Chapter 10 — Two Sides of an Argument

On Friday of the second week of pairing practice, teacher Sơn announced a new plan that surprised both Hạ Vy and Việt Bách. "Theory is not enough anymore," the teacher said during practice that afternoon, his face mixed with seriousness and excitement. "You two need a real match, against an opponent who won't hold back, to see if your combined strategy really holds up."

The teacher arranged for Nguyễn Đình Phúc and Lâm Bảo Trân - two people who were eliminated in the selection round but are still ranked debaters in the club - to play the role of "hypothetical opponents", practicing separately for a few days to build an aggressive attack strategy, deliberately exploiting every smallest gap in the immature coordination between Hạ Vy and Việt Bách. "I want you to be truly challenged," Mr. Sơn explained, "not a light pretend battle to make you feel confident. If your strategy has a flaw, I want it to be exposed right now, in this practice room, not on the national stage."

The simulated match was set for Monday afternoon, in a large conference room — the same room where the emotional intramural finals took place two weeks ago. This time, almost the entire club was present, eager to see the first results of the combined couple that the whole school was talking about.

The weekend before the match, Hạ Vy and Việt Bách spent two afternoons preparing, but this time, the atmosphere between them was completely different from the quarrel-filled training sessions of the first week. They had found a common working rhythm — Việt Bách sketches the argumentative framework first, leaving intentional gaps at transition points, and Hạ Vy fills in those gaps with carefully selected stories, no longer random stories she remembers, but stories carefully considered to serve the right thesis that needed to be reinforced.

"The topic I chose this time is quite difficult," Việt Bách said, re-reading the paper that Mr. Sơn sent in advance so they could have time to prepare more carefully than in regular matches - a rare concession because this was a practice session, not an official match. "Should schools install surveillance cameras in classrooms?"

"I think we should protest," Hạ Vy said, her eyes lighting up with an idea that just popped into her head. "I have a story that could open very strongly — about losing trust, about feeling constantly watched even in spaces that should be the safest for students."

"Okay," Việt Bách nodded, "but I need you to help me understand that story first, so I can frame my argument around that exact feeling, instead of simply listing privacy data."

That was the first time Hạ Vy realized a real change in the way Việt Bách approached the problem - he no longer asked "does your story have any accompanying evidence", but asked "what feeling does your story want to convey, let me build an argument to serve that feeling". That small change, even in the way of asking questions, made their entire preparation process go much more smoothly.

On Monday afternoon, when entering the conference room, Hạ Vy felt a different kind of nervousness than the feeling before the internal final two weeks ago. This time, she did not stand alone. Việt Bách stood next to her, and when their eyes met right before entering the "arena", he nodded slightly, a short gesture but enough to convey a trust that Hạ Vy had never felt from him before.

Đình Phúc and Bảo Trân opened with a series of logical arguments just as Mr. Sơn warned - evidence after evidence about the effectiveness of reducing school violence, reducing exam cheating, increasing teacher accountability when there are surveillance cameras, each argument is reinforced with specific data, without leaving many obvious gaps.

When it was her turn, Hạ Vy stood up, and opened with the story she had prepared - about an old friend from her previous school, who was once captured by a classroom camera in a moment of weakness, crying during recess because of a family matter. That video was then accidentally saved and shared by another classmate in the class chat group, turning her most private pain into a joke for the whole class for weeks. “Cameras don't just record misbehavior,” she said, her voice carrying weight in the silent room. "It captures even our most human, most vulnerable moments, moments that should be allowed to exist unwatched, unjudged."

As soon as she sat down, Việt Bách stood up to continue speaking, without a second of hesitation, as if the two had rehearsed this scene dozens of times even though in fact this was the first time they had tried to coordinate such a fast transition pace. "The story Hạ Vy just told is not an isolated case," he said, his voice firm, continuing the emotional thread she had just built instead of breaking it with a dry logical beginning like before. "According to a 2022 Center for Child Rights Research survey, more than forty-five percent of students reported feeling worried or uncomfortable when they knew they were being recorded by cameras in the classroom, and the percentage of students willing to ask questions or express their true feelings in front of the class decreased by nearly a third in schools that had installed comprehensive surveillance cameras. The price of the surface safety that cameras bring, if any, is a price that is traded for the honesty and freedom of expression of students — things that a healthy educational environment cannot lack."

Đình Phúc and Bảo Trân countered vigorously, attempting to exploit what they believed was a gap between emotional style and logical style—questioning whether Hạ Vy's personal story could represent a policy applicable on a large scale. But this time, instead of letting Hạ Vy alone handle that logical question like the previous times, Việt Bách proactively stood up first, handled the criticism about the representativeness of the data, then left it to Hạ Vy to connect back to the human aspect, making the entire argument of the team like a seamless flow, with no broken points for opponents to exploit.

Twenty minutes passed like a whirlwind, and when Mr. Sơn raised his hand to signal the end of the match, the entire conference room erupted in a round of applause louder than any previous practice session during the school year. Mỹ Duyên stood up from her chair, cheering without concealment, while Hồ Tuấn Kiệt whistled in approval from the back of the room.

"I have watched hundreds of student debate matches in my life," Mr. Sơn said, his voice filled with genuine emotion, different from the calm and analytical look he usually had when he announced the results. "But this is the first time I've seen two opposing styles blend together so seamlessly that I can barely tell where the line is between argument and story anymore. You just defeated a massive logic attack strategy with the very combination that, three weeks ago, neither of you would have believed possible."

When the practice session ended and everyone gradually dispersed, Hạ Vy and Việt Bách lingered for a moment in the empty conference room, both still feeling the euphoria of their first victory as a team.

"You did very well," Việt Bách said, turning to look at her, and this time, unlike any of his previous compliments, his voice carried a sincerity that was not mixed with any surprise or reservation. "That story about the friend being caught on video — that's exactly what makes the whole presentation so hard to beat."

"You too," Hạ Vy replied, feeling her cheeks heat up from the unexpected compliment but also from a genuine feeling of pride she hadn't felt since the fateful finals last year. "The way you continued right after my story, without breaking the rhythm — I never thought someone like you who believes in absolute logic could do it so naturally."

"Maybe I don't believe in absolute logic anymore," Việt Bách said, his voice lowered, taking on a new thoughtful tone. "At least not in the way I believed before I met you."

That sentence, simple but sincere, made something warm spread in Hạ Vy's heart, a feeling she had never allowed herself to fully feel since the day she entered the Debate Club's living room for the first time and immediately collided with the cold, indifferent eyes of the boy standing in the middle of the "arena" that day.

The whole group - Hạ Vy, Việt Bách, Mỹ Duyên and Hồ Tuấn Kiệt - pulled together at a milk tea shop near the school to celebrate, a simple evening but full of laughter, different from the tense atmosphere that has enveloped the past nearly a month since Mr. Sơn announced the news about the only exam slot. Mỹ Duyên recounted her reaction in detail when witnessing the unimaginable coordination, while Kiệt constantly teased Việt Bách about finally having someone make him "give in" in the middle of a debate.

"From now on, I will record this day," Kiệt announced, holding up his milk tea cup as if making a toast, "the day Trần Việt Bách learned not to always speak first."

The whole table burst into laughter, including Việt Bách, although he just shook his head helplessly instead of retorting as usual. Hạ Vy looked around the table, looked at the smiling faces of a victory that a month ago she did not dare to imagine she would be a part of, and felt a peace spreading throughout her body, a feeling of belonging to this place, to these people, that she had been searching for all year since leaving the old debate club.

On the way home that night, walking next to Việt Bách for a short distance before turning in two different directions, Hạ Vy suddenly realized that she no longer saw him as an opponent, nor was she just a reluctant teammate like the first days of their pairing. There was something else, warmer, more complicated, slowly forming between them, something she wasn't ready to name, but no longer wanted to deny its existence.

"Thank you," she said suddenly, as they stopped at a familiar turn.

"For what?" Việt Bách asked, somewhat surprised.

“For giving us a chance,” she said, smiling. "I know you were against it the most at first. But you still tried. Thank you for trying."

Việt Bách looked at her for a long time under the pale yellow streetlight, then smiled slightly, a rare full smile that Hạ Vy had never seen on him before. "Thank you for not giving up," he replied, "both in the intramural finals, and in that morning at the coffee shop."

They parted at the intersection, each going in their own direction, but when Hạ Vy looked back one last time, she saw Việt Bách doing the same thing, and in that brief moment, between the streetlights and the twilight of the winter evening, she felt more clearly than ever that the road ahead, even though there were still many challenges waiting in the upcoming school qualifiers, was no longer a road she had to walk alone. They had begun to believe in this team—to believe in each other—and that, she thought, was perhaps the most precious thing the past month had brought, more precious than any spots or titles they might win in the coming months.