Chapter 26 — Unfinished Music

Part VI — Unfinished Music

Two and a half months had passed since the day the Nguyễn Trãi High School Choir Club walked out of the City Youth Cultural House with the invitation to the city-level final round clutched tightly in Tường Vy's hand, as if she were to relax a little, the paper would fly away. Those two and a half months passed so quickly that Gia Bảo was sometimes startled to realize that he had entered a new semester, had passed Tet, and witnessed the row of poinciana trees in front of the school yard beginning to sprout young leaf buds, signaling the approach of a summer - the last summer of student life, the summer of the most important exams of life that anyone in grade 12 must face.

But amidst all the chaos, the club's practice schedule still regularly took place three times a week, then gradually increased to four sessions as the final exam day approached. The biggest difference compared to the days before the semi-finals, something that Gia Bảo himself had to admit every time he entered the music room, was that the atmosphere had completely changed. There were no more stressful and suffocating practice sessions, no more worried eyes watching every time someone sang out of tune, and no more feeling like the whole group was struggling to support something that could collapse at any time. Instead, there was a calm confidence that could only come after people had gone through a storm together and realized they were still standing.

Ngọc Diễm often joked that the group had "memorized with every breath" two of her exam songs—the familiar "Singing for School Age" that had accompanied them since the preliminary round, and "Unfinished Music," the original piece that Tường Vy had been writing for years before Gia Bảo appeared to complete the missing piece with her. Minh Thư, the tenth-grade soprano, was now much more confident than on the first day she had timidly asked to join, taking charge of the high chorus with a certainty that made Ms. Hạnh nod in satisfaction many times. Anh Kiệt, after the storms of misunderstandings at the beginning of the year, had now become one of the steadiest pillars of the group, his fingers gliding over the piano keys to accompany the most difficult parts of the music without having to look at the score anymore.

As for Gia Bảo, he was still nervous—that was not unusual, and he had learned from Tường Vy that being nervous before a big competition was not a sign of weakness, but proof that you really cared about what you were doing—but that nervousness now took on a completely different shape from what it had three years ago, completely different from the days before the preliminary round. It was no longer the paralyzing fear that made him want to run away, but a hot energy flowing through his veins, a feeling that he began to recognize, perhaps, as excitement.

Friday afternoon, one week before the final exam, the whole group practiced the last session before entering the rest period to maintain strength. The last sunlight of the day poured through the music room window, dyeing the whole room in a warm orange-yellow color, just like the first afternoon when Gia Bảo stood at the back of the room, secretly humming along to the melody that he had no idea how far his life would take him. Ms. Hạnh stood up and clapped her hands to signal the group to stop after they sang "Unfinished Song" in its entirety without missing a beat.

"Okay," she said, her eyes scanning each student's face, her voice filled with pride that she didn't bother to hide. "I think you are ready. From now until exam day, the most important thing is not to practice more, but to get enough sleep, eat properly, and keep your mind at ease. You have worked hard for nearly a year, believe in yourself."

Gia Bảo nodded along with the group, but his eyes unconsciously stopped at the blackboard in the corner of the room, where during breaks between practice sessions, he still had the habit of holding a white chalk and scribbling a few small musical notes in the bottom corner, a habit that started when he was practicing alone with Tường Vy, whenever he was thinking vaguely or trying to find the right melody in his head. Now, that corner of the board was filled with tiny musical notes overlapping each other over the months and days, a silent chronicle of an entire journey that only he could read and understand.

"Are you looking at those notes again?" Tường Vy asked, walking to stand next to him as the group began to pack up their instruments. She looked in the direction he was looking, the corners of her lips curling up into a light smile. "You know, at first I thought you were drawing graffiti because you were bored, but later I realized that's how you think."

"It's just a habit," Gia Bảo replied, a bit awkwardly, but then he laughed. "Ever since I first practiced privately with him. At that time, I was afraid of putting my thoughts into words, so I kept drawing random musical notes to have something to do, to keep my hands from shaking."

"Are your hands still shaking now?" Tường Vy asked, her voice gentle but her eyes looking straight at him, full of genuine concern rather than social politeness.

Gia Bảo was silent for a moment, looked down at his hands, then looked up at the light on the ceiling of the music room, which was on to compensate for the fading afternoon light outside the window. That light shined down a warm yellow halo, not at all harsh, not at all scary like the light he once trembled under it three years ago. He had stood under this kind of spotlight so many times over the past year—the lights of practice sessions, the lights of the preliminary round, the lights of the semi-finals—and each time, a small part of him learned to believe that the light was not meant to expose, but to support, to illuminate the beautiful things to be seen.

"Still shaking," he answered honestly. "But now I know that shaking doesn't mean I'll fall anymore. I'm just... shaking because I want to do well."

Tường Vy looked at him for a long time, then gently held his hand, naturally intertwining their fingers as if it were something they had done hundreds of times before—and in fact, it was true. Since the night they officially told each other about their feelings, right before the semi-finals, there had been so many afternoons when they held hands while walking home, so many times she waited for him at the gate of class 12A4 after school, and so many good-night messages sent before they went to sleep.

"Then let's tremble together," she said, her voice gentle. "Next week, standing on that stage, you are not alone, Gia Bảo. I will stand right next to you, singing with you, just like always."

"I know," Gia Bảo replied, gently squeezing her hand. "That's what gives me the most peace of mind."

The two stood there for a while, in the music room that was gradually emptying as the other members left, the warm yellow light covering them both like a thin blanket. Outside the window, the March sky was turning the pale purple of sunset, and somewhere far away, the first cicadas of the season had begun to chirp, signaling another summer was approaching, their last summer under the roof of Nguyễn Trãi school.

That night, when Gia Bảo came home, he suddenly saw his mother sitting in the living room, not watching TV as usual, but just sitting quietly, her hands on her lap, her eyes looking out at the small yard in front of the house where several pots of bougainvillea were blooming. Ms. Thanh turned around when she heard the door open, her face slightly confused as if she was caught thinking about something private.

“You're home,” she said, her voice gentle. "Have you eaten yet? Mom left your portion on the table."

"Yes, I've eaten, Mom. We'll have something to eat after practice," Gia Bảo replied, placing his backpack on the chair, then sitting down next to his mother on the old sofa, a new habit he'd started a few months ago, since an honest conversation between mother and son last month, when he told her that avoiding fear forever was not the way to cure it.

"Next week is the final, right?" Miss Thanh asked, even though she already knew the answer, having marked that day on the kitchen wall calendar with a red circle a month ago.

"Yes, next Saturday," Gia Bảo replied, observing his mother's face carefully. He noticed a slight hint of tension in her eyes, but unlike three years ago, different from the stressful days in the middle of the school year, this time she did not avoid his eyes.

"I've been thinking a lot," Ms. Thanh said, her voice slow, as if weighing each word carefully. "Ever since the night you talked to Mom, about how avoiding is not the way to avoid being afraid. I've been thinking about that, Gia Bảo. I realized I've been scared for three years, so scared that I thought if I kept you away from the stage, away from the music, I could protect you from being hurt again. But I was wrong."

"Mom, it's not wrong," Gia Bảo said quickly, holding her mother's hand. "Mom just loves you."

"I love you, yes," she nodded, her eyes began to water but she still tried to smile. "But loving the wrong way can also hurt the person you love, you know? I've seen you rise from the past, pick yourself up, not thanks to me keeping you away from everything, but thanks to you daring to face it, daring to step out on stage again. I'm so proud of you, Gia Bảo, more proud than you can imagine."

Gia Bảo felt his throat tight, not because of sadness, but because of a warm feeling rising that was hard to name. "So... will you come watch? The final."

Ms. Thanh was silent for a moment, then she raised her hand and gently stroked her son's hair like when he was a child, a gesture she had not done for a long time.

"I'll come," she said, her voice firm, though he could still hear a small tremor in it. "I promised you, I won't go back on my word. I'm still very nervous, to be honest, all week I've been thinking about that day and my heart beats faster than usual. But I want to be there, Gia Bảo. I want to see you standing on that stage with my own eyes, not to wait for something bad to happen like three years ago, but to see you shine, so I can proudly applaud you, just like a mother should do."

"Thank you, mom," Gia Bảo said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He hugged his mother, feeling her arms tighten around him, warm and steady like his childhood days. "I promise I'll try my best."

"I know you can do it," Ms. Thanh whispered in his ear. "No matter what the outcome, I'm still proud of you, because you dared to move forward, dared not to let fear determine your life."

That night, after leaving the living room, Gia Bảo returned to his room, sat down at the desk, took out a piece of paper and a pencil, and while reviewing the lyrics of "Unfinished Song" in his mind one last time before going to sleep, his hand unconsciously drew a few small musical notes in the corner of the paper, just as it had out of old habit. But this time, when he looked down at those notes, he no longer saw them as a way to escape the terrifying silence in his head. They were like small bricks, each one a step, assembled into a long road he had traveled throughout nearly the past school year—from a student who did not dare to hum out loud to a person preparing to step onto the biggest stage of his life, not alone but with the people he loved most.

He turned off the desk lamp, lay down on the bed, and for the first time after many sleepless nights, he fell asleep quickly, peacefully, as if his body had sensed that, finally, everything would be okay.