Chapter 20 — Unfinished Music

Three days after the rehearsal, Gia Bảo still hasn't returned to the club.

He went to school normally, sat in his usual place in class 12A4, took tests, had lunch in the cafeteria, but every time he passed by the area near the music room, he deliberately went around the other stairs, even though it was farther and took much more time. He turned off all notifications from the club's chat group, letting the number of unread messages increase every day without daring to open them, afraid that just seeing a few lines of text would be enough to make the panic of that day rush back again.

Quốc Huy is the only person he still replies to messages, even though the answers are only a few short words. "Are you okay?" Quốc Huy asked on Monday night. "It's okay," Gia Bảo replied, even though they both knew it wasn't true. "Are you planning on going back to practice?" Quốc Huy asked again on Tuesday night. This time, Gia Bảo looked at the phone screen for a long time, his fingers typing and erasing countless times, before finally just sending a single question mark, as if he himself didn't know the answer to that question.

That Tuesday night, after turning off the room lights, Gia Bảo lay in the dark, opened the messaging app, and slid his finger to the club group's chat box. He typed out a long message, carefully choosing each word.

"Hello everyone, I'm sorry about what happened at the rehearsal. I don't think I can continue to join the club anymore. I'm really sorry for letting everyone down, especially right before the semi-finals like this. I wish the whole group..."

He stopped there, his finger hovering over the screen, not knowing what to write next. What did he wish the group? Good luck, even though he knew very well that if he left, no one else would be able to sing that lead part, and the song that Tường Vy had spent two years writing would probably never be heard on a real stage? He looked at that unfinished message for a long time, then finally pressed the delete button, leaving the screen blank again as it had been before he started typing.

He didn't have the courage to send it, but he also didn't have the courage to erase that idea from his mind. It lingered there, every night, like a shadow silently clinging to him, whispering that perhaps this was a sign that he was never truly ready, that three years of trying to heal, three years of slowly learning to trust in music again, all of it was just a fragile illusion, just waiting for that exact moment to shatter into pieces, just like his voice had broken on stage that year.

He thought of the group's stunned faces as he ran away, of Tường Vy's words echoing from the music room door that day - "if Gia Bảo doesn't come back in time, we have to immediately consider another plan" - the words he only heard in one piece, standing silently outside the door and then turned and left without giving her a chance to say the rest. Looking back now, he wasn't sure if he was being too harsh, if he was judging her based on a sentence taken out of context. He knew that she was under as much pressure as he was, maybe even more so, because she also had to shoulder the responsibility of a group of twelve people. But every time he was about to text an apology, or simply explain that he had overheard something and then leave on his own, his finger stopped mid-sentence, an indescribable shame kept stopping him, as if just by opening his mouth, he would have to truly face what had happened, have to admit that the weak person was still there, had never disappeared, was just hiding, waiting for an opportunity to emerge.

At home, Ms. Thanh also noticed a clear change in her son in the past few days. Gia Bảo was now quieter than before. Every night at dinner he quickly eats a few bites and then asks permission to go to his room immediately. There were no more trivial study stories he used to tell his grandmother like before. She didn't ask any more about the club, partly because she thought perhaps her son was really considering her offer, partly because she also felt something heavier was weighing on his shoulders, something she couldn't name yet, but her motherly instinct told her that right now, staying silent and waiting was probably the best thing she could do for her son.

Wednesday night, after setting the table, Ms. Thanh stood at the kitchen door, looking at the figure of her son quietly walking up the stairs, his shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying some invisible burden. She was about to call him back and ask him more, but then stopped, just sighed quietly, and went back to the kitchen to wash the dishes in silence, her heart as messy as her son's, even though for different reasons.

Meanwhile, in the school's music room, one late afternoon of the same day, Ms. Hạnh and Tường Vy sat opposite each other at the old piano, between them was a pile of crumpled sheet music, and on both of their faces were the tired looked of people who had stayed up for many nights in a row looking for a way out that didn't exist.

"I tried calling Gia Bảo several times," Tường Vy said, her voice hoarse, "but she didn't answer the phone. I also texted her to apologize, but she hasn't responded yet."

Ms. Hạnh nodded, flipped through a few pages of the sheet music "Unfinished Music", her eyes stopped at the chorus marked in red ink, a piece of music that only Gia Bảo is capable of fully expressing the emotions in. "I also called her parents this afternoon," she said, her voice low. "Gia Bảo's mother told me that the family is considering letting her quit the club, because she's worried about her mental health. I understand the psychology of parents, I really do, but..."

She didn't finish her sentence, just sighed and gently rubbed her forehead. Tường Vy looked at her, clearly feeling the helplessness that was covering both of them, a helplessness that no words of encouragement could erase at this time.

"So now we have to think of another plan, right?" Tường Vy asked, her voice choked. "I have three more days left."

Ms. Hạnh nodded slowly. "I've thought of a few options. One is to shorten the song, completely remove the lead part, and turn the entire part into a group harmony part. But doing that would take away a lot of the soul of the song. That part was originally written specifically for an independent male voice. If it was changed to a harmony part, the emotions wouldn't be as intact as I originally envisioned."

"Secondly," she continued, her voice slower, as if she was considering each word, "I'm going back to singing the old song of my choice, the folk song arrangement I practiced for the preliminary round. At least the whole group already knows that song, no need to practice from the beginning, just need to practice more to get stronger."

"But if that's the case..." Tường Vy hesitated, "it's like I've completely abandoned 'Unfinished Song'. The whole group has put so much effort into perfecting that song, and now we're leaving..."

"I know," Ms. Hạnh said, her voice also a bit choked up that she couldn't hide. "I'm as sorry as you are. But as for the third option, I think I also have to mentally prepare for that possibility - if I can't manage anything in time, I may have to ask the organizers to let me withdraw from this year's semi-finals, keeping my participation spot for next year."

Those words made Tường Vy silent. Tears suddenly flowed out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and she didn't bother to wipe them away. Withdrew. After everything the group had gone through - from the threat of disbanding at the beginning of the school year, to the painstaking practice sessions in the dark, to the nervous preliminary round, to the two weeks of racing against time to perfect a completely new song - it could all end with just two words of withdrawal, so simple and cruel that Tường Vy cannot accept.

"I don't want to back out," she said, her voice determined even though tears were still falling. "I don't want to give up before I've tried everything, auntie. Can you give me a little more time? I want to try talking to Gia Bảo again, honestly, without mentioning anything about the song or the contest, just asking about her."

Ms. Hạnh looked at her student, her eyes softened, there was both sympathy and admiration for that perseverance. "Okay, I'll give you a little more time. But you also have to understand, when the deadline is to submit the competition list to the organizers, if there is still no clear plan, I will be forced to make a decision for the whole team, even though I don't want that at all."

Tường Vy nodded, quickly wiped away her tears, stood up and tidied up the stack of sheet music on the piano table. She looked out the window, the sunset was dyeing the sky orange, the light that used to make her feel warm and full of hope every time she finished a practice session, now only made her heart feel heavier, like a reminder that time was running out, little by little, waiting for no one.

At the same time, not far away, in his familiar small room, Gia Bảo sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the guitar standing in the corner of the cabinet, the instrument that had accompanied him for three years, witnessing every silent note he had dared to hum when he was alone. He stretched out his hand, intending to reach for it like his habit every night, but then his hand stopped in mid-air, not having the courage touch it.

He was afraid that if he picked up the piano now, he would remember the melody "Unfinished Song," remember Tường Vy's face when she passionately played for him in the warm yellow light of the music room, and remember the rare feeling of pride when he sang the entire lead part in front of the whole group for the first time. And if he remembered all that, he was afraid he would no longer have the strength to maintain his decision to leave the club—a decision he was trying to convince himself was the best, safest choice for someone so tired of constantly fighting his own fear.

He pulled his hand back, lay down on the bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin even though the weather was not cold at all. Outside the window, the night sky was dark without a single star, the sound of chirping insects echoed from the small garden behind the house, and in Gia Bảo's heart, a feeling of immense emptiness spread throughout his body, as if every sound, every melody that had brought him a little light of hope over the past few months was now completely submerged in a deep, silent silence, and he didn't know if he still had the strength to find the way back to that music. Or was this really the end of everything he had dared to dream of since that fateful afternoon in ninth grade.