Chapter 16 — Unprocessed Photos

Part IV — Photos Without Permission

Three days before the council announced the shortlist, Mr. Toan sent an urgent message to Minh Khang: the council had just decided to open a special category — "Most impressive work" — for a single portrait photo that would be hung in a central position, right at the entrance to the exhibition, as a highlight that attracts viewers at first sight. The submission deadline for this category is only two days away.

Minh Khang read that message in the evening, sat alone in his room, and searched through the entire club's photo archive to find the most worthy candidate. He scrolled through hundreds of photos — landscapes, school activities, Spring Festival moments — but none of them made him feel "valuable" enough for that central position.

Then he remembered a photo he took nearly three weeks ago, on the very evening he almost took Bao Nghi while she was intently working — he refrained from taking the photo that time, but a few days later, in another moment, when the group was developing film for Hoi Xuan and Bao Nghi stood alone by the chemical tank, the red light shining on her face as she watched the photo gradually take shape, her eyes shining with pure passion, unaware of anyone watching him — he didn't hold back. Okay, he raised the phone and pressed the button, just once, then hid it in a separate folder, telling himself that it was just to keep for himself, a cherished memory.

He reopened the photo on the computer and looked at it for a long time in the dim light of the bedroom. It was truly a beautiful photo — perhaps the best he'd ever taken. The red light created a warm halo around Bao Nghi's face, her eyes lit up with passion, a small smile unconsciously appeared on her lips as the photo she was developing appeared perfectly. It was exactly the kind of "unstaged" moment he'd always believed in — real, raw, not forced.

A tug of war took place in his heart. He knew, deep down, that this was a photo with Bao Nghi in it, and she had set clear conditions from the beginning: no photos of her could be used without her consent. But then, he told himself, this was not the usual case. This is a special category, the central position of the entire exhibition, an opportunity for the whole school to see the true beauty that he believes Bao Nghi deserves to be recognized - not through the anonymous title of "Observer", but through her true self, the most honest and brilliant.

He thought about everything Bao Nghi had gone through, about the fear she had carried for three years, and a strong belief arose in his heart, almost like a mission: if the whole school saw this photo, saw her true beauty and talent without any ridicule or malice, perhaps it would be the most vivid proof that the world is not always as dangerous as she thinks. Maybe, he told himself, this was the gift he could give her — a healing, a turning point, even though she never asked for it.

He didn't realize, in the very moment he was formulating a justification for his decision, that he was repeating exactly what had hurt her in ninth grade—deciding for her about how and when she would be seen, without consulting her first.

That night, Minh Khang stayed up until nearly two in the morning, fighting with his conscience. He opened his phone to text Bao Nghi to ask for advice, his fingers typed a few words, then deleted them. He was afraid that if he asked first, she would immediately refuse, as her self-protective reflex always had, and this precious opportunity - the opportunity for her to be seen as she truly was, the opportunity for the exhibition's central category to have a work with enough weight - would be lost.

"She'll understand, once she sees the results," he told himself, trying to convince himself. "This is a beautiful photo, taken with all respect and admiration. It's not like what happened to you before. This time will be different."

With that thought, he opened the email from the exhibition review board, attached the photo, and typed in the description: "Untitled portrait — Red Light. The work captures the truest moment of the passionate spirit of photography, representing the true soul of the club." He deliberately did not write the name of the person in the photo, telling himself that this was the way he still partly respected his promise to Bao Nghi - even though in his heart, he knew clearly that the face in that photo was completely recognizable, without needing a name to accompany it.

He pressed send before he could change his mind, then sat quietly in the darkness of his bedroom, his heart pounding with a mixture of emotions he'd never experienced before—hope, worry, and a vague sense of guilt that he tried to bury under a veneer of good intentions.

The next morning, when he met Bao Nghi in the dark room, Minh Khang acted as if nothing had happened, even though his heart was still filled with insecurity from last night. He told himself, just wait until the results are announced, wait until she sees how the photo is received, all worries will disappear, and she will understand the good intentions behind his actions.

But deep inside, a part of Minh Khang - the part that was still awake, still clearly remembering the promise he had made - knew that he had just made a serious mistake, a mistake whose consequences no amount of good intentions could completely erase.

That afternoon, while the group was cleaning the dark room after activities, Dinh Phong noticed that Minh Khang seemed different - he kept checking his phone, his eyes were distant, and he answered everyone's questions slower than usual.

"Are you okay?" Phong asked, leaning closer, his voice filled with genuine concern hidden under the familiar joking tone. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I'm fine," Minh Khang replied quickly, a bit startled. "Just nervous about the results of the exhibition."

"Who isn't nervous," Phong said, shrugging his shoulders, but his eyes remained glued to Minh Khang for a moment longer, as if sensing something was wrong that he couldn't name yet. "But you look like you're hiding something."

"It's nothing," Minh Khang dismissed, trying to smile naturally, then quickly changed the subject, asking Phong about the progress of cleaning the chemical tank area to avoid the next question, his voice a bit more hasty than necessary for such a simple question.

Phong did not ask further, but in his heart he still retained a bit of doubt, a vague premonition that he did not know what to do with it.

Meanwhile, completely unaware of what was going on, Bao Nghi spent that evening in the most normal way possible. She went home, had dinner with her family, helped her mother wash the dishes, then went to her room to do her unfinished homework before spending some time editing some old photos. She felt a rare peace in her heart - the deadline had passed, the photos had been submitted, now all she had to do was wait for the results, and she absolutely believed that, no matter the outcome, what she had experienced on her recent journey was a precious gift that nothing could take away.

She texted Minh Khang a short sentence before going to bed: "Thank you for everything you've done for the club, and for me. Good night." That message, simple and sincere, made Minh Khang, sitting alone in the room with the feeling of guilt still lingering in his heart, feel even more tormented. He looked at that text for a long time, his finger hovering over the screen, wanting to type out a confession again, wanting to tell her about the photo he had just sent, but then pulled his hand back, telling himself he would explain everything when the right time came, when the result was clear, when she could see the whole picture and not just one worrying piece of the puzzle.

He typed back a simple reply: "Good night, Bao Nghi. Thank you for everything." Then he put down his phone, turned off the light, and lay in the dark with a heart heavy with tangled thoughts that he didn't know where to untangle, a fragile hope that his decision, however reckless, would ultimately bring more good than hurt — a hope that, even though he didn't realize it yet, was built on the same false foundation of deciding for others what was good for them.