to follow him, her heart still lingering on the story she had just heard, and a new feeling of closeness that she knew would stay with her long after that morning.

On the way home, the two sat next to each other again on the bus, but this time the distance between them seemed to have narrowed invisibly, no longer the distance between the captain and the new member, but the distance between two friends who were gradually understanding each other more deeply through each shared story.

The bus shook slightly with each turn, and there was a bumpy road, Thanh Tam's shoulder accidentally touched Nam Khanh's shoulder. She intended to apologize and move away, but Nam Khanh just smiled slightly, not seeming uncomfortable at all, making her relax more, not intentionally keeping an awkward distance like her first instinct told her. The two sat in silence for a while, just watching the streets pass by outside the window, and that silence, strangely enough, was not awkward at all, but had a pleasant feeling, as if there was no need to fill all the space with words.

"Hey," Nam Khanh broke the silence after a while, his voice containing a bit of hesitation that was rare for him. "Thank you for coming along today. Usually I go to these types of training sessions alone, with no one to share my feelings with."

"Isn't there anyone in the club who wants to go with you?" Thanh Tam asked, a bit surprised.

"Yes, but most people consider this a sport for entertainment, not many people are truly curious about the technical and psychological aspects as deeply as me," Nam Khanh explained. "You were the first person to ask me questions that made me rethink why I coach this way, instead of just teaching simple technique."

That compliment, although simple, made Thanh Tam feel a dull joy spreading in her heart, different from the usual joy when she achieved a specific achievement. This was the first time she was recognized not for her results, but for who she was — her curiosity, the sincerity in the way she asked questions, and perhaps the similarity in how they both viewed effort and pressure.

"Thank you too," she replied, turning to look at him. "Not just because of today, but because of these past few months. I think if it weren't for your patience with me, I probably would have given up a long time ago, or worse, I would have continued training the same way, exhausted and unhappy."

"I won't give up," Nam Khanh said, her eyes firm. "I saw it right from the first practice session. You may be too strict with yourself, but you've never lacked determination. Those two things are completely different."

The bus stopped near the school area, and the two got off and walked a short distance before going in different directions to go home. Before saying goodbye, Nam Khanh turned back to give one more word, his tone returning to its usual natural tone. "Remember to bring a relaxed spirit like today, don't let it disappear when you return to the practice field."

"I'll try," Thanh Tam smiled, waved goodbye, then stood watching his shadow disappear behind the corner of the street, her heart filled with a warm feeling that she knew she would always remember on this special Saturday morning.