Chapter 3 — The Stage of the Unsaid

Three weeks after Kien joined the club, a small incident occurred, making the already tense atmosphere due to the festival deadline even more oppressive. During a rehearsal for the climactic scene of act four — where the daughter character argues with her mother about her decision to drop out of school to pursue painting — the male supporting actor playing the father, who had to appear briefly at the end of the scene, kept forgetting where to stand, causing the entire scene to stop and rehearse for the eighth time.

"We don't have much time left to waste," Anh Thu said, trying to keep his voice calm even though impatience was clearly visible on his face. "Less than a month and a half left until the regional qualifiers."

Ms. Huong, sitting in the familiar director's row, raised her hand to signal a pause in the rehearsal. "Everyone, take a fifteen-minute break," she said, her voice calm but authoritative. "Mr. Thu, I'll go out into the hallway with you for a moment."

Coming to the empty hallway, Ms. Huong looked straight at Anh Thu, her eyes full of sincere concern. "I've noticed you've been a lot more stressed than usual lately."

"I'm just trying to make sure everything goes smoothly, ma'am," Anh Thu replied, trying to stay professional.

"You know," Ms. Huong said, her voice slow, "this script is very special, not only for the club, but I think, even more special for you. I don't want you to put so much pressure on yourself that you forget, this is still just a student play, not your entire life."

Those words touched on something that Anh Thu had never dared to admit out loud, causing her to pause for a moment, her eyes a little teary. "I just want to do it right, ma'am," she said softly. "I don't want to...ruin what I'm trying to say."

Ms. Huong placed her hand on her shoulder, her eyes full of deep understanding without Anh Thu having to explain anything further. "I believe you can do it," she said. "But sometimes, for a story to truly touch the hearts of others, the storyteller also needs to learn to let loose a little, instead of trying to control every smallest detail."

When the two returned to the hall, the training session continued with the atmosphere having calmed down somewhat. At break time in the middle of the session, when most members dispersed to different corners of the hall to rest, Anh Thu happened to see Kien sitting alone in the last row, holding a script, eyes glued to a specific conversation.

"Are you re-reading the script?" she asked, moving to sit down a chair away from him.

Kien was a little startled, but didn't hide it. "Yes," he replied. "I... was just curious about how you built the character of the girl."

"What do you think?" Anh Thu asked, his voice full of genuine curiosity, not just a social question.

Kien pondered for a moment before responding, his voice careful as if he was considering each word. "I think, this character has a very specific fear — not the fear of losing his mother, but the fear of not being able to say all the important things before everything ends. It's a very... real fear."

That comment made Anh Thu stunned, feeling like she was being seen through to the bottom of her heart by someone she had only known for less than a month. "You're right," she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. "That's exactly what I wanted to convey."

The two were silent for a while, the atmosphere between them became much closer than the previous dry business exchanges. "Do you have experience writing?" Anh Thu asked, really curious about his unusual sensitivity to script language.

"Not really written," Kien replied, his voice somewhat vague as always when the story touches close to his past. "But I used to... read and listen to a lot of scripts, many years ago."

That ambiguity, instead of making Anh Thu ask more questions like before, this time made her feel a certain respect for the boundary he was trying to keep. "It's okay," she said. "Everyone has their own private things. I have no intention of forcing you to tell them if you're not ready."

Kien's eyes flashed with clear surprise at that understanding, a rare feeling of relief spread in his heart - the feeling of being accepted without having to explain, something he had never had since the day he left the spotlight at the age of fourteen.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice rarely sincere.

The practice session continued until late at night, and when everyone gradually left, Anh Thu stayed a bit to rearrange the props for tomorrow's practice session. Kien, instead of leaving immediately as usual, stayed behind to help her, even though no one asked him to do so.

"You don't have to stay to help me," Anh Thu said, although he couldn't help but feel warm inside at that unexpected gesture.

"I don't mind," Kien replied, continuing to pack the small props into the box. "Besides, I'm not in a hurry to go home."

That blurted sentence made Anh Thu glance at him slightly, noticing a moment of sadness passing through his eyes before he could hide it. She didn't ask further, just continued her work in silence, but in her heart, she began to feel more clearly that behind Hoang Kien's cold, closed exterior, was a wounded soul that she, for some reason, wanted to understand more than anyone else in this club.

When Kien returned to his family's spacious villa that night, the living room was still lit and his parents were waiting with unusually serious faces. On the table, a thick file of study abroad documents is neatly arranged, accompanied by a list of universities studying Economics abroad.

"You're home so late?" his mother asked, her voice not quite reproachful but full of familiar scrutiny.

"I have practice at the club, mom," Kien replied, taking off his shoes at the door, trying to keep his voice calm.

"The Drama Club," his father said, placing the teacup on the table with a meaningful click. "I think you're just participating to get enough extracurricular activities for your application, right? I hope you don't plan on spending too much time on that."

"I'm just doing backstage work, dad," Kien replied, clearly feeling the familiar tension rising in his chest. "There's nothing to worry about."

"We just want to remind you," his mother said, her voice softer but still unable to hide her determination, "that after everything that happened when you were fourteen, we don't want you to get too deeply involved in anything related to theater or performance anymore. You have a new, much more stable path waiting ahead."

That reminder, even though it was said with care, still made Kien choke for a moment, old memories of that fateful performance night flashed through his mind like a wound that had never fully healed. "I understand, Mom," he replied, his voice quiet. "I will not let it affect my studies or my study abroad application."

His parents nodded in satisfaction, not realizing the awkwardness in their son's voice. Kien went to his own room, closed the door, sat down at the desk but did not open his books, just sat there, reviewing Anh Thu's unexpected comment that afternoon - the sincere, non-judgmental understanding that he had never received from his own family members in the past four years.

He opened the desk drawer, took out a small old box that he had always hidden, inside were a few dusty child acting medals and an old newspaper clipping with a headline about "child theater prodigy" - the last remaining mementos from a childhood that he tried to bury deeply, but it seemed that, since the day he entered the Drama Club at Dawn School, they were gradually being revived again, in a way that even he could not. unexpected.

He picked up the smallest medal, the light from the table lamp reflected on the tarnished metal surface, his fingers lightly brushing over the inscription of his name from four years ago. There is a part of him, a part that seemed to be buried forever with the shame of that fateful night, now stirs to life every time he hears Anh Thu passionately talk about the script, every time he sees her sparkling eyes at a line that has just been completed. He put the box back in the drawer and locked it carefully, but this time, not to bury it again, but as a silent promise that, perhaps, it was time for him to face what he had been trying to avoid for all those years, even though that path would certainly not be easy at all.