Match one hundred. I keep saying that number in my head like it means something.
The second month had passed with dozens of small tournaments. Despite continuing my losing streak—I'd marked my ninety-ninth loss—I was now losing consciously, able to remember every shot and understand clearly why I failed.
The nine ball sat there in the corner pocket, perfectly lined up. Kien had left me a gift—all I had to do was tap it in and I'd finally win one. My first win after ninety-nine losses.
I bent over the table, lined up the shot. Easy. Straight in.
The ball rolled toward the pocket, slowed down...
And stopped. Half an inch short.
"Shit."
But here's the weird part—I wasn't falling apart. Three months ago I would've thrown my cue and stormed out. Tonight I just stood there, staring at that stubborn black ball, losing with clarity for the first time, able to understand exactly what went wrong.
When the match ended, my opponent's eyes looked at me completely differently—free from mockery, transformed into genuine respect.
"Hell of a match," Kien said, walking over with his hand out. "You almost had me there."
"Yeah, almost." I shook his hand, surprised I wasn't bitter about it.
"You've been practicing. I can tell."
Minh Anh stood up from the hidden corner behind a pillar—the position she always chose when watching me compete. Somehow, she understood I needed my own space, that I still wasn't ready for the crowd's gaze.
"You know what happened today?" she said, offering me a steaming cup of black coffee as we left the club. "Someone asked me what you are to me."
"They asked about me?" I was surprised. "Why? To mock the guy who keeps losing?"
Minh Anh shook her head, her long black hair swaying gently in the evening breeze. "They wanted to know who just nearly defeated Kien 'Iron Bank'—last year's regional champion." She grabbed my elbow, pulling me to a stop. "You didn't recognize who your opponent was?"
My mouth fell open slightly in surprise. Iron Bank? I'd seen him online—a formidable player I thought I'd never have the chance to face.
"I had no idea who he was," I shook my head.
Minh Anh's laughter rang out. "That's exactly the progress, Dang." She pulled me toward our familiar direction, where we usually met after each match.
"How are you feeling?" she asked as we walked.
"Weird," I said. "Like I lost but didn't really lose."
She handed me the coffee she'd been carrying. Black, no sugar—she'd figured out how I liked it weeks ago, and somehow she also knew to place it by my left hand, though she'd never asked about my left-handedness despite me always holding the cue with my right.
"You know who you just played?" she asked, her long black hair swaying gently in the evening breeze.
"Some guy named Kien."
"Kien 'Iron Bank.' Last year's regional champion." She grabbed my elbow, pulling me to a stop. "You didn't recognize who your opponent was?"
My mouth fell open slightly in surprise. Iron Bank? I'd seen him online—a formidable player I thought I'd never have the chance to face.
"I had no idea who he was," I shook my head.
Minh Anh's laughter rang out. "That's exactly the progress, Dang." She pulled me toward our familiar direction, where we usually met after each match.
We walked to our usual café in comfortable silence. The weather had been building all evening—that heavy, humid feeling you get before a storm in Saigon. We chose our familiar table, tucked away in the corner. Minh Anh sat across from me, her face half-illuminated, the other half lost in shadow.
"You did very well today," she said, her eyes maintaining that warm look—a look that never changed whether I won or lost.
"I still can't win a game," I reminded her, but my voice no longer carried the heavy weight of before. In fact, I almost felt... at peace.
"Scores are just numbers," Minh Anh said, her fingers drawing small circles on the table surface—a nervous habit I'd started noticing. "I saw how you kept calm before crucial shots. How you didn't beat yourself up after missed techniques. You sat seriously in the waiting chair, no longer joking around or moving about the table to distract your opponent. The way you respectfully shook hands with your opponent after each match." She paused, looking directly into my eyes. "Those are the real improvements needed to become a professional player."
By the time we reached our corner table, I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.
"Are you worried?" Minh Anh suddenly asked, her voice soft as a feather. "About your decision to quit work."
I looked down at my hands—hands that no longer belonged to a talented IT engineer, now much more calloused after countless hours holding a cue.
"Every day," I sighed, fingers rotating my coffee cup. "I wake up at three in the morning, not to race against deadlines but instead to write in my journal. Each page feels like... healing, somehow. Like I'm writing my way back to who I'm supposed to be." I paused, watching the steam rise from my coffee. "Maybe I'll publish it as a book someday. You know, those healing pages I've recorded—the raw, honest stuff about fear and failure and finding courage in small moments—maybe they could help others who feel as lost as I did.
Sometimes I open my banking app and close it again, staring at the numbers that used to define my worth, thinking about the unclear future ahead. The savings account that's shrinking each month, the investment portfolio I haven't touched, the automatic transfers that no longer make sense." I met her eyes. "Strange... I don't regret it. Not one bit."
Minh Anh's expression softened, like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Not strange at all," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to wrap around me. "That's exactly how you know you chose correctly. Worry is just survival instinct—it keeps us alert, keeps us moving. But regret? Regret is the sign of a mistake, a wrong turn. And you..." She reached across the table, her fingers briefly touching mine. "You don't have any regret in your voice."
I took a sip of coffee, letting the familiar bitterness spread—familiar bitterness but without the bitter taste of disappointment.
"I've thought about this and haven't had a chance to tell you," I said, my finger drawing the number nine on the wooden table surface. "In billiards, you can't make the final nine-ball shot without first pocketing the one-ball, right?"
"Basic rule," Minh Anh nodded, her eyes curious.
"I think life is the same way," I continued, feeling this idea becoming clearer. "I tried to build a career, success, money... but I made a mistake—I never started with ball number one first."
"Are you speaking metaphorically?" Minh Anh smiled.
"I'm serious," I replied, suddenly feeling everything strangely clear. "I spent fifteen years trying to hit the nine-ball."
Minh Anh fell silent, looking deeply into me as if seeing a sentiment I didn't recognize in myself. The silence stretched, not awkward.
"Do you know the first thing Master Long taught me?" she finally spoke, her voice deeper. "'Don't rush to hit the ball. First understand the ball.'"
She placed her hand on mine, her small hand warm like a young bird that had just landed. Her fingers lightly touched my wrist, each delicate movement creating ripples that spread along my arm like small waves on a still lake.
"What do you want to do, if not your current job?" she asked, her voice gentle but containing a deep urging.
"That's the scariest part," I didn't pull my hand back despite the intimacy making my heart beat faster. "I don't know. I know clearly what I don't want."
I laughed, a laugh with the bitter taste of truth. "When I still had what was called a stable job, I only knew that every night working until dawn, I asked myself where my life was drifting. But at the billiards table, even losing the hundredth match, I still feel like I'm living—not existing, but living, with every heartbeat and every breath."
A subtle change occurred in Minh Anh's eyes. Her whole being seemed to become softer, as if my words had just touched a deep emotional chord within her. She leaned forward, close enough that I could count each long curved eyelash above her eyes, could recognize the small bright spots in her chestnut-colored pupils.
"Maybe that's exactly your ball number one," she whispered, her warm breath brushing my cheek like a gentle summer breeze. "Finding the place where you're present, whether winning or losing. The place where every moment is complete, not because of results, but because of the process itself."
"Why did you choose billiards?" I suddenly changed the subject, part of me yearning to understand more about the girl who had turned my life upside down through just messages.
Minh Anh's eyes swept over the dust raindrops outside the window before returning to look at me. A flash of melancholy passed through her eyes—an old wound not completely healed.
"Because billiards doesn't lie like... men do!"
She stopped, as if she herself was surprised by her frank answer. I quickly withdrew my hand, feeling surprised by the directness. Her hand unconsciously touched the thin silver ring on her ring finger—where perhaps there had once been a different ring.
"The cue ball always goes in its exact direction, hits the exact target, no more, no less," she said, her voice dropping but firm. "No empty promises, no flowery words with 'but' or 'maybe.' The cue ball is white, the numbered balls have their numbers—everything is clear, transparent, without deception. You can see exactly what you're dealing with from the moment you approach the table."
I didn't ask more, but I understood. A piece of Minh Anh's puzzle had just been revealed—she hadn't chosen billiards just for passion, but also because of some untold pain.
"When I first started, I didn't have money to pay for table time, so I couldn't keep losing like you," Minh Anh continued, her voice growing lighter. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with practiced grace, the movement revealing delicate silver earrings that caught the café's warm light. The simple gesture was somehow mesmerizing—the way her fingertips lingered against her temple, the soft curve of her neck now visible. "I had to teach English at night to have enough money to compete on weekends."
"I nearly broke down after the first three months, when I lost consecutive amateur tournament matches," she recounted, her hand caressing the small callus on her index finger—marks from thousands of hours of practice. "Many times I wondered if I was crazy, abandoning everything to chase what others called a 'game.'"
"How did you get through it?" I leaned forward, wanting to know the answer.
"One day at a time," she looked intently into my eyes, no longer distant but completely present. "Waking up, I told myself: 'Today, I just need to live fully with today. And play billiards better than yesterday.'" She smiled, small wrinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. "That's still how I live now."
I looked at Minh Anh, sensing the resilience hidden behind her gentle exterior. She had once been a lawyer, had once been poor enough to teach extra classes to afford billiards, but remained steadfast on her chosen path. I wondered if I had half her courage.
"Do you ever think about how far you'll go in the billiards world?" Minh Anh suddenly asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Not as far as you," I shook my head, smiling. "I don't think about becoming a winner. I just want to play to my fullest ability, no longer limited by fear."
Minh Anh suddenly brightened, as if I'd just said something profound.
"That's exactly what will take you far," she said, her voice containing fierce conviction. "Because you're not playing to prove anything to others. You're playing because you want to play billiards."
Conversations like these gradually became more frequent between us. From twilight afternoons at our familiar café to late evenings at the club, we shared with each other about billiards, about life, about deep thoughts I'd never confided to anyone before. Gradually, the image of "Queen of Nine-Ball" in my heart gave way to the familiar Minh Anh—no longer a distant billiards legend, but a lovely girl with a warm smile who understood me in ways few could.
Each passing day, I noticed strangely small details. How Minh Anh always placed the coffee cup to my left—though she'd never asked, she knew I was left-handed despite always holding the cue with my right hand. How she sometimes stopped mid-sentence, eyes looking distant, as if suddenly forgetting what she meant to say. And how the silences between us no longer carried awkwardness, but had transformed into comfortable shared spaces that didn't need to be filled with words.
After the weekend qualifying tournament, we rode together on the empty road. Sudden waves of water poured down like waterfalls, forcing us to stop under the awning of a closed convenience store. The unusually cold Saigon night wind carried moisture and bone-cutting chill.
The sky opened up. Not gentle movie rain—the kind of sudden downpour that soaks you in seconds. We ran for the nearest shelter, which turned out to be the awning of a 7-Eleven, both of us laughing because what else do you do?
"This is ridiculous," I said, wringing water out of my shirt.
Minh Anh took off her helmet, water splashing from her long black hair. Her face was flushed from cold, her breath creating thin white mists in the air. She stood close to me, our shoulders touching—not because of cramped space, but because of some invisible force pulling us closer together.
"Could be worse." Minh Anh's hair was plastered to her head, makeup slightly smeared. She looked nothing like the polished champion from her videos. She looked real.
We stood there catching our breath, listening to the rain hammer the awning above us. The fluorescent light from the store made everything look washed out and strange.
"I've always wondered," she said, her voice barely audible over the rain. I had to lean closer to hear her. "What made you keep going? After that first disaster at Sky Club?"
The question hit different than I expected. I looked at her—really looked. Raindrops clinging to her eyelashes, catching the harsh light. My heart started doing that thing where it pounds so hard you're convinced everyone can hear it.
"It was you," I said without hesitation. The words came out clearer than I felt. "Even when I stopped believing I could get better, you were my reason to keep trying. You were my anchor, my reason to continue."
The rain kept coming down, but neither of us moved toward our bikes. We just stood there in those moments of silence after, looking intently at each other.
"You want to know something?" she said quietly, her warm breath drifting across my cheek like a gentle summer breeze.
"Yeah."
"You were my reason too. When the game stopped feeling challenging, watching you fight reminded me why I loved it in the first place."
The rain kept coming, but we were no longer in a hurry. There were moments of silence after that, watching each other intently. For me, "you" are exactly ball number two—the incredibly important ball, truly necessary for me to continue toward my final goal.
"You know what you are to me?" I said, surprising myself. "You're like the two ball in a perfect combination shot. Not the final target, but the key that makes everything else possible."
She smiled—the first real smile I'd seen from her all night, transforming her rain-dampened features into something luminous.
"I like that," she said.