Chapter 17 — Unfinished Music

Two weeks before the semi-finals, time suddenly became suffocatingly cramped, as if someone had silently shaved a few hours off each day without anyone realizing it.

The Choir Club's schedule was now denser than ever: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday practice after school until 7 p.m., and Saturday and Sunday practice both morning and afternoon in the small hall borrowed from the School Union. Ms. Hạnh, who was always gentle and patient, now had to stand in front of the whiteboard, holding a marker in her hand to mark out each remaining timeline, her voice much more serious than usual every time the two words "semi-finals" were mentioned.

"We only have fourteen days left," she said in the first meeting of the week, her eyes scanning the faces of each student sitting around the music room, "and my chosen song this time is not a familiar arrangement like the preliminary round, but a completely new song, completed in less than a month. I know it's pressure, I know it's urgent. But I believe our club can do it, if everyone tries together."

That song, "Unfinished Music," which had originally been a melody Tường Vy left unfinished for two years, had now been completed by the whole group as a duet with full harmony, distinct parts, lead parts, and complex vocal changes that required absolute coordination. Because it was new, everything was still rough and stumbled in unexpected places. The whole group had rehearsed the transition from the chorus to the climax—where the male and female voices had to blend into one before separating into two opposing parts—countless times, but still could not get the rhythm right.

"Let's start from the beginning," Tường Vy said, her voice already a bit hoarse from shouting corrections all afternoon. She stood in front of the group, holding a sheet of music that had been crumpled from turning it over and over, with pencil marks crisscrossing each staff. "In this part, you tall friends have to hold the note until the end of the third beat before moving on. Don't be in a hurry. Let's count one two three four and then move on."

Lâm Anh Kiệt sat at the piano, his hands hovering over the keys to accompany the group, but when it came to the most difficult chord transition, his fingers tangled together, hitting a tiny wrong note, causing the entire harmony above to go out of tune for a moment. This was the fifth time in practice this afternoon that he made a mistake in that exact spot.

"Anh Kiệt, that part is a D minor chord resolving to G major, not C major," Tường Vy reminded, trying to keep her voice calm even though her eyes were filled with a hint of fatigue that she couldn't hide.

"I know, I know," Anh Kiệt replied, his voice a bit harsh, his hand lightly hitting the keys, causing a series of harsh sounds to ring out. "But my fingers keep making mistakes. I practiced at home last night and it's still the same. This part is so difficult, who wrote this damn chord progression?"

Those words that came out in frustration caused the whole room to pause for a moment. Everyone knew that the music was written by Tường Vy, and Anh Kiệt's words, although not intentionally aimed at anyone, still caused the atmosphere in the room to suddenly weaken.

"Sorry," Anh Kiệt said quickly afterward, realizing his mistake, his face turned red with embarrassment. "I didn't mean it like that, Tường Vy. I'm just angry because my fingers don't listen to the lyrics, not because of the song. The song is very good, really."

"It's okay," Tường Vy replied, trying to force a smile, but Gia Bảo sitting nearby could clearly see the forcedness in that smile, see her shoulders tense under her uniform, see the faint dark circles under her eyes, which always shine with passion when talking about music.

Tran Minh Thư, the tenth grade soprano girl who was the most timid girl in the group, sat crouched in the corner of the room, her hands clasped tightly on the sheet of sheet music, not daring to speak up even though she was also having difficulty with her high part. Ngọc Diễm sat next to her, gently patted her shoulder, whispered something encouraging, but even Ngọc Diễm, who was the calmest and most experienced person in the group, could not hide the tiredness clearly visible on her face.

Gia Bảo sat in the front row, the seat reserved for the singer, clearly feeling the tense atmosphere covering the music room like a thick layer of fog. He looked around and saw everyone straining under the same invisible pressure — time was getting shorter, the songs were getting harder, and expectations were growing with each practice session.

For him alone, that pressure was doubled. The night before, he had to leave the extra math class halfway through, using the excuse of a headache to rush to the extra practice session that Tường Vy texted urgently, worried that the extra teacher would call his mother. This morning, he had to ask permission to leave practice early to be on time for extra Literature class. He quickly rode his bike through three streets in the hot early afternoon sun, his shirt was drenched with sweat when entering the extra class, and could only sit down at the table for a few minutes before the teacher began the lesson.

And behind all that, his mother's words from the other night still echoed in his head, never once leaving. "Mom wants you to quit the club." He has not answered his mother, nor has he dared to tell anyone in the group about it, including Quốc Huy, including Tường Vy. He was afraid that if he spoke out, things would become more real, forcing him to face a decision he wasn't ready to make.

"Gia Bảo, it's your part," Tường Vy called, pulling him back to reality. "From 'if one day we lose each other in countless streets', let's try again."

Gia Bảo stood up, cleared his throat, trying to regain a steady breathing rhythm like he had practiced for many weeks. He sang, his voice echoed in the room, warm and slightly hoarse from fatigue, but still retaining the characteristic deep quality that made Tường Vy fall in love with it from the first time he heard it. This chant was the most difficult part in the whole song, requiring him to hold his breath for a long time, pushing his emotions to the peak without letting his voice break or tremble.

He sang that part completely, and when he finished the last verse, the whole room was silent for a moment before sporadic applause rang out, not loud, just enough to express the tired but sincere recognition of his teammates.

"Very good, Gia Bảo," Ms. Hạnh said, nodding with satisfaction. "That part is the most important part of the song. It's good that you can keep your emotions like that."

But Gia Bảo, even after hearing that compliment, still felt a strange emptiness in his heart. He sat down on the chair, his hands unconsciously clutching the hem of his shirt, clearly feeling the fatigue creeping throughout his body, not just fatigue from training, but a deeper exhaustion, the fatigue of someone trying to please too many people at the same time — his mother, teachers, teammates, and even himself.

During a break in the middle of practice, Gia Bảo walked out into the hallway, leaned his back on the railing, looking down at the deserted schoolyard under the pale sunset. Quốc Huy, who often stopped by to support the club backstage even though he didn't sing, came to stand next to him, holding two bottles of filtered water, and gave him one.

"You don't look too good," Quốc Huy said, his voice truly worried, not joking like usual. "Is something wrong?"

Gia Bảo hesitated for a moment, then finally told the story of the night before, the story of his mother asking him to quit the club. His voice became quieter when he told the part where his mother talked about her fear during the three hours waiting for the preliminary exam.

"Oh my god," Quốc Huy sighed, his face darkening. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Gia Bảo replied, his voice showing genuine confusion. "On one side is my mother, who has worried about me for three years, never once blaming me for the past. On the other side is CLUB, a song that no one else can sing for me. I feel like no matter which side I choose, I will disappoint someone."

"You don't have to please anyone," Quốc Huy said, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezing gently. "You just need to know what you want. But if you ask me, I think you should talk frankly with your mother, show her more clearly what's really going on here, not just a scary show like old times, but a whole team trying together, with someone by your side."

Gia Bảo nodded, but in his heart there were still hundreds of questions. He looked into the music room through the glass window and saw Tường Vy sitting alone at the piano, her hands lightly gliding on the keys even though no sound was emitted. Her eyes looked far into the distance in front of her, her face showing the exhaustion that she always tried to hide in front of the group.

He suddenly realized that he was not the only one carrying too much pressure on his shoulders. Tường Vy, as the team leader, also had to shoulder the responsibility of keeping the entire club from collapsing, balancing between motivating everyone to practice and caring for each member's individual feelings, all while time passes without waiting for anyone.

That afternoon's practice session ended nearly an hour later than expected. When the group dispersed, everyone was exhausted, their faces showing the fatigue that had accumulated over many days. Ms. Hạnh stood at the door of the music room, watching each student leave. Her eyes flashed a bit of worry that no one in the group had time to notice, perhaps because she, with many years of experience as a teacher, had long sensed that something wrong was brewing, just waiting for an opportunity to erupt.

"This Saturday, there will be a full team rehearsal," Ms. Hạnh announced before everyone left, her tone more serious than usual. "Teacher Khoa also arranged for a school reporter to come and film a few promotional clips for his club, posting them on the school's website and fanpage, as a way to cheer up the team before the team leaves to compete. Everyone, remember to prepare yourself well, this will be the most important practice session before we officially enter the semi-finals."

Gia Bảo heard those words and felt a cold streak running down his spine that he couldn't explain at that moment. He simply thought it was a normal feeling of nervousness before an important practice session, not knowing that those two words "recording a clip" would become the trigger for the worst thing he had ever faced since that fateful afternoon in ninth grade.

On his way home that night, Gia Bảo stopped in the middle of the overpass, looking down at the busy traffic below, the night wind blowing coolly across his sweaty face. He took out his phone, intending to text something to his mother, but typed a few words and then deleted them, not knowing how to fully express what was swirling in his heart. In the end, he just put his phone in his pocket and continued cycling in silence, carrying a vague insecurity that he did not expect would come true in the worst way just a few days later.