Chapter 16 — Unfinished Music

Part IV — Silent Note

Recently, Gia Bảo often wakes up in the middle of the night, even though there is no sound to wake him up. Some days it was three o'clock in the morning, some days it was four o'clock, his eyes suddenly opened in the darkness, his heart beat fast as if he had just run a long distance, and his ears were filled with a melody of "Unfinished Song" that kept repeating over and over again. The place where he was not singing steadily was the place that rang out loudest, like an uninvited reminder. He lay there, looking up at the dark ceiling, trying to count his breaths to fall back asleep like Tường Vy had taught him, but most of those nights, he just lay awake until it was light, then dragged himself up to go to school with dark eyes and a heavy head.

He didn't notice how skinny he had become. It was only when Quốc Huy, during recess, suddenly stared at him and asked directly, "Have you eaten or drank anything? Look at that shirt collar that's so empty", did Gia Bảo suddenly realize that the uniform, which was originally fitted, was now a bit loose in the shoulders and waist. At lunch at the cafeteria, he felt full after eating just a few bites, even though his stomach was still grumbling when he woke up early. In the evening, when his mother cooked the dinner tray, he pointed at a few chopsticks as a courtesy and asked permission to go to his room to review, partly because his mind was reeling with all sorts of deadlines - a fifteen-minute test in Chemistry, a graduation review syllabus for Literature, a busy singing practice schedule to prepare for the upcoming city-level semi-finals - partly because he sat at the dining table for too long, and he felt a vague restlessness rising in his chest, as if there was something important waiting for him behind, even though he couldn't exactly name what it was.

Ms. Thanh was the first person to realize all that, earlier than Gia Bảo himself. As a mother, she had her own kind of sense, so subtle that it was frightening. She could read the fatigue in her son's gait just through the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and could recognize anxiety through the way he held his chopsticks and tapped lightly on the edge of the bowl without eating. She had been silently observing for nearly two weeks, not saying anything, just quietly cooking more of his favorite dishes, quietly checking to see if her child could sleep through the crack in the lighted room door at midnight, quietly remembering every small expression like a person gathering evidence for a trial that she did not want to have to open.

It wasn't until that Thursday evening, when she accidentally saw the electronic contact book on her phone and saw her child's Chemistry test score drop to the lowest level since the beginning of the school year, lower than the score in the tumultuous middle school years after the stage incident, that she decided she couldn't wait any longer.

"Gia Bảo, come down here, mom, let's talk for a bit," Ms. Thanh called up the stairs. Her voice tried to stay calm, but there was still a slight tremble in it that only observant people would notice.

Gia Bảo walked down and saw his mother already sitting at the dining table, in front of her was a cup of cold tea that hadn't been taken a sip, and next to it was the phone with the electronic contact book open, the screen still lit. He glanced over, immediately realized why his mother had called him down, and immediately felt a feeling of shame and defensiveness in his heart.

"Sit down here first," Ms. Thanh said, her voice gentle but decisive. She waited until he sat down opposite her before continuing, her eyes looking straight at her son, not avoiding him. "I don't want to blame you for your grades. I know you're busy with many things. But I want to honestly ask, are you okay?"

That simple question made Gia Bảo pause. He intended to answer immediately like always, a familiar "I'm fine mom" had become a reflex, but this time, for some reason, the words got stuck in his throat. Maybe it's because her mother's eyes are different now than usual - not a look of scrutiny or reproach, but a look of naked worry, no longer trying to hide anything.

"I... I'm just a little tired, mom," he replied, trying to keep his voice normal, but even he could hear the weakness in his answer.

"So tired that you lost almost three pounds in a month?" Ms. Thanh asked, her voice still light but with a weight that Gia Bảo could not avoid. "I've noticed that you've been eating irregularly lately. Every night I see the lights in your room stay on until late. In the morning, your eyes have dark circles like the days of studying for the most intense semester exams. And now your Chemistry scores have dropped completely. Gia Bảo, what are you hiding from me?"

Gia Bảo bowed his head, his hands clasped together under the table. "I'm not hiding anything from mom. It's just that the club's practice schedule is thicker these days, because the semi-finals are coming, there are two weeks left. There's a new song, it's very difficult, everyone in the group has to try harder than usual."

"Semi-finals," Ms. Thanh repeated, her voice lowered, her eyes flashed with something very complicated, like reminiscence and fear. "I remember the preliminary round the other day. When I got home, I immediately fell asleep and couldn't eat dinner. I thought after that round, I would feel better. Who would have thought that now I'm even more stressed than before."

"Because this is the more important round, mom," Gia Bảo explained, trying to infuse his voice with a bit of optimism that he wasn't sure how much he still had left. "But the whole team is trying their best, and so am I. I think everything will be fine."

Miss Thanh was silent for a long time, looking down at the cold cup of tea in front of her, her hands clasped together on the wooden table. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears, even though she tried to stop them from falling.

"Gia Bảo," she said, her voice trembling but each word was clear, as if she had prepared this sentence for a long time, just waiting for the right moment to say it. "Mom wants you to quit the club."

That sentence fell in the middle of the kitchen like a stone thrown into still water, creating widespread ripples that Gia Bảo felt immediately in his chest. He raised his head and looked at his mother, not believing his ears.

"Mom... what did you say?" he asked again, his voice cracking.

"I want you to quit the Choir Club," Ms. Thanh repeated, this time her voice was a little steadier, as if saying it the first time had helped her regain the courage to continue. "It's not because I hate music, it's not because I don't want you to be happy. It's because when I look at you now, I see exactly the way you looked three years ago, the days before that performance. You're skinny, you're losing sleep, you're so worried that your studies are failing. I don't want history to repeat itself, Gia Bảo."

"But this time is different, Mom," Gia Bảo quickly said, his voice starting to tremble with emotion and panic. "This time I'm not alone, I have the whole group, Ms. Hạnh, there... there are many people helping me. I've already sung in front of the whole club, you know, I did it in the preliminary round."

"I know you did it," Ms. Thanh said, her voice soft, a little choked. "And I'm proud of you for that, honestly. But do you know that day, when you took the exam, what did I do at home? I sat looking at the clock for three hours, holding the phone in my hand, waiting for your text message, with the constant fear of receiving a call telling me that you were crying on stage like every other year. I didn't dare to come and watch, not because I didn't want to support you, but because I was afraid, I was so afraid that I didn't dare to see you standing on stage again, afraid that if the old story repeated itself, this time mom probably won't be able to stand it."

Gia Bảo was silent, his throat tight. He never knew how his mother spent that afternoon, he only knew that she didn't come, and he blamed himself for not being able to convince her enough, not being able to reassure her enough to make her feel secure in being there.

"I understand that I'm growing up, I have my own dreams, there are things I want to pursue that you can't interfere with forever," Ms. Thanh continued, raising her hand to quickly wipe away a tear that had just rolled down her cheek. "But you are my child, Gia Bảo. Over the past three years, I have watched you gradually become happy again, gradually smile more, gradually no longer shy away every time someone mentioned singing. I was secretly happy because I thought you were okay, having passed the most difficult stage. Now looking at you like this, I'm scared. I'm afraid everything you've tried to rebuild over the years will collapse in just one evening, just like last time. I can't bear it if I have to watch you suffer one more time, do you understand?"

That last sentence rang out in the quiet kitchen, without a loud voice, without any anger, only a fear so sincere that it made Gia Bảo feel like his chest was being strangled by someone. He looked at his mother and saw in her eyes not the arbitrary prohibition he often imagined when thinking about this scenario, but a love so great that it was almost hopeless, a love that had seen its child fall and was now extremely scared at the possibility of having to witness it again.

"Mom..." Gia Bảo opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say next. In his mind right now was a mess of overlapping images - Tường Vy's face when she taught him to sing softly in the dimly lit music room, Anh Kiệt's laughter every time the group practiced out of tune, Ngọc Diễm's trusting eyes after the preliminary exam, and now, the tearful face of his own mother sitting in front of him, waiting for an answer that he didn't know if he could give or not.

"You don't need to answer me right now," Ms. Thanh said, her voice softened. She reached across the table, grabbed her son's hand that was placed on the table, and squeezed gently. "I just want you to think carefully. You have two weeks left until the important exam, you have the whole future ahead, the graduation exam, then the university entrance exam. I don't want you to have to sacrifice your health for a club, everything you've tried to build for your future. I just want you to think carefully, very carefully, and then let me know your decision."

Gia Bảo nodded, unable to say a word, feeling like an invisible rock was pressing heavily on his chest. He stood up, mumbled permission to go to his room, and walked as if his limbs no longer belonged to him.

Returning to the room, he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at the guitar standing in the corner of the closet as usual, but this time he didn't have the strength to reach out and take it down. The phone in his pocket vibrated with a message from the club's chat group - Anh Kiệt sent in an additional training schedule for the weekend, along with a few familiar jokes to dispel the tense atmosphere of recent days. Gia Bảo looked at the screen lit up in the darkness of the room, his fingers slid across the glass but could not type any words to answer.

He lay down, pulled the blanket up to his chest, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. Outside, the sound of traffic was fading on the small street, the wall clock in the living room was beating steadily, and in his heart, two voices were constantly arguing with each other - on one side was the image of his mother sitting and looking at the clock for three hours in silent fear, on the other side was the image of the whole group waiting for him at tomorrow's practice session, waiting for the lead part that only he could sing completely in the music that Tường Vy had devoted so much effort to perfect.

He didn't know what he would choose. He only knew that tonight, sleep would definitely not come again, and in the quiet darkness of the familiar room, for the first time in many weeks, Gia Bảo felt the old fear, the suffocating feeling that had haunted him for three years, was creeping back, slowly but surely, like a silent tide rising from the bottom of his heart that he no longer had the strength to stop.