Chapter 18 — Unfinished Music

On Saturday morning, the small hall of the Youth Union was arranged almost exactly like a miniature stage, with rows of plastic chairs arranged in neat rows below, and above was a large wooden floor where all twelve members of the Choir Club stood in the exact formation that would perform in the semi-finals - the soprano standing on the left, the mezzo-soprano and bass men standing on the right, and Gia Bảo and Tường Vy standing in the middle, right in front of the piano where Anh Kiệt would accompany the music.

"Today is the last rehearsal before we leave," Ms. Hạnh said, standing in the middle of the hall, holding a notepad filled with words. "I will run both exercises completely from start to finish, without stopping in the middle, just like on the actual test day. Then I will go back and correct each part if necessary."

The atmosphere in the hall was as tense as a string, everyone was aware that this was the final test run with decisive significance before the team entered the real competition which was only a few days away. Gia Bảo stood in a familiar position, his hands clasped slightly behind his back, trying to repeat the breathing exercise that Tường Vy had taught him from the first sessions, inhaling through his belly, holding for a few seconds, exhaling slowly.

At that moment, the door at the end of the hall opened, and a young man walked in, carrying a bulky camera bag on one shoulder and a folded tripod in the other. It was the reporter in charge of the school's communications, whom Mr. Khoa had arranged to film promotional materials for the club before the competition.

"Hello Ms. Hạnh, hello everyone," he said, his voice warm, quickly walking to the middle of the hall, starting to set up the camera tripod right in the first row of seats, pointing the lens straight at the small stage. "Teacher Khoa told me to come and film a rehearsal to make a clip to post on the school fanpage, to cheer up the students before taking the exam. Everyone just practice normally as if I wasn't here, I'll try to film as naturally as possible."

Ms. Hạnh nodded and exchanged a few brief sentences with him about the time and angle of filming, while the group of students above the stage began whispering, both excited and a little embarrassed in front of the strange camera.

Gia Bảo stood still, feeling a vague sense of discomfort rising in his heart when he saw the camera set up, the glossy black lens pointed straight at the stage like a giant eye watching. He tried to reassure himself, this was just a normal documentary filming session, not a competition, there were not hundreds of spectators, there was only one person holding a camera standing at the back of the room.

"Okay, let's start with the mandatory song first," Ms. Hạnh said, signaling Anh Kiệt to start playing the piano.

The first song went smoothly, the whole group practiced so thoroughly that they almost knew every note and every breath by heart. Gia Bảo harmonized with everyone, the initial uncomfortable feeling gradually subsided as he focused on the music, on the familiar rhythm that was supporting him from behind like an invisible safety net.

But by the second song, "Unfinished Song," things began to change.

The reporter, perhaps because he wanted to get the best angle for the climax of the song, quietly left the fixed tripod position, took a smaller camera, and gradually stepped closer to the stage to take close-up shots. He had no idea, and had no way of knowing, that action - walking closer, raising the camera to eye level, the lens pointed straight at the face of the person singing - carried a terrible weight for the person standing on that small stage.

Gia Bảo was singing the prelude to the lead part, his voice still steady, when he caught sight of the approaching reporter out of the corner of his eye. The camera was raised, and a blinding flash went off, accompanied by the continuous click of the shutter.

Everything in Gia Bảo's mind suddenly froze.

That ray of light, even though it was just the normal flash of a camera, penetrated straight into a corner of the deepest memory in his mind, where the dazzling spotlight of the middle-school hall from that year was still intact, never fading. In an instant, he was no longer standing in the high school's Youth Union hall, but seemed to have been pulled back to that fateful May afternoon, standing in the middle of the old stage, feeling hundreds of eyes focus on him and reliving the moment his voice had broken into a repeated, shrill sound—even though in reality he was still standing still, never singing a wrong note.

His ears began to ring, a high-pitched buzzing sound overwhelmed all surrounding sounds, including Anh Kiệt's piano sound, which was still playing steadily. His vision seemed to be narrowed into a dark pipe, only dimly seeing the space right in front of him, everything at the edge of his eyes blurred, losing all shape. His chest tightened suddenly, as if an invisible hand was squeezing tightly around his heart, causing his breathing to become short, rapid, and painful every time he inhaled.

His mouth was still open following the inertia of the lyrics, but no sound could escape anymore. His throat felt like someone was choking him from the inside, his vocal cords were stiff, refusing to obey any orders from his brain. He clearly felt that his palms were drenched in cold sweat, his knees began to tremble uncontrollably, and a feeling of intense dizziness overcame him, forcing him to hold tightly to the microphone in front of him to keep from collapsing on the spot.

"Gia Bảo?" Tường Vy's voice sounded somewhere very close, but to him right now, the sound sounded far away as if echoing from the end of a long tunnel. She stopped singing, turned to look at him, her eyes quickly turned from surprise to worry when she realized that his face had turned completely pale, his eyes were wide open but seemed to be looking through everything, not focusing on any point.

Anh Kiệt's piano sound stopped midway, a short chord rang out and then died in the sudden silence that covered the entire hall. The group of twelve people stood behind, some looked at each other bewildered, some had already realized something was wrong, all eyes turned to Gia Bảo who was standing frozen in the middle of the stage.

Ms. Hạnh, from the row below, stood up and walked quickly towards the stage, her voice rang out urgently but still tried to remain calm. "Stop, stop. Reporter, please allow me to pause filming for a moment."

But Gia Bảo, in the panic that surrounded him, could no longer clearly hear anything around him. He could only feel his heart beating rapidly, erratically, and aching in his chest as if it were about to burst, felt the tremors spreading throughout his body from his hands to his legs, and felt a primal fear, inexplicable in words, taking over his entire mind, erasing all rational thoughts, leaving only one instinct - to get out of this place, immediately.

He took a step back, then another step, the microphone slipped from his hand and fell to the wooden floor, emitting a loud noise that echoed throughout the already eerily silent hall. He turned around, and before anyone could react, before Tường Vy could reach out his hand, before Ms. Hạnh could take another step, Gia Bảo rushed off the stage, ran backstage, pushed open the backstage door, and disappeared from the hall, leaving behind eleven stunned faces, a teacher with her mouth open, unable to speak, and a young reporter standing dumbfounded with the camera still hanging in his hand, completely unable to understand what had just happened. happen.

Outside the hallway, Gia Bảo ran nonstop, not knowing which direction he was running, only knowing that his feet kept taking him as far away from that hall as possible. He ran through the empty hallways, down the stairs, breathing so heavily that it hurt his chest. Tears had flowed out without him even realizing it, flowing down his cheeks, mixing with the cold sweat that was pouring out all over his body.

He only stopped when he reached a hidden corner behind the gymnasium, the place with the least traffic on this Saturday morning. He sat down, his back leaning against the rough brick wall, his hands hugging his knees, his whole body still shaking intermittently as if he had just experienced a high fever. He tried to breathe according to what he had practiced, inhaling through his stomach, holding for a few seconds, exhaling slowly, but the panic still refused to let go. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, his chest tightened even more, like a string being stretched to its final limit.

In his head, the image of a bright flash kept repeating over and over again, mixed with the giggles from years past that still lingered somewhere in his memory, even though he knew clearly that right now, here, no one was laughing at him. But his body, his nervous system, seemed unable to distinguish between the past and the present, only reacting according to the most primitive survival instinct - running away from danger, at all costs.

It took nearly twenty minutes for Gia Bảo to gradually regain normal breathing, the trembling in his arms and legs gradually subsided, giving way to a heavy exhaustion that fell on his entire body as if he had just run a marathon. He sat there, his back still leaning against the cold brick wall, looking down at his hands, which were still shaking slightly, and in his heart, in addition to physical exhaustion, there was also a shame, a deep guilt that began to creep in, taking up the space left by the panic attack.

What did you just did? He just ran away from the stage, in front of the entire club, in front of Ms. Hạnh, in front of the reporter who was filming a promotional clip for the team, just a few days before entering the most important round ever. He thought of Tường Vy's stunned face in the last moment he could see before turning and running away, and a painful feeling tightened in his chest, more painful than the panic he had just experienced.

The phone in his pocket vibrated repeatedly, over and over again, probably a text message or call from the club's chat group, perhaps from Tường Vy, from Quốc Huy, or from Ms. Hạnh herself. But Gia Bảo didn't have the courage to pull out his phone to look at it. He just sat there, in the middle of a quiet Saturday morning behind the gymnasium, feeling smaller and weaker than ever, as if three years of trying to heal, three years of gradually learning to trust music again, had just collapsed completely in just a single moment on an otherwise normal morning.