Chapter 26 — Two Sides of an Argument

Part VI — Two Sides of an Argument

At four o'clock in the morning, Hạ Vy woke up, even though her alarm was scheduled for five o'clock. The room was still dark, with only the streetlight shining through the window curtains, creating a faint streak of light across the ceiling. She lay still for a while, listening to her heart beat a little faster than usual, then sat up and pulled the small suitcase that she had packed the night before to the middle of the room to check one last time, as if afraid that if she was distracted for just a second, she would forget something important.

The dossier of evidence that she and Việt Bách had compiled over the past three weeks fit into a navy-blue binder, marked with colorful sticky notes according to a system that only the two of them could understand—orange for real stories, green for data and research, yellow for backup arguments in case the opponent went in an unforeseen direction. She flipped through each page again, not because she was afraid of making mistakes, but because she felt a strange sense of peace every time she touched those pages, as if they were the most concrete evidence of a journey that had gone by.

She remembered the first afternoon she walked into the Debate Club's living room, when she was a timid transfer student, carrying an unhealed wound and a smoldering doubt about her own abilities. That day, the topic "Should social networks be limited in usage time for students" brought her into a direct confrontation with Trần Việt Bách for the first time, and she lost in the exact way she was most afraid of—because her emotions were considered not strong enough. Nearly a year had passed since that afternoon. She was no longer the girl sitting silently crying on a park bench. And the person who had once said "emotions alone are not enough to win" was now the person she trusted most in every match.

Her phone vibrated with a short message from Việt Bách. "Are you awake yet? The bus picks you up at six-thirty, don't let Mr. Sơn have to call you twice like on rehearsal day." She laughed alone in the dark, typed the words "Wake up", then stood up to make a glass of warm water to calm her slightly rumbling stomach.

At a quarter to six, she was at the school gate, where the sky was still dark, morning dew still lingering on the ancient almond trees. But contrary to the quietness she expected, the school yard was now filled with nearly twenty people - almost the entire Debate Club, along with a few homeroom teachers and a group of curious tenth and eleventh grade students who had arrived early. A homemade banner, clearly the product of staying up late the night before, was stretched between two trees: "CHU VAN AN WITH HA VY — VIETNAMESE CONQUERING THE NATIONAL PRIZE", the handwriting was scrawny but full of enthusiasm, interspersed with a few drawings of radio speakers and hearts scrawled in the corner.

"Finally showed up," Hồ Tuấn Kiệt shouted as soon as he saw her, running to pat her shoulder excitedly. "We thought we had to send someone to your house to wake you up. Where is Việt Bách? Why are you walking ahead of your lover?"

"Who loves who?" Hạ Vy blushed and glared at him, though she didn't deny it as fiercely as she used to. In recent months, the feelings between her and Việt Bách had been quietly acknowledged by both of them—no noise, no proclamations, just brief hand-holding after a late practice session, eyes that stayed longer than necessary, and a new peace of mind that she had never felt before when standing next to him.

"Okay, okay, leave it alone so people can prepare themselves mentally," Mỹ Duyên interjected, pulling Hạ Vy out of Tuấn Kiệt's teasing circle, hugging her friend tightly. "I believe in you. I believe in both of you. Just remember, no matter the outcome, you have gone a lot further than that timid girl at the beginning of the year."

Teacher Sơn walked over, holding a thin file - registration papers, competition schedule, and a small envelope that he handed to both of them. "In here is the hotel address, the phone number of the teacher in charge of the group, and some pocket money in case you need it," he said, his voice still calm as always but his eyes sparkling with a hard-to-hidden pride. "I've been teaching debate for twenty years, leading many teams to competitions. But I've never seen a team grow the way you guys have grown — not just in terms of skills, but in the way two people learn to trust each other."

Việt Bách, standing quietly in the corner of the yard until now, approached and bowed slightly. "Thank you for trusting us from the beginning, even though at that time perhaps no one in the club thought our pairing would go anywhere."

"I didn't believe it from the beginning," Mr. Sơn smiled, his voice deep and warm. "I just gambled. And it was one of the most valuable gambles of my career." The teacher patted both of their shoulders, then stepped back to make room for other wishes from the club members, hurried hugs, and small handwritten cards stuffed into Hạ Vy's hands to the point that she had to hold them tightly in her palm to not drop them.

When the car taking the group to the airport finally rolled, Hạ Vy turned her head to look back at the school gate, which was disappearing behind the morning dust, where Mỹ Duyên and Tuấn Kiệt were still standing waving, where teacher Sơn stood quietly with a satisfied smile on his lips. A feeling welled up in her heart, not quite nervousness, not quite fear, but something much warmer and more certain — the feeling of belonging somewhere, of being trusted by people who sincerely wished for her to succeed.

The flight into Da Nang, where this year's national tournament was held at a large conference center overlooking the ocean, lasted nearly two hours. Sitting next to Việt Bách, Hạ Vy tried to reopen the evidence file, but he gently placed his hand on the page, stopping her.

"Let's review it later," he said, his voice low enough for only the two of them to hear amid the noise of the airplane cabin. "Now just rest a bit. You've been up since four in the morning, I know because I was too."

"How do you know I've been awake since four o'clock?"

"Because I texted you at five-fifteen, and you replied in less than thirty seconds," he replied, the corner of his mouth curling up in a rare small smile. "People who sleep soundly don't respond to messages that quickly, Nguyễn Hạ Vy."

She laughed, the tension in her heart calming down a bit. "So do you think we're ready?"

Việt Bách was silent for a moment, his eyes looking out the small window, where floating white clouds stretched to the horizon. "I think," he said slowly, "we've never been ready in the absolutely perfect way I wanted to be last year. But I think we're ready in a much more important way — we know exactly where we're strong, we know where we can rely on each other, and we no longer have to pretend to be self-sufficient perfectionists."

That's what made Hạ Vy feel most secure when they began the final strategic rehearsal right on the plane, both of their voices lowering to serious whispers amid the sound of the engine. They took out a hypothetical topic to practice their final reflections — "Should artificial intelligence be allowed to assist students in writing essays" — not a real exam, just a familiar warm-up exercise to keep their thinking sharp before going into battle.

"I'll start with the story of a specific student," Hạ Vy said, her eyes lighting up out of habit every time she visualizes a story. "A student is good at literature but gradually loses the ability to express his thoughts because he is too dependent on support tools, so that the audience can feel the real cost behind the problem before hearing any numbers."

"And I will come in right after, not to ease your story, but to put it into a logical frame that cannot be broken," Việt Bách continued, taking a pen and quickly scratching a small diagram on the edge of the notebook. "The data on the percentage of students whose critical thinking ability is reduced when overusing support tools, compared with research on controlled use groups. Your story gives the audience a reason to care. My data gives them a reason to believe that the concern is well-founded, not just a temporary feeling."

"And what if my opponent counters by saying my story is just unique?"

“Then I would point out that he is the one who is intentionally ignoring the big picture, because the particular case you recounted matches the broader statistical trend I just presented,” he replied without hesitation, as if he had rehearsed the situation a hundred times in his head. "That's what I've learned from you over the past year — a true story is never weak evidence, as long as it's properly placed in a strong enough structure."

Hạ Vy looked at him, her heart filled with a feeling of gratitude that was hard to name. There was no trace left of the cold, complacent boy who had poured cold water on her arguments in the first test match. The person sitting next to her now was a Việt Bách who had learned to see the true value in what he once considered weak, just as she had learned how to build a strong skeleton underneath her heart.

"We've really come a long way," she whispered, not really to him, but to herself.

"There's one more stage ahead," Việt Bách replied, gently holding her hand on the armrest of the chair, a simple but firm gesture. "But this time, we go together."

When the plane landed in Da Nang, the bright afternoon sunlight shone through the window, dyeing the entire plane cabin yellow. In the distance, they could see the long stretch of coastline, and nearby, the massive conference building where the national tournament was about to take place, where from tomorrow, everything they had built over the past year would be tested against the best opponents in the country. Hạ Vy squeezed Việt Bách's hand one last time before standing up to pack her luggage, feeling in her heart no longer the familiar fear of a year ago, but a strange, genuine excitement, fueled by the belief that, whatever the outcome, they would face it together, as two halves of the same argument, no longer needing to prove they were good enough alone.