Chapter 3 — Unfinished Music

During the next week, Gia Bảo stopped by the music room two more times, each time giving a different reason - one day he said it was convenient to get home, another day he said he just stopped by to pick up the book Quốc Huy borrowed and forgot. He wouldn't admit, even to himself, that he was looking forward to the end of school just so he could have an excuse to pass by that room. He still stood in the familiar corner near the window, still not singing, but had begun to memorize some of the music the club was practicing, to the point where he sometimes hummed along quietly without even realizing it, just low enough for no one to hear, or at least he told himself so.

On Saturday, Quốc Huy went to Gia Bảo's house to play as usual, bringing a bag of snacks and an old game controller with worn corners. But when he entered the room, the first thing he noticed was not the game console plugged in on the table, but the guitar standing next to the bed, the strings still had a bit of chalk dust from Gia Bảo's fingers.

"What song are you playing?" Quốc Huy asked, sitting down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed.

"Nothing," Gia Bảo responded reflexively, the same answer he gave his mother last week.

"'Nothing' again," Quốc Huy imitated, his tone half joking and half serious. "Gia Bảo, I've been with you since sixth grade. I know when you're hiding something."

Gia Bảo was silent for a moment, his hand unconsciously rubbing the fretboard. Finally he sighed and sat down next to you. "I'm just practicing the song the Choir Club is practicing. It's no big deal."

"So you're really interested in that club," Quốc Huy said, not hiding his excitement, but then his voice dropped and became more serious. "Hey, I'm serious, don't be mad. Have you ever thought about trying to sing again? Not in front of the whole school, just... try."

That question made Gia Bảo pause. He was about to blurt out a refusal like always, but this time, for some reason, the familiar words of refusal didn't come out. He sat there, looking down at his hands, clearly feeling his heart beating faster than usual just because of a simple question.

"Do you know what that feeling is, Huy?" he said softly, his voice different from his usual joking tone. "It's not that I'm afraid of singing the wrong note, or afraid of being criticized for not having a good voice. It's the feeling... like someone is squeezing my throat as soon as I open my mouth to speak. My heart beats so fast that I can hear every beat clearly in my ears. My hands are cold, even in the middle of summer. Just thinking about standing in front of three or four people and singing loudly, makes my whole body freeze, just like the moment I stood on stage in ninth grade."

Quốc Huy listened silently, did not interrupt, just nodded slightly to let you know he was paying attention.

"Do you know why I chose to sing that song in ninth grade?" Gia Bảo continued, his voice lowered. "My grandfather passed away exactly three months before that performance. It's the song he used to sing me to sleep when I was little, when my mother worked the night shift, and I stayed home with him. I practiced that song for two months, not to get good grades or praise, but because I wanted... I wanted to sing it completely once, as a goodbye to him. I imagined he would hear it, somewhere."

He stopped and took a deep breath, as if saying these things required as much courage as singing in front of a crowd.

"Then right in the middle of the climax, the part where he used to hum the loudest every time he sang, my voice broke. Not a slight break, Huy, but a harsh, strange sound, to the point that I was startled because I didn't believe it was my voice. And the laughter in the audience... I knew everyone wasn't intentionally cruel, I knew it was normal for a broken voice during puberty, Ms. Hạnh, who taught Music at that time, also explained to the whole school later. But at that time, I just felt I feel like I just ruined my final goodbye to him, right in front of hundreds of people."

"Gia Bảo..." Quốc Huy called softly, his voice low and no longer joking.

"From that day on, I didn't sing anymore," Gia Bảo continued, his voice a little calmer, as if telling the whole story had eased the burden in his heart somewhat. "It's not because I don't love music anymore. I still listen to music, still play the guitar every night, still know the lyrics to almost every song I've ever heard. It's just that I don't dare let my voice ring out loud anymore, even when I'm alone in the room. It's as if... as if I'm afraid that if I try again, the same thing will happen again, and this time I won't have my grandfather to remember anymore, only shame."

Quốc Huy didn't say anything for a long time, just sat next to his friend, looking thoughtfully out the window. Then he slowly spoke.

"I don't know what to say to make you stop being scared, Gia Bảo. I'm not someone who has ever stood on that stage, I don't fully understand your feelings. But I know one thing: for the past three years, I've watched you play the guitar in this room, and every time I've seen you truly happy, not in a forced happy way. You've never really given up music, you're just hiding it. And I think, that club, that girl Tường Vy just refuses to give up on you. Well, maybe it's just what you need, whether you want to admit it or not."

Gia Bảo laughed softly, even though his eyes were still a little bitter. "Are you trying to match me up with the leader of the Choir Club?"

"No, I'm just talking about music," Quốc Huy replied, but the corner of his mouth curled up meaningfully. "Even if that's true, it's not a bad thing."

"Shut up," Gia Bảo gently pushed his friend's shoulder, but this time his laughter sounded much more relieved than when he started the story.

The two sat in silence for a while, the game sound from the machine still emitting familiar, fun melodies that no one bothered to pay attention to. Finally, Quốc Huy broke the silence.

"I'm not forcing you to sing in front of anyone, Gia Bảo. I just think, maybe you don't have to jump straight into the scariest place right from the beginning. Maybe there's a gentler way to start over?"

Gia Bảo did not answer immediately. He looked down at the guitar leaning next to the bed, remembering the image of Tường Vy standing in front of the group, patiently correcting every small mistake without losing his temper, remembering what she said the other day: "The music room door is always open." Perhaps Quốc Huy is right. Perhaps not every door requires one to pass through with a giant leap.

"Let me think," he said, his voice low but no longer as dismissive as usual.

That evening, after Quốc Huy returned, Gia Bảo sat alone in his room for a long time. He opened his phone and found an old video - one of the few remaining videos from his middle school years, showing him singing during a small class activity, before everything happened. His voice in that video was clear, confident, without any hesitation. He looked at the image of himself in the past, feeling both strange and painfully familiar.

He turned off the phone, put it aside, then reached for the guitar. This time, instead of just strumming the melody, he slightly parted his lips, intending to try humming the first few words of the song the Club was practicing. But as soon as the sound was about to escape his throat, he swallowed it back, his heart pounding, his hands tightening on the guitar's neck.

Not yet, he told himself—not with the same disappointment as before, but with a calmer acceptance. Not now. But perhaps, one day soon, he would be ready.

He put down the guitar, lay down on the bed, his eyes followed the street light shining through the window curtain, creating a faint strip of light on the ceiling. In his head, the song's melody continued to play, this time no longer accompanied by pure fear as before, but mixed with a little something like hope, although very fragile, very gentle, like a note that had just been placed, not yet daring to ring out loud.

Sunday morning, he went to the kitchen later than usual, his hair still messy from sleeping in. Ms. Thanh was standing next to the stove, stirring a pan of eggs, the old radio on the counter softly playing a song without lyrics. Gia Bảo sat down at the table, holding chopsticks, and while waiting for his mother to serve the food, he unconsciously tapped on the table according to the rhythm of last night's song, his mouth moving slightly without making a sound.

"Why are you so happy that you've been so restless since morning?" Ms. Thanh asked, placing the plate of eggs in front of her son, her eyes curious but not suspicious.

"It's nothing, Mom," Gia Bảo replied, a bit startled, quickly stopping. "I just... slept well."

Ms. Thanh looked at him for a moment, as if she was about to ask something more, but then just smiled and turned back to the pan of eggs sizzling on the stove. "It's good to sleep well. Lately you've been staying up late, I'm worried you're too stressed from studying."

"I'm fine, mom," Gia Bảo said, bending down to eat to avoid having to look directly into his mother's eyes, afraid that she would notice something strange in his eyes - a difference that he couldn't name clearly, only knowing that it started from an afternoon when he happened to visit the music room, and kept growing bigger day by day, each melody he secretly listened to, secretly remembered, secretly brought home hidden in his own familiar guitar chords.