Chapter 22 — The Language of Hands

Thao Nguyen gently knocked on Binh An's door, waiting a few tense seconds before the door opened. Binh An stood there, his expression still as reserved as it had been all week, but did not close the door, just retreated inside, leaving the door open as an implicit invitation.

She walked in, sat down on the edge of the bed, did not rush to speak immediately like before, but took a moment of silence to observe the room - new paintings hanging on the wall, a sketchbook open on the table with a few unfinished sketches. She realized that it had been a long time since she really stopped to look at his private space, and wasn't really curious about what was going on in his small but complete world.

"I didn't come to apologize anymore," she signed, slowly, looking straight at him. "I've apologized a lot, and I thought, maybe an apology isn't what you need to hear right now. I came to ask you a question, and I want to hear your real answer, no matter how hard it is."

Binh An looked at her, a bit surprised at this strange opening, then nodded slightly, signaling her to continue.

"What do you need from me?" Thao Nguyen asked, simply but sincerely. "It's not what I think you need, it's what you really need."

Binh An was silent for a long time, his hands clasped together in his lap, as if he was considering whether to tell the truth or not. Finally, he began to sign, slowly. "I don't need you to be the best at notation. I don't need you to tell my story to the whole world to prove you're a good sister. I just need... you to ask me about my day, and really wait to hear the answer, not while listening and looking at my phone, not while listening and thinking about other things."

He stopped, took a breath, then continued. "Over the past few months, I've seen you change a lot, and at first I was happy. But gradually, I feel like you see learning symbols, connecting with me, as a project you have to complete, a goal you have to achieve, so that you feel less guilty. You ask if I'm okay, but sometimes I feel like you ask to reassure me that you're doing the right thing, rather than because you're genuinely curious about my life."

Those words, although not harsh at all, made Thao Nguyen feel more pain than any harsh scolding, because it pointed out a truth she had never dared to look directly at - that sometimes, even the most sincere efforts can unintentionally serve the giver's needs more than the receiver's true needs.

"I understand," she said, trying not to let her emotions take over, wanting to really listen to everything instead of hastily making excuses. "Go ahead, I'm listening."

Binh An was a bit surprised because she didn't interrupt or explain right away like usual, she smiled sadly, then continued. "I want to tell you about the drawing contest. I already submitted it, did it by myself, and I'm quite proud of it. But I wish you were present when I pressed the submit button, because that was the first time I confidently submitted such a large contest work. I don't need you to help me do everything, I just need you to be there, witnessing my important moments, no matter how small."

"I'm sorry for not being there at that time," Thao Nguyen said, but this time she didn't stop at the apology, but continued asking, "Can you tell me about that painting? I really want to know, not just for peace of mind, but because I'm curious about your idea."

Binh An looked at her for a moment, as if checking to see if this proposal was sincere or not, then slowly opened the sketchbook, pointing to the last sketch he had completed to submit - a different painting from the one displayed at the No Distance Festival, this time depicting a boy standing alone in the middle of a crowded room chatting loudly, all with their backs turned to him. Particularly in the corner of the painting, there was a pair of small hands drawing bright lines, like a separate language. only that boy understands.

"This is how I felt, many times at a regular school, before I transferred to a specialized school," Binh An explained, gesturing slowly so she could understand every detail. "But I drew those glowing hands, because even though people around me don't understand me, I still have my own way to tell my own story. I submitted this picture because I wanted the judges to understand that Deaf people not only have the sadness of being abandoned, but also have their own strength to speak up for themselves."

Thao Nguyen listened, really listened, not thinking about how she would respond, not thinking about whether this story was "good" to tell anyone else or not, simply being fully present in that moment with her younger brother. She felt a subtle but profound change happening inside her — for the first time in many months, she didn't listen to learn, to correct a mistake, to prove something, but simply listened because she loved her brother, and wanted to understand him, completely, unconditionally.

"It's a beautiful picture," she said at last, her voice choked but sincere. "And I'm sorry for making you feel like I was working on a project, instead of actually being your sister. I promise, this time I won't make empty promises anymore, I'll learn to slow down, to truly be there for you, not just when it's convenient."

Binh An looked at her for a long time, then nodded slightly, didn't say anything else, just reached out and gently held her hand - not an emotionally explosive hug like the previous times, but a simple, sincere gesture, signaling that forgiveness was starting to rekindle, slowly but more firmly than any time before.

"I'm still a little angry," Binh An admitted, signaling frankly. "But I believe you're really trying, not just talking. This time I won't forgive everyone right away, but I also don't want to push you away anymore."

"I understand, and I accept that," Thao Nguyen replied, smiling slightly through her tears. "I will prove it with actions, not just words."

The two sisters sat together for a while longer. Binh An slowly told her more about the competition, about her specialized classmates, and small, everyday stories that Thao Nguyen often missed before because she was too busy. This time, she didn't look at the clock, didn't think about the club, didn't think about anything other than listening to her younger brother tell stories, a simple feeling of peace that she realized, that was exactly what she had been looking for all along the long journey, it's just that sometimes she detoured too far before realizing it was right in front of her eyes.

Before leaving her room to go to sleep, Thao Nguyen asked one more question, this time sincerely and not just as a courtesy: "When will the results of the contest be out?"

"About three weeks," Binh An replied, his eyes slightly nervous. "If you reach the final round, there will be an awards exhibition at the city's cultural house."

"I will come, no matter what happens," Thao Nguyen said immediately, without hesitation, then took out her phone and set a reminder right in front of her so he could see she was serious about this promise, not just an empty word and then forgotten like before. "I already wrote it on the calendar, do you see?"

Binh An laughed lightly at that somewhat childish but sincere action and nodded. "Okay, remember that."

The next morning, when she went down to eat breakfast, Thao Nguyen saw her mother preparing food in the kitchen. Her eyes looked questioning when she saw that her daughter's expression was much less gloomy than the previous days. "Have you been able to talk to Binh An?" mother asked softly.

"Yes," Thao Nguyen replied, smiling slightly even though she was still a little tired. "It's not completely okay yet, but I think we're on the right track, Mom."

Her mother nodded, did not ask further, just gave her daughter a plate of hot omelets, a simple gesture of care but enough to make Thao Nguyen feel warm, like a reminder that, even though the road ahead is still full of challenges, she always has a solid home to return to after every stumble.

Binh An went downstairs right after, sat at the dining table, and for the first time in many days, actively signaled to ask her about today's class schedule, about whether she needed someone to pick her up from school tonight. Those small, everyday questions, to Thao Nguyen, held a greater meaning than anything else - the first sign that the door between the two sisters, although not yet fully open again, was no longer closed as tightly as it was in the first days of the week.