Chapter 4 — Unfinished Music

By the second week, Gia Bảo's visit to the music room after school had become a habit that no one bothered to ask anymore, including himself. He still sat in his usual corner near the window, still not participating in the singing, but the whole club seemed to have gotten used to his quiet presence, like a comfortable piece of furniture in the room - no one paid much attention, but without it, it felt empty.

That Tuesday afternoon, Ms. Hạnh arrived late because she was busy with a meeting, so practice started later than usual. While waiting, Tường Vy decided to let the whole group play a warm-up game that she called "humming circle" - everyone stood in a circle, each person took a turn to catch a random note, then the whole group hummed along, no need for the right words, no need for the right song, just harmonizing for fun.

"This game has no right or wrong," Tường Vy explained, her voice cheerful. "The purpose is just to warm up your voice and laugh a bit before getting into the serious exercise. Anyone who wants to participate can join the circle, anyone who wants to watch can just sit in the same place."

Most of the club members rushed into the middle of the room, forming a messy circle, laughing and joking. Quốc Huy, unexpectedly, also jumped into the middle of the ring, even though he was never an official member, just because it was fun. Gia Bảo intended to stay in the same place as always, but Quốc Huy turned back and pulled his sleeve.

"Come in here with me, no need to sing or anything, just stand in the circle," Quốc Huy said, his eyes both pleading and encouraging.

Gia Bảo hesitated, glanced at Tường Vy, who was standing in a corner of the circle, not calling his name, not forcing him, simply smiling and waiting as if it didn't matter whether he participated or not. That lack of compulsion, strangely enough, made him feel more relieved than being pushed.

He stepped into the circle, standing next to Quốc Huy, his heart beating faster than usual but not as suffocating as he had imagined. The game began, with each person taking turns making an impromptu sound—some sang low, some sang in high pitches to make the group laugh, and some imitated car horns, making the whole circle laugh. When it was the group's turn to sing along, the sounds blended together into a pleasant chaos, with no accompaniment, no script, just carefree voices speaking at the same time.

When it was Ngọc Diễm's turn, she sang a warm, long note, full of her characteristic alto voice. The whole circle sang along, and whether it was because of a reflex or because the happy atmosphere caught him off guard, Gia Bảo also opened his mouth slightly, singing along with everyone, the volume was just enough to blend in with the crowd, no one could separate his voice among the dozens of other voices resounding at the same time.

That was the first time in three years that Gia Bảo let his voice speak out loud in front of others, even if it was just a short sound, taking refuge safely in a laughing crowd.

He didn't realize he had just done that until the game ended, the whole group applauded each other and then dispersed to their original positions to begin the official practice session. At that moment, his heart suddenly started pounding, as if he realized that he had just crossed a boundary that he had drawn for himself for three years.

He glanced around, afraid that someone had noticed, pointed, or laughed. But no one paid attention. Everyone had returned to their normal routine, laughing and talking about the strange sounds just now, no one could remember whose voice was in that happy chaos.

Only one person noticed.

Tường Vy, as she walked past to get to the piano, slowly walked a little closer to Gia Bảo, without looking directly at him, just said softly, her voice low enough for him alone to hear: "Your voice is really beautiful." Then she continued, not stopping to wait for a reaction, as if that statement was just a passing comment, carrying no pressure.

Gia Bảo stood dumbfounded for a second, feeling his cheeks heat up, whether from embarrassment or some emotion that was hard to name. He glanced at Quốc Huy, who was grinning as if he had just witnessed a historic moment.

"Don't look at me like that," Gia Bảo mumbled, trying to keep a neutral expression, but the corner of his mouth still couldn't help but curl up slightly.

That day's training session continued as usual, but Gia Bảo felt something different in his heart, a small relief crept into the place where there was only fear. He didn't sing any more during practice that day, but he also no longer felt the need to clench his jaw to stop himself from humming along to the tune like before.

When the practice session ended, the members left one by one, leaving only Tường Vy to clean up the music and turn off the piano. Gia Bảo, after a moment of hesitation, told Quốc Huy to go home first, while he stayed behind, using the excuse of wanting to ask Ms. Hạnh about the practice schedule - even though Ms. Hạnh had left early because she was busy with other things.

"Are you still here?" Tường Vy asked when she looked up, a bit surprised to see him still standing there.

"Yeah, I... I want to ask you something," Gia Bảo said, feeling his heart beat faster than usual, although this time it wasn't because of fear but because of a different, newer thrill. "It's about music, not about joining a club."

Tường Vy stopped, looked at him with curious but patient eyes, not in a hurry to urge him. "Okay, I'm free. What do you want to ask?"

"The song the club is rehearsing," Gia Bảo said, pointing to the sheet music on the piano rack. "I've heard it forever but don't know the name. Who wrote it?"

"It's a song Ms. Hạnh remixed from an old folk tune," Tường Vy replied, smiling, seemingly happy to be asked about music instead of about participation. "But for the chorus, we wrote new lyrics, and the whole group contributed ideas. I also contributed a few lines."

"Do you also write music?" Gia Bảo asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"Sometimes," Tường Vy replied, a bit hesitantly, as if this was a topic she didn't often share. "I often play with a few melodies on the piano, write a few lines, but have never completed a song completely. Doesn't it sound funny? The leader of the Choir Club doesn't dare to finish his own song."

"It's not funny," Gia Bảo said, his voice more sincere than he expected. "I understand that feeling."

The two people's eyes met for a brief moment, as if they both realized something in common that no one had mentioned before. Tường Vy was the first to break the silence.

"So what about you? I heard Quốc Huy say you play the guitar very well."

"It's normal," Gia Bảo replied, a bit confused. "I only play alone in my room. I've never played for anyone, not even my parents."

"So it must be very good," Tường Vy said, smiling softly. "People are often at their best when they play something just because they love it, not because anyone is watching."

That sentence made Gia Bảo quiet a bit. He had never thought about playing alone in that way — not as an escape, but as a form of loving music in his own way. The feeling of being recognized like that, even through just a short sentence, strangely warmed his heart.

"Okay, I have to go home," he said, suddenly realizing that it was already dark, the last sunlight shining through the window, dyeing the whole room light orange. "Thanks for answering my stupid questions."

"Nothing nonsense," Tường Vy replied, slinging her guitar bag over her shoulder. "I like talking about music with people who really understand it. See you soon, Gia Bảo."

On the way home, Gia Bảo walked more slowly than usual, enjoying the cool air of the late afternoon, his mind still lingering on the conversation just now. He realized he had just spent a day in which he had sung — even just a brief hum in the crowd — and had a genuine conversation about music with someone who had never heard of theater in ninth grade. Both of those things, combined, made him feel like he had just taken a small step, just a very small step, out of the safe circle he had confined himself to for the past three years.

When he got home, he saw his phone vibrating in his pocket — a series of text messages from Quốc Huy, accompanied by a few sly smiley emoticons.

"Are you staying to talk privately with Tường Vy???" first message written.

"Tell me, what were you two talking about?" The second message continued, less than ten seconds later.

Gia Bảo laughed to himself when he read that, sat down on the edge of the bed, his finger slid across the screen and typed back: "Just asking about the song the club is practicing, don't think nonsense."

"Yeah yeah, 'just asking about the song'," Quốc Huy replied almost immediately, with a squinting smiley face. "I trust you, I trust you one hundred percent."

Gia Bảo shook his head, put the phone away without responding, but the smile on the corner of his mouth remained. He sat quietly for a while in the room that was already darkening in the evening, letting Tường Vy's words — "people are often the best when they play something just because they love it, not because anyone is watching" — echo in his head once more. He never thought that one day he would look forward to the next club practice session so much, not to hide in the corner of the room observing like an outsider, but to hear one more word, one look, one small moment that would make the fear in his heart a little less.