Chapter 7 — Unfinished Music

Three weeks passed in a steady rhythm that Gia Bảo began to get used to, almost looking forward to each Wednesday approaching. Every afternoon, after Quốc Huy waved goodbye at the school gate with a familiar joke "Go sing, don't make me wait too long," Gia Bảo alone went up the stairs to the second floor, lightly knocking three times on the music room door before entering.

Training sessions no longer made him tremble like the first time. Breathing exercises have become a familiar ritual at the beginning of each session, and from the tiny, almost silent "a" sounds of the first week, Gia Bảo can now hum a few short sentences in simple songs that Tường Vy carefully selected - all slow melodies, narrow ranges, without requiring the need to push the climax or hold the high notes for too long.

"Did you notice that today you sang the entire verse without stopping midway?" Tường Vy asked, his eyes sparkling with undisguised excitement, one afternoon at the end of the month, when he had just finished singing a familiar folk tune, the same composition that the whole club was practicing for the upcoming preliminary round.

Gia Bảo smiled slightly, a warm feeling spreading in his chest, a feeling completely different from the familiar suffocation from before. "Yeah, I also feel strange. I don't know why today feels so much more natural."

"Because you don't think about singing anymore," Tường Vy said, closing the music notebook and placing it on the piano lid. "You're just thinking about the melody. That's when a person's true voice really comes out, when they forget anyone is listening."

Gia Bảo sat down on the edge of the piano chair, looking out the window through the narrow curtain. This afternoon's sky was tinged with a light purple mixed with orange, thin clouds drifting lazily in the distance. He suddenly felt like asking something that had been simmering in his heart for a long time.

"Tường Vy," he called, his voice hesitant. "I'm curious about something, I don't know if it's okay to ask."

"Ask," she replied, sitting down next to him, her arms folded across her chest, the relaxed posture of someone used to listening.

"Why are you the leader of the Choir Club? I mean, I know you sing well, your voice always tops school competitions, but I see you put so much effort into this club, like it's more important to you than your performance."

Tường Vy was silent for a moment, her eyes looking far away at the old piano, her fingers unconsciously tapping on the wooden surface. Gia Bảo thought he had asked too personal a question and was about to open his mouth to apologize when she spoke first.

"When I was in tenth grade, I just transferred schools here," she began, her voice slow, as if she were turning over pages of old memories. "My parents transferred jobs, I had to completely leave middle school with my close friends who had played together since childhood, to a completely strange place where I didn't know anyone."

Gia Bảo listened attentively, feeling that there was something in Tường Vy's voice that was different from the radiant confidence he often saw in her during crowded practice sessions.

"The first three months were the worst I've ever been through," she continued. "I didn't dare to talk to anyone. During recess, I just sat in a corner of the classroom pretending to read a book. During lunch, I hid in the library so I wouldn't have to sit alone in the middle of a crowded table with no one to talk to. I remember one time I cried in the bathroom because I overheard two classmates saying I was 'arrogant, pompous, and didn't want to hang out with anyone', when the truth was I was just scared, so scared that I didn't dare open my mouth."

"I didn't think you'd ever be like that," Gia Bảo said quietly, a bit genuinely surprised. The image of Tường Vy, timid and scared, seemed completely opposite to the always energetic team leader he knew.

"Everyone thinks so," Tường Vy smiled slightly, but that smile carried a slight sadness. "But then one day, Ms. Hạnh, who had only been back at school for a year, happened to hear me humming something during recess, just like how I discovered my friend. She pulled me into the Choir Club, which at that time still had very few members, only about seven or eight people."

"And you agreed right away?"

"Not at all," Tường Vy shook her head and laughed as she remembered. "I immediately refused, just like my friend in the beginning. But the upperclassmen in the club at that time, now that they've all graduated, they didn't give up. There's a girl named Lan, with an alto voice, who comes by my class every break time to invite me out for snacks, doesn't mention anything about singing, simply wants to get to know each other. Then there's Mr. Duc, with a bass voice, who often lends me comics and tells me stories about school so I don't feel lost."

Gia Bảo listened silently, feeling a deep sympathy creeping into his heart. It occurred to him that perhaps he himself was being treated the same way — no coercion, just patient companionship.

"Gradually, I began to see that the music room was the only place at this school where I didn't have to pretend to be someone else," Tường Vy continued, her voice becoming more earnest. "There's no need to act strong, no need to prove anything. Everyone there simply accepts me, just as I am. In Eleventh grade, when the old team leader graduated and everyone elected me to replace her, I cried for half an hour, not because of pressure, but because I want this club to forever be a place where some lost kid, like me in the past, can find a second home."

"A home," Gia Bảo repeated, feeling the weight of those two words in his heart.

"Yes," Tường Vy nodded, her eyes shining with a warm light. "That's why I never force anyone to participate, and never just look at a person's good or bad singing voice. I always wonder if this person needs a place to belong, just like I once needed to. As for competitions, awards, achievements, for me, it's really just secondary, even though I know Ms. Hạnh and Mr. Khoa take it more seriously to keep the club's budget."

Gia Bảo was silent for a long time, thinking about what he had just heard. He suddenly understood why from the first meeting, Tường Vy did not show any disappointment or pressure when he refused to join the club, and why she was always strangely patient with a stranger like him.

"Thank you for telling me this," he said, his voice sincere. "I didn't think you would share something so personal."

"I think, if I want you to trust and open your heart, then I should also open my heart first," Tường Vy replied, shrugging her shoulders gently as if it were obvious. "Besides, I have one more story to tell you, if you don't mind hearing more."

"What's going on?"

Tường Vy stood up and walked to the small wooden cabinet next to the wall, where old music files and some club notebooks were kept. She searched for a while, then pulled out a dark brown leather-covered notebook with worn corners that looked like it had been turned over many times.

"This is something I have never shown to anyone, not even Ngọc Diễm or Ms. Hạnh," Tường Vy said, sitting down next to him, holding the notebook in front of her chest as if holding something precious and fragile. "I write music. I compose it myself, both lyrics and melody."

Gia Bảo looked at the notebook with curious and surprised eyes. "Really? I didn't know you could compose."

"It's not really 'knowing how to compose' in any professional way," Tường Vy smiled, with a rare bit of shyness on her face. "Just when I'm sad, or when I'm thinking too much, I usually sit at the piano, play a few chords, and then write lyrics according to my feelings at that time. But there's a song I wrote a long time ago, since the end of Eleventh grade, and it still hasn't been finished yet."

"Why isn't it done yet?"

Tường Vy opened the notebook to an old page. Her handwriting was neat, but there were a few lines crossed out and edited over and over again. She pointed to a blank passage, just a few scattered notes written in pencil, with no lyrics.

"I wrote that song for two voices, one female and one male, like a duet," she explained, her voice lowering a bit. "I finished writing my part a long time ago, but for the male part, I kept struggling and couldn't find the right voice to perfect it. I tried asking a few people in the club, including Anh Kiệt, but it just sounded wrong somehow, not the right feeling I wanted to convey."

"So that song stays unfinished?" Gia Bảo asked, his eyes still glued to the discrete notes on the page.

"Yes," Tường Vy nodded, smiling slightly, a slightly self-mocking smile. "I often jokingly call it my 'unfinished song', because it stays in this notebook forever, never fully completed. Sometimes I think maybe I'll never find the right person to sing it with, and it will forever just be unfinished notes."

Gia Bảo was silent, a strange feeling crept into his heart when looking at that page - the notes were fragmentary, incomplete, like his own unfinished musical path. He didn't say anything, but in his mind, a vague connection had begun to form, even though he couldn't name it clearly yet.

"Maybe one day you'll find the right person," he said, his voice gentle and sincere. "Unfinished things don't mean they will stay unfinished forever."

Tường Vy looked at him for a long time, something deep and indescribable in her eyes, then she nodded slightly, closed the notebook, and held it in her arms as if she were keeping a precious secret that had just been shared. "Thank you," she said softly. "You are the second person to see this notebook, after me."

That afternoon ended later than usual, when the two were so engrossed in conversation that they lost track of time, until the school security bell about to lock the gate rang in the distance. Gia Bảo walked home alone that day, because Quốc Huy had left a long time ago, but he did not feel lonely at all. Instead, he kept thinking about the dark brown leather-covered notebook, about the discrete notes without words, about the story of a girl who was once lost but found a way to turn that loneliness into a home for others.

And he wondered if it was music, the thing that had hurt him so deeply, that was now silently leading him to a new place, where he could learn to trust it again, not alone, but with someone who was willing to patiently wait for him, step by step, without any rush.