Chapter 2 — Unfinished Music

During the next three days, Gia Bảo did not mention the music room story to anyone, not even Quốc Huy. He told himself that he had definitely refused, that it should end there, like the many invitations to sing karaoke, sing in class, and sing happy birthday that he had cleverly avoided over the past three years. But there was something different: this time, no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't get the image of Tường Vy standing in front of the piano, hands swinging to the beat, out of his head.

Wednesday night, while sitting and doing his Physics homework, he caught himself unconsciously tapping his fingers on the table to the rhythm of the song he overheard that day. He stopped, looking down at his hand as if it had just done something treacherous. Then he laughed softly, to himself, because he felt so unreasonable.

On Thursday morning, before class, he went to Quốc Huy who was waiting at the school gate, his backpack slung on one shoulder as usual.

"Is the Choir Club practicing this afternoon?" Gia Bảo asked, trying to keep his voice natural, as if it was just an idle question.

Quốc Huy turned to look at him, a smile gradually appeared on his face, slowly and full of satisfaction. "Why do you suddenly ask that?"

"Nothing, I just asked." Gia Bảo avoided his friend's eyes and pretended to adjust his backpack strap.

"Mr. Phạm Gia Bảo," Quốc Huy drawled, looking like he was thinking seriously, "For the past three years, wherever I've invited you to go, you've always refused, and now suddenly you're proactively asking about a singing practice session. How should I understand this?"

"You understand I'm just curious," Gia Bảo replied, a bit irritated. "Like you told me the other day. Just watching, it's no big deal."

"Yeah yeah, just watching," Quốc Huy imitated, raising his hands as if in surrender, but his eyes still sparkled with excitement. "Okay, this afternoon you and I will stop by again. But this time I won't drag you anywhere, you took the initiative."

Gia Bảo didn't answer, just quietly walked into class, feeling both uncomfortable because his best friend saw through him and a bit indescribably restless when thinking about the upcoming afternoon.

When the two of them arrived at the music room after school, practice had already begun a few minutes ago. This time Gia Bảo did not stand at the back of the room like last time, but chose a corner near the window, where he could observe more clearly without feeling like he was being noticed. Quốc Huy sat next to him, his chin in his hand, as if watching a more exciting sports match than a choir practice.

Ms. Hạnh, the Music teacher and club advisor, was standing next to Tường Vy; the two of them had their heads together over a piece of paper on the table, and her voice was low but loud enough for Gia Bảo, standing not far away, to hear.

"Currently we only have nine officially registered members, miss," Tường Vy said, her voice a bit nervous which was rare compared to the confidence she showed when leading the practice session. "While the school's regulations are that there must be twelve people to maintain a club. The deadline for submitting the list is next Friday."

"I know," Ms. Hạnh replied, her voice low. "I've talked to Mr. Khoa, he's understanding, but rules are rules. If there aren't enough numbers, the club will have to suspend operations this year, maybe even longer."

"I will find more people," Tường Vy said, her voice determined again. "We must find three more before Friday."

Gia Bảo felt something tighten in his chest when he heard that story. He didn't expect the club's situation to be so urgent. He glanced at Quốc Huy, about to say something, but then stopped and turned back to watch the training session continue.

This time, Tường Vy did not call him to the middle of the room like last time. Perhaps she remembered the lesson she learned from being flatly rejected that day. Instead, she just glanced at him once, nodded slightly to say hello like an acquaintance, then continued to control the practice session, instructing each voice group to rehearse the difficult part.

When the training session took a break, the members spread out to drink water and chat. Tường Vy left the piano and walked straight towards the corner of the window where Gia Bảo and Quốc Huy were sitting, but this time her appearance was more leisurely, no longer as welcoming as before.

“Hello again,” she said, smiling, holding an unopened bottle of water. "I'm not forcing you to sing, don't worry. I'm just curious when I see you're back."

"Ah, we just happened to pass by," Gia Bảo said, even though he knew that lie didn't sound convincing at all.

"Twice in a row in one week?" Tường Vy raised her eyebrows, but there was no mockery, just a gentle joke. "Okay, I won't ask any more. I'm Tường Vy, in class 12A2. What's your name? I forgot to ask last time."

"Gia Bảo," he replied, a little hesitantly. "Phạm Gia Bảo, class 12A4."

"Gia Bảo," Tường Vy repeated, as if remembering. "Okay, Gia Bảo, I promise I won't ask you if you want to sing anymore, at least today." She smiled, her eyes a bit mischievous. "But if you're interested in music in any way — playing an instrument, writing lyrics, or just listening — then come by any time we practice. The music room door is always open."

"He plays the guitar very well," Quốc Huy interjected, his voice full of pride, causing Gia Bảo to gently nudge his friend's hand to signal silence.

"Really?" Tường Vy's eyes lit up, but she held back and did not ask further, perhaps remembering the promise she had just made. "Then it's even better to stop by. We sometimes need someone to accompany us for a few parts, not necessarily singing."

From the piano, a girl with short hair, petite figure but sharp eyes, was observing the conversation with an unsympathetic look. That was Châu Ngọc Diễm, the club's veteran alto voice, who had been with her since the tenth grade. When she saw Gia Bảo looking towards her, she did not avoid her eyes, just slightly curled her lips, an expression that was difficult to guess whether it was sarcasm or simply curiosity.

"Vy, there are five minutes left until break ends," Ngọc Diễm called out, her voice a bit impatient. "The second raft section is still very messy."

"Yes, coming now," Tường Vy replied, then turned to look at Gia Bảo one last time before returning to her position. "Glad to have you back. See you soon, Gia Bảo."

She walked away, leaving Gia Bảo standing there with a strange feeling rising in her heart - not quite happy, not quite uncomfortable, but like a certain void had just been gently touched after a long time of being forgotten.

"See," Quốc Huy whispered, smiling happily. "I told you there's nothing to lose by coming back."

"Why are you talking so much about my guitar?" Gia Bảo glared at you, but inside he wasn't really angry.

The two of them stayed to watch the entire practice session that day, much longer than the "five minutes" that Gia Bảo had set for himself last time. He observed the way Tường Vy patiently corrected every small mistake for the members, the way she didn't show any signs of discomfort even though she had to repeat the same piece of music dozens of times, the way her eyes lit up every time the group finally sang exactly as she wanted. There is something in that devotion that makes Gia Bảo, even though he doesn't want to admit it, feel a bit of admiration.

On the way home, Quốc Huy chatted about many things, while Gia Bảo spent most of the time silently listening, his mind still lingering on the melody of the song the club was practicing - a song with a slow tempo, sad but not tragic, like a gentle narrative.

"Are you planning to come back tomorrow?" Quốc Huy asked, when they both reached the intersection dividing the way home.

"I don't know," Gia Bảo answered honestly. "Let's see."

That night, after eating with his family, Gia Bảo went back to his room and took out his guitar as usual. But this time, instead of strumming the familiar chords that he had memorized over the years, he tried to trace the melody of the song he heard this afternoon, his fingers groping on the fretboard, trying to find the right key. It took him a while to get the chorus together, and when the sound of the piano sounded exactly as he remembered, a small feeling of satisfaction crept into his heart, a feeling he had long forgotten.

He sat there for a long time, repeating that song over and over again, not singing, just letting the guitar narrate the melody instead of his voice. There were footsteps in the hallway, he quickly stopped, but this time it wasn't his mother knocking on the door, it was just footsteps passing by and then disappearing.

He let out a breath, half in relief, half in regret for having his thoughts interrupted. He put down the guitar, lay down on the bed, looked up at the ceiling, his head still echoing Tường Vy's words from that afternoon: "The music room door is always open." A simple sentence, not forced at all, yet made him keep thinking, like a door that he wasn't ready to step through, but also didn't want to close as tightly as before.

He pulled out his phone, intending to text something to Quốc Huy, but then stopped, just quietly turned off the screen, closed his eyes, and let the afternoon melody continue to echo in his head until he fell asleep.