Chapter 29 — Two Sides of an Argument

When the car taking the group from Noi Bai airport back to the gate of Chu Văn An High School, Hạ Vy did not expect that the scene waiting for them was even more exciting than the send-off a week ago. The old banner has been replaced with a new, larger one, professionally printed instead of hastily handwritten: "CONGRATULATIONS TO THE CHU VAN AN DEBATE TEAM — NATIONAL RUNNER FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THE SCHOOL'S HISTORY." Almost the entire school, from tenth to twelfth grade students, had gathered in the front yard, along with the teaching staff and the principal, who rarely appeared at informal occasions like this.

"I didn't think I would cry in the middle of the schoolyard like this," Hạ Vy said, her voice choked up when Mỹ Duyên rushed to hug her as soon as she got out of the car, tears in her eyes.

"You deserve to cry," Mỹ Duyên replied, squeezing her friend's shoulder. "This whole year I've followed every step you took, from the day you stood at the club room door trembling and didn't dare go in, until today. I'm so proud of you."

The principal stepped forward, his voice echoing through the hand-held speaker that had been prepared. "Today is a historic day for Chu Văn An school. For the first time in more than twenty years of participating in the National School Debate Tournament, our school has a team that reached the finals and won runner-up position. This is not only the pride of the Debate Club, but the pride of the entire school."

The teacher stopped, looked around at the crowd of clapping and cheering students, then continued, his voice somewhat more formal. "The board of directors met and decided that, starting from the next school year, the Debate Club will have two full places to participate in the national tournament like previous years, instead of just one place due to budget cuts like this year. Not only that, the school will increase the annual operating budget for the club to invest in materials, invite experts to coach, and support travel costs for the following years."

The cheers rang out even louder than before. Standing next to Hạ Vy, teacher Sơn said nothing, just raised his hand to discreetly rub his eyes, and when Hạ Vy glanced, she realized that the experienced teacher, who had bet his reputation on the bold pairing decision nearly a year ago, was no less emotional than the students.

"Teacher Sơn," Hạ Vy called softly, standing closer to the teacher as the crowd gradually expanded. "Thank you, teacher. If it weren't for your decision that day, I would still be believing that my style is not good enough."

"No, Hạ Vy," Mr. Sơn replied, his voice warm but firm. "It was you who proved it yourself, not me. I just opened a door. The one who walked through that door, the one who dared to believe in herself enough to go all the way, was you."

The following week was a series of moments that Hạ Vy knew she would remember forever — a short article about the team published on the education page of a major newspaper, accompanied by a photo of the two standing on stage receiving the award, smiling brightly even though their eyes were still wet; a small commendation ceremony during flag raising, where the principal awarded her and Việt Bách certificates of merit and scholarships to encourage their studies; and countless congratulations from students she had never even talked to before, now recognizing her in the hallway and smiling.

But amidst all that excitement, another question began to creep into Hạ Vy's mind, becoming more and more clear as spring passed and graduation exams and university admission season approached. In just a few months, she and Việt Bách would have to make decisions that would shape the rest of their lives, and for the first time since the two confirmed their feelings for each other, the prospect of being apart became a real worry, no longer something far-fetched.

One afternoon in late March, after school, the two sat at the small coffee shop near the school that they often visited after late practice sessions, each with a notebook with notes on their college aspirations placed on the table.

"My dad wants me to apply to the international association program of a law school abroad," Việt Bách said, his voice thoughtful, his fingers lightly tapping the cover of the notebook. "It's still the law industry, but this time he didn't force it like before. He just gave it as an option, then asked me what I thought."

"So what do you think?" Hạ Vy asked, trying to keep her voice calm even though she was nervous inside.

"I think," Việt Bách said slowly, "I still want to study law. Not because that's what my father always wanted, but because after everything I've been through this year, I realized I really like the way the law works — the way a strong argument can protect a specific person, a specific story. But I don't want to go abroad. I want to study at Hanoi Law University, or the Faculty of Law of the National University. It's not because I'm afraid of leaving home, but because I want to build that path myself, right here, at my own pace and in my own way, not a program pre-arranged by my father."

Hạ Vy was silent for a moment, feeling a quiet joy rising in her heart, mixed with a little surprise. "Have you told dad yet?"

"Told you," he replied, smiling slightly. "He didn't object. He just asked me if I had thought it through carefully, and when I said it, he nodded, telling me to take responsibility for my own choice. That was the first time in my life he said that without a list of conditions behind it."

"So what about me," Hạ Vy said, smiling softly, trying to dispel the nervousness in her voice. "I decided to apply to the Academy of Journalism and Communication, majoring in Communications. Since the tournament, after seeing an article about my team, I realized I like the feeling of telling a real story in a way that makes people stop and think. Maybe that's always been what I'm best at, I just never thought it could become a real career path."

Việt Bách looked at her, his eyes shining with undisguised joy. "The Academy of Journalism is also in Hanoi."

"Yes," she replied, her heart beating faster. "Also in Hanoi."

The two looked at each other for a long time, no one said anything more, but in that silence was a deep relief that they both felt - they wouldn't had to face the prospect of being separated hundreds of kilometers away right when their feelings had just been confirmed, they wouldn't had to choose between love and their own futures. They could continue to build both, at the same time, right in the city that had seen their entire journey from day one.

"So we're still in Hanoi together," Việt Bách said, holding her hand on the table, his voice as firm as a promise. "Different schools, but same city. I think I can do it."

"I think so too," Hạ Vy replied, gently squeezing his hand.

Two weeks later, Việt Bách invited Hạ Vy to dinner at his house, an invitation that surprised her so much that she had to ask twice to make sure she heard correctly. The last time she was near his house, and the only time, was the evening when Mr. Hùng came to pick up his son after practice and looked at her with cold eyes, making comments that made her remember forever. This time, when she entered the neat and serious house, just as she imagined an academic family, Mr. Hùng was already standing in the living room, not with a critical expression as before, but with the somewhat awkward solemnity of a person not used to entertaining young guests.

"Please sit down," he said, his voice still maintaining his familiar stern tone, but without the old coldness. On the dining table, she noticed a newspaper carefully cut out, pressed between two layers of clear plastic, placed neatly on the bookshelf next to the table - it was an article about the final match, with a photo of her and Việt Bách standing next to each other on the stage.

"Dad, do you keep that article?" Việt Bách asked, somewhat surprised.

"I think it's worth keeping," Mr. Hùng replied briefly, not looking directly at his son's eyes, unnecessarily rearranging a few chopsticks on the table, as a way to hide his embarrassment. Then he turned to Hạ Vy, his voice somewhat solemn. "I heard from Việt Bách that you plan to study journalism. I have an old friend who has worked for a long time at a large newspaper. If you need an internship in the future, just tell me, I will introduce you."

Hạ Vy was stunned for a moment at that unexpected suggestion, then smiled, more touched than she could express in words. "Thank you."

Dinner that night did not unfold with the long, warm conversations she had imagined for an ordinary family. Mr. Hùng was still Mr. Hùng, reserved, serious, occasionally asking somewhat critical questions about her study plan. But under that stern shell, Hạ Vy recognized a sincere concern that she had never seen before, a father who was slowly, clumsily, learning to become a softer version of himself, not because he was forced, but because he saw, right on the national finals stage that day, his son happy and steadfast in a way that no prestigious academic program could bring.

On the way home, when Việt Bách took her to the bus station, Hạ Vy looked back at the house disappearing behind the trees, the warm yellow light shining from the living room window.

"Your father has changed a lot," she said softly.

"Not really a complete change," Việt Bách replied, his voice thoughtful. "He's still him, still strict, still reserved. But I think he's learned to leave room for the things he doesn't fully understand, instead of dismissing them immediately. Maybe that's the best I can hope for, and I think that's enough."

Hạ Vy nodded, wrapping her arm around his arm as they walked slowly in the fading sunset on the familiar street. Graduation season was approaching, bringing with it many unknowns, but for the first time throughout her long journey full of stumbles, she felt secure in stepping toward that future, not because everything was perfect, but because she knew she would not have to walk alone.