Chapter 2 — Unprocessed Photos

Three days after the unexpected meeting at the library, Bao Nghi still hasn't answered Minh Khang, and he hasn't asked again. That made her strangely relieved and uncomfortable at the same time—relieved because she wasn't being pressured, annoyed because some part of her had prepared an emphatic refusal but now had no chance to use it.

During recess on Tuesday, instead of staying in class as usual, she found her feet turning towards block B without any intention. She told herself she was just passing by, just curious to see what the dark room looked like during the day, when the familiar black painted wooden door was not closed like the afternoons she had passed by.

The door was slightly open, just enough to let the hallway light in and enough for her to hear laughter from inside. She stood behind a concrete pillar a few steps away, not really stalking, just observing - a habit ingrained in her blood since ninth grade.

"Dinh Phong, you broke the shaping tank again!" A girl's voice rang out, mixed with giggles.

"It's not my fault!" Another boy's voice responded, sounding resentful but not angry. "It's because this stopwatch is running faster than usual, I swear. It's been mean to me since the beginning of the year."

Laughter erupted throughout the room. Bao Nghi moved a little closer, enough to see through the crack in the door. Inside, about seven or eight students were huddled around long tables, some were pasting photos on cardboard, some were passing around freshly washed photos that still smelled faintly of chemicals. Minh Khang stood in the corner of the room, holding a stack of papers, explaining something to two girls about how to arrange the layout for the exhibition.

He is not like the serious, rigid "club president" image that she once imagined. He smiles a lot, listens more than he speaks, and every time someone offers an idea, he nods first, considers before giving his opinion — without imposing.

"Hey, did anyone see anyone standing outside the door?" A tall, lanky male voice, probably Dinh Phong, suddenly shouted, causing Bao Nghi to startle and almost drop his bag.

She quickly backed away, her heart pounding, but no one came out to check. Perhaps Phong was just joking, or teasing someone in the room. She stood still for a moment in the corner of the hallway, breathing heavily, wondering why she was so scared just for standing and peeking into a room that, technically, she had every right to enter.

That evening, Thanh Truc stopped by Bao Nghi's house with two boxes of yogurt from a familiar store, sat down on the bedroom floor as usual, his back leaning against the bed.

"I heard you loitering near the dark room during recess," Thanh Truc said, his voice trying to sound casual but his eyes full of teasing.

"Who told you that?" Bao Nghi asked, his face hot.

"My friend in the same Chemistry class has a cousin in the Photography Club," Thanh Truc replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Our school is small, did you forget?"

Bao Nghi sighed, pulled his pillow into his arms. "I was just passing by."

"Yes, passing by three days in a row, just in time for the club meeting," Thanh Truc smiled softly, without any malicious sarcasm, just the understanding of a close friend who had observed her for many years. "Look, I'm not forcing you to do anything. But I think, part of you wants to try. Is that right?"

Bao Nghi did not respond immediately. She looked out the window, where the yellow streetlight shone into the room through the thin curtains. "I don't know," she said finally, her voice low. "There's a part of me that's really curious. Seeing how they work, how they talk about photos... I miss the feeling of sharing what I like with someone, not having to send photos to an anonymous mailbox and wait in silence."

"So what?"

"But if I go in, sooner or later they will know who I am," Bao Nghi said, his voice dropping again. "And I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

Thanh Truc was silent for a moment, then reached for the old camera placed on Bao Nghi's desk, turned it gently in his hand, and looked at the scratched plastic shell from years of use. "You know, I think you're confusing the two things. 'Being seen' and 'being exposed' aren't the same thing. In ninth grade, you were exposed — people saw you in a moment you didn't want anyone to see, and then turned it into a joke. Now, if you choose to enter that club, you're deciding to make yourself visible to others, in your own way, at a time you choose. Those two things are very different."

Bao Nghi looked at her friend and said nothing, but those words were like a small stone thrown into the calm lake in her heart, creating unprecedented ripples.

The next morning, on her way to school, she happened to pass by the teacher's conference room, the door ajar, and heard a few words exchanged between two teachers that she didn't intend to eavesdrop on but couldn't help but pay attention.

"The next renovation of Block B will definitely combine several function rooms into afternoon extra classes," a female voice, probably the tenth grade homeroom teacher, said. "Some kind of dark room for developing photos is also on the list. I heard that students now only take photos with their phones, so investing in keeping that room is a waste."

"The head of the Photography Club seems very determined," another male voice replied, sounding like the Math teacher Bao Nghi had studied with in tenth grade. "I heard they're preparing an exhibition of some kind to convince the school board to keep the room. I don't know if we'll make it in time. Time is very tight."

Bao Nghi stopped in the middle of the hallway, his school bag clenched in his hand. She had heard Minh Khang talk about the risk of losing the darkroom, but hearing it confirmed by the school teacher himself, in a casual tone as if he were discussing changing a broken light bulb, made it more real, much more urgent than she imagined.

She thought of the small room at the end of block B, of the distinct chemical smell, of the dim red light she had seen shining from the crack in the door one late afternoon last year when passing by, of the smiling faces of students around the photo table last night. If that room disappears, all of that will disappear too, just because not enough people believe it's worth keeping.

During Art class that afternoon, Mr. Toan — who always paid more attention to the quiet students in the corner of the classroom than the noisy ones above — stopped by Bao Nghi's desk while she was sketching a lighting composition for the assignment.

"You still have the habit of observing the afternoon light," he said, not as a question, but as a friendly comment. "I noticed that your homework always has that element."

"Yes, I like the light at dusk," Bao Nghi replied, a bit surprised by the attention.

"That light is very difficult to grasp," Mr. Toan said, smiling slightly. "It doesn't wait for anyone. The person who captured it must have observed it for a long time, very patiently, before daring to raise the camera." The teacher paused for a moment, his eyes as if he were considering something, then added, his voice softer. "I think there are people who are so good at observing that they forget that, sometimes, they also deserve to be observed by others — in a kind way."

Bao Nghi looked up at his teacher, his heart beating fast. She wasn't sure if the teacher knew anything about "The Watcher" or not, but those words, placed right at this moment, made her feel like someone had gently touched the place she kept hidden the most without hurting her at all.

Teacher Toan didn't say anything more, just nodded and walked to another table, leaving Bao Nghi sitting there with a pencil in his hand and a jumbled mess of thoughts that hadn't yet been organized.

In the evening, she opened the mailbox to send anonymous photo entries as usual, but this time, instead of sending a new photo, she just sat and watched the mouse pointer blinking on the blank screen, thinking about the room at the end of block B that was in danger of disappearing, about the smiles of the students she saw through the crack in the door, about Thanh Truc's words, about teacher Toan's words, and about Minh Khang's sincere face when he said "I really admire your talent."

She wasn't ready to step in yet. But for the first time in a long time, she was no longer absolutely certain that she would never enter again.

She closed her laptop, but instead of going to bed right away, she searched in her desk drawer for an old tin box, inside were the photos she had tested herself using a mini photo printer she bought from her savings, the photos weren't good enough to submit to the contest but she still kept them for some reason she never named. A photo of my grandmother's hand knitting by the window. A photo of Thanh Truc smiling and tilting his head under an eagle canopy in the fall of his tenth grade year. One photo was taken of the small alley in front of her house when it had just stopped raining, the road surface was shiny and reflected the lights.

She flipped through each page, slowly, as if rereading a diary written with light instead of words. None of the pictures showed her face. She'd never noticed this clearly until tonight — that in the three years she'd been holding the camera, she'd been photographing the whole world around her, except herself.

She put the photo box back in the drawer, turned off the desk lamp, and lay down on the bed in the familiar darkness. The sound of traffic on the street echoed steadily and far away. She thought of Mr. Toan's words — "sometimes, they themselves deserve to be observed by others, in a kind way" — and wondered if there existed a way of observing that was kind enough for her to endure, or if her fear was so deeply ingrained that there was no longer any room for that possibility.

Before falling asleep, she texted Thanh Truc a short line: "Maybe I'll go watch a club meeting. Just watch." The reply came almost immediately, accompanied by a clapping emoji: "Finally! I won't say anything more, promise. Just go at your own pace." Bao Nghi smiled in the dark, put the phone down on the table, and for the first time in many nights, she fell asleep without struggling with the confusing thoughts in her head.