Chapter 2 — The Stage of the Unsaid

Hoang Kien's first week at the Drama Club passed in almost absolute silence. He arrived on time, did exactly what he was assigned — carried the backdrop, checked the wires, arranged the props — but always kept his distance from any conversations not directly related to work, and especially, always found a way to stand on the edge whenever the center stage area was lit for practice.

"He's really strange," Ngoc Diep commented during a break, looking at Kien who was diligently repairing a door hinge in the background. "Don't talk to anyone, and never stay to watch scenes when it's not necessary."

"Maybe he was just trying to complete the prescribed time and then leave," Anh Thu replied, although in his heart there was still the image of Kien's fleeting moment of panic under the spotlight last week.

On Thursday afternoon, when Ms. Huong asked all club members, including those in charge of backstage, to participate in a joint warm-up exercise on stage — a routine activity aimed at building team spirit — Kien showed obvious reluctance.

"I don't think I need to participate in this part," he told Ms. Huong, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm only in charge of technology."

"This is a mandatory activity for all members, Kien," Ms. Huong replied, her eyes gentle but determined. "You don't need to act at all, just simply stand with everyone on stage for a few minutes."

Kien hesitated for a long time before reluctantly stepping up, standing at the outer edge of the circle of members gathered in the middle of the stage. Anh Thu, standing opposite him in the circle, clearly noticed his hands clenched tightly, his eyes constantly moving backstage as if looking for a way out.

The warm-up exercise requires each person to step into the center of the circle, briefly introduce themselves before stepping back. When it was Kien's turn, he just walked in awkwardly, said simply "I'm Kien" and then immediately backed away, completely avoiding the eyes of the people around him, his forehead covered in sweat even though the hall was not hot at all.

After practice, when everyone had dispersed, Anh Thu happened to see Kien standing alone backstage, leaning against the wall, his breathing still not completely stable. She hesitated for a moment before approaching.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softer than her usual professional demeanor.

Kien was startled and quickly regained his familiar calmness. "I'm fine. I'm just not used to group activities like this."

"You seem quite stressed every time you have to stand in the middle of the stage," Anh Thu commented frankly, without beating around the bush. "Is there anything you don't want to talk about?"

That direct question made Kien pause for a moment, his eyes clearly showing caution. "Nothing happened," he replied, his voice a little stiff. "I just don't like the attention."

"Okay," Anh Thu replied, without asking further questions, clearly realizing that he was deliberately being closed off. "If you need to rest, just tell me or Ms. Huong. We don't force anyone to do anything they're not comfortable with."

That unexpected understanding, instead of making Kien more defensive, made him look up at her with somewhat surprised eyes. This was the first time since moving to a new school that someone didn't ask too many questions or seem uncomfortable with his closedness.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice less tense.

A few days later, during a script rehearsal, when the main actors were reviewing the dialogue in act three - the scene where the mother in the script recounts a childhood story to her daughter while waiting for test results - the actress playing the mother, an 11th grade student named Thao My, repeatedly stumbled over a long dialogue, her expressions did not convey the correct emotions that Anh Thu wanted.

"That's not true," Anh Thu said, his voice somewhat impatient after the fifth unsuccessful attempt. "This episode isn't just about storytelling, it's about a mother trying to hold on to a moment of normalcy before everything could change forever."

Thao My nodded, tried again but still couldn't properly capture that complex emotional nuance. From behind the scenes, where the lighting system was being checked, Kien suddenly spoke, his voice small but clear enough for everyone to hear.

"Maybe the problem isn't the speaking speed or facial expressions," he said, making the whole stage turn to look at him in surprise at that rare initiative. "It's that the mother in this passage is not speaking to her daughter like an adult raising a child, but is speaking as if this is her last chance to be her daughter's friend, not a parent."

The whole hall was silent for a moment, Anh Thu looked at Kien with eyes full of surprise. That comment, although brief, touched on exactly what she had always tried to convey through the script but had never expressed it in words so clearly.

"You're right," Anh Thu admitted, her voice full of contemplation. "Thao My, try again, but this time, imagine you're talking to your best friend, not teaching anyone."

Thao My's next try had a clear improvement, making Ms. Huong nod with satisfaction from the audience. After practice, when everyone was cleaning up, Anh Thu went to where Kien was winding up the electric cord.

“You know more about the script than you let on,” she said, her voice full of curiosity. "Do you have any previous experience with theater?"

Kien paused for a moment, his hand completely stopped winding the rope. "Not really," he replied, his voice somewhat evasive. "It's just... I've read quite a few scripts."

That vague answer, although not completely convincing, did not make Anh Thu ask further, even though in her heart, her curiosity about this mysterious clubmate grew more and more. She realized that behind that cold, closed appearance, something seemed to be hiding much deeper than what he was willing to share - a secret that she, although she didn't know exactly what it was, began to feel the weight of it through every gesture and his avoiding eyes whenever he stood near the spotlight.

Meanwhile, from the corner of the auditorium, Trinh Gia Bach - a veteran member who has been with the club for three years, who still yearns to be given the main role but every year only receives small supporting roles - stood quietly observing the entire moment when Kien was praised by Anh Thu, a slight discomfort flashed across his eyes that he quickly tried to hide.

"He's only been in for a few days and he's already being praised for his intelligence," Gia Bach muttered to his friend standing next to him, his voice half joking, but containing a bitterness that was hard to notice if you didn't pay close attention.

"Maybe he just happened to say the right thing," the friend replied, not paying much attention to Gia Bach's attitude.

Gia Bach did not say more, just quietly packed his things, a vague feeling of insecurity arose in his heart about his position in the club that he had devoted to for so many years, even though he had never once stood in the center of the stage.

At the end of the practice session, when Kien was alone arranging the electrical coils into the toolbox, Duy Anh approached and sat down next to him with his usual friendly expression.

"You surprised me," Duy Anh said, grinning. "Since entering the club, this is the first time I've heard you say more than three sentences in a row."

"It's just a coincidence," Kien replied, smiling slightly and continuing his work.

"Hey, I'm not trying to pry," Duy Anh said, his tone turning a bit more serious, "but I've noticed that you seem uncomfortable whenever you're standing near the main stage area, especially when the lights are on. If there's anything, you don't have to tell me right away, but I just want you to know, I'm ready to listen whenever you need me."

That sincere, non-coercive proposal made Kien look up at Duy Anh, a rare warmth crept into his heart - the feeling of being understood without being scrutinized, something he had never had since the incident at the age of fourteen that made him decide to completely withdraw from all limelight.

"Thank you," Kien said softly, his voice more sincere than at any time since he stepped foot in this club. "Maybe, one day, I'll tell."

Duy Anh nodded, did not ask further questions, just patted his new friend's shoulder before the two of them carried the toolbox back to the storage room, leaving behind a hall gradually falling into darkness, with only the lonely soul lamp still burning in the middle of the empty stage, as a silent reminder that, even if night falls, the light is always there, waiting for the day to be fully lit.