Chapter 3 — The Finish Line of Years Gone By

Two weeks have passed, Khue's notebook has grown to nearly twenty pages, the writing is neat, the columns of numbers are drawn with a ruler, completely different from the temporary scribbles before. Not only did she record running times, she also drew a small line graph at the bottom of each page, showing each athlete's improvement trend from session to session.

"You know, your average lap time has dropped from one minute thirty-three to one minute twenty-six in twelve sessions," Khue said, showing the notebook to Son during the break, her voice full of pride as if she had just set a record. "If you keep up this momentum, come test day you can hit four minutes fifteen for 1500 meters."

Son wiped his sweat with the hem of his shirt, looked at the chart, and saw the line going up steadily like a staircase. He had never seen his progress presented so clearly — before now, he had only felt it with his body, with the feeling of less pain in his lungs in the last lap, but no one had ever turned it into specific numbers like that.

"How do you know how to draw these things so well?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"My dad often meets with consulting companies. I looked closely at their reports and got used to them," Khue replied, sitting down on the cement steps next to the yard, waving the notebook like a fan. "Besides, I like this better than just sitting around watching other people run. It feels like I'm participating in something too."

From afar, Huan ran past, shouting back: "Khue, read the time for me last round, I feel faster than usual," Khue looked at the clock, smiled, and shouted back: "One minute and eighteen, two seconds slower than the previous round, Huan. Don't get overconfident."

The whole yard burst into laughter, even Huan, who was panting, had to grin. Since Khue joined the team as a secretary, the training atmosphere has become much happier - no longer just the sounds of Mr. Khuong's breathing and whistle, but also teasing and short bursts of laughter between tiring rounds.

But it was also during those practice sessions that Khue began to notice details only an observant outsider would see. Son always trained the hardest yet was the skinniest on the team. His cheeks were slightly sunken, and some days he had to stop longer than usual to catch his breath—not because he was tired, but as if his body lacked the energy to keep going.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" One afternoon, when the whole team had mostly dispersed, Khue asked when she saw Son sitting alone under the phoenix tree, rubbing his calf.

"Already ate," Son replied, not looking at her, his eyes still glued to the massage.

"What to eat?"

He paused for a moment at that pretext question. "Cold rice with sesame salt."

Khue was silent, feeling something stuck in her throat. She opened her bag, took out a plastic cake box, inside were a few slices of dried banana and a few cashews - snacks she brought from home every day but rarely ate them all.

"You can eat this for now, I'll bring extra." She held out the cake box towards him.

Son looked at the cake box, then looked at Khue, shaking his head slightly. "No need, I... you can just keep it and eat it."

"I said it was extra." Khue frowned, not understanding why he refused so decisively over such a small matter. "Besides, you train so hard but eat a poor diet, you're susceptible to injury, teacher Khuong also told me."

"I'm used to it." Son stood up, brushed off his pants, his voice a bit harder than necessary. "It's not a big deal, don't worry," He picked up his bag, said hello briefly, then walked straight to the school gate, walking faster than usual as if trying to avoid a longer conversation. Khue stood still, still holding the cake box, feeling both confused and a little hurt that she hadn't been able to name.

***

That night, Khue told Ky this story over the phone, her voice still filled with resentment.

"I just want to help, nothing else," she said, lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling.

"You don't understand," Ky replied, her voice more experienced than her years. "People are poor, they have the dignity of poor people. If you give them food right in front of their friends, they will feel like they are being pitied."

"But that's not what I meant." Khue objected, but her voice was less certain.

"Your intention is not as important as the recipient's feelings, Khue," Ky said, then smiled lightly. "If you want to help, you have to help more tactfully, don't give it so directly. Learn to observe what people really need, then find a way that doesn't make them feel degraded."

Khue was silent for a long time, thinking about Ky's words. She was used to the idea that every problem could be solved with a specific, quick action — the way her father dealt with business, treating a problem as a decision to be made rather than something to beat around the bush about. But it turned out that not everything in life operated according to that logic.

The next day, Khue went to the training ground earlier than usual and found teacher Khuong before practice started.

"Teacher, I want to ask, does our team have any nutritional funds?" She asked, deliberately asking a systematic question instead of specifically targeting an individual.

Teacher Khuong smiled faintly, his voice a bit self-mocking. "It's not a fund, my school gives the team a few coins for drinking water on match days. How the team's students eat and drink is the matter of each child's family."

"So if I ask for permission to set up a small fund, calling for contributions from parents in the Parents and Students Association, to buy more milk and bananas for the whole team before each heavy practice session, do you think it's okay?" Khue continued asking, her voice already prepared with a plan. "Not for just anyone, but for the whole team, so that no one feels embarrassed."

Teacher Khuong looked at her for a moment, his eyes mixed with surprise and appreciation. He has taught all kinds of students in his twenty years of working, but rarely has he met a sixteen-year-old child who thinks so thoughtfully about saving face for others.

"Okay. If you can do it, just do it. I support you." He nodded.

Khue did not tell anyone that she had personally spent a large part of her own money on that fund, only recording it in the general books as "contributions from parents and sponsors." From the following week, before every heavy training session, the whole team would find canned milk and bananas on the wooden table under the phoenix tree. Whoever needed them could take them without discrimination or having to thank anyone in particular.

Son picked up the milk carton, looked around, saw that the whole team took it as if it was a normal thing, there was nothing special aimed at him. He drank, a pleasant feeling spreading in his chest, not because of the cheap milk carton, but because of the way it was given — without fanfare, without making anyone bow to accept the favor.

At the end of practice that day, he went to where Khue was sitting and taking notes.

"That milk fund, did you show it?" He asked directly, without beating around the bush.

Khue was a bit startled, but quickly regained her composure. "Why do you think that?"

"Because the arrangement is exactly the same as the way I keep the books," Son replied, the corner of his mouth slightly raised, for the first time in the two weeks of knowing each other he showed a real smile to her. "Neat, systematic, not embarrassing anyone."

Khue smiled and didn't deny it anymore. "Okay, that's what I thought of. But don't tell anyone, it's not a big deal, it's just a carton of milk."

"Thank," Son said, his voice was sincere, different from his stiff attitude the day before. "Last time I... I'm sorry for being rude. It's not because of you, it's just..." He hesitated, trying to find words to express what he himself had never said out loud before. "It's just that my family is poor, I'm used to having to take care of myself, I'm not used to being able to give anything directly in front of others. That feeling is very uncomfortable."

"I got it." Khue nodded, her eyes softened. "I'll remember next time."

"Not just with you," Son added, wanting to clarify his meaning. "I think it's the same with everyone who is poor. Not everyone wants to receive help in a way that makes them feel inferior."

Khue looked at him for a long time, as if remembering that somewhere deeper in her mind, not just in the notebook she was holding in her hand. That was the first lesson she really learned, not from books or from her father's financial statements, but from the distance between them that she was gradually learning to bridge more skillfully.

"So from now on, every time I want to help, I will ask you first," she said, half joking and half serious. "Is that Okay?"

"Okay," Son replied, and for the first time, he proactively sat down next to her on the cement steps, no longer keeping a distance like the first days, they both looked out at the training ground, where the afternoon sunlight was dyeing the clay track yellow, and the smell of newly cut grass wafted in the wind, like a small promise that no one dared to name.