Forever Blue Shirt: Whisper of Youth

A blue shirt from the days of youth…

Stepping through the small gate, the girl took a deep breath. A faint fragrance lingered in the air. Old frangipani trees quietly dropped their petals onto stone benches tucked in the shade. Ornamental fish swam playfully in the pond along the cool, long corridor. She paused, leaning against the railing, her eyes wide as she gazed at the lush garden ahead. This was the Ho Chi Minh City General Sciences Library, the dream haven of her high school days.

Now a first-year university student, she confidently clutched her books and climbed the wide staircase to the Reading Room. The room had a soaring ceiling and was larger than her university’s main lecture hall which held hundreds of students. Tall glass windows let in bright sunlight, softened by white slats outside. Rows of light brown wooden tables and chairs lined the room, with a librarian’s desk at one end. Everyone moved quietly and spoke in whispers, accompanied only by the hum of spinning fans.

The girl found an empty seat and began studying. After finishing a section, she glanced around idly. Everyone was engrossed in their books or notes. The soft rustle of turning pages and the faint scratch of pens created the familiar ambiance of the library. A few students whispered to each other, some exchanging notes in a silent “pen battle.” Feeling a quiet joy, she recalled a few lines of poetry:

“Sài Gòn sits in the library so solemnly

Pressed flowers in books lie still

From the first letter to the final page

The long-tailed ‘y’s look so well-behaved…”

         (Nguyên Sa, “Strolling Sài Gòn”)

She smiled and returned to her studies. When she looked up again, the Reading Room had emptied out. It was nearly closing time. Suddenly, a blue shirt caught her eye – a pale sky-blue, like the evening sky at five, with faint white stripes like wisps of clouds. “Such beautiful fabric, and the loose-cut shirt looks so nice,” she thought. The person wearing it sat with his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face. At closing time, he stood, gathered his books, and walked out. Tall, long-legged, dressed in crisp black trousers and an ironed shirt. She muttered to herself, “A proper city boy!”

The next morning, she arrived at the library a bit late and struggled to find a seat. As she settled down, she spotted the blue shirt across the aisle, now facing her. He was absorbed in a book, occasionally jotting down notes. Thick hair, a forelock falling over a broad forehead. A straight nose, fair skin, slender fingers. She quickly looked away, shaking her head as if to clear the image from her mind. She focused on her books, but her eyes occasionally drifted back. “This city boy studies hard, doesn’t he?”

As the afternoon waned, she packed up to head to the Periodicals Room and noticed the “city boy” stand up. He walked ahead, she followed, and they both turned into the Periodicals Room on the ground floor. Smaller than the Reading Room, it was lined with shelves of magazines and journals. Only two seats remained, facing each other. Her heart raced. Hiding behind an economics magazine, she stole a glance at his reading material. National Geographic? He must be good at English. She sighed, thinking of her own six years of high school English that amounted to nothing. She had to try harder!

The first semester passed, and she made a close friend in class. They were like the number 10: she was tall and slim, her friend short and round. She was shy and serious, her friend bold and funny, but they clicked. Naturally, she dragged her friend to the library, though her friend wasn’t as keen. On their first visit, after some observation, her friend slid a note across: “That guy in the blue shirt in the left corner, don’t you think he’s cute?” She glared. “Focus on studying!” “Know him?” “Nope!”

Her friend grinned. “I saw you sneaking looks at him.” She blushed. “When?” “Wanna meet him?” “No way, too shy.” “Leave it to me.” At lunch, after grilling her for details, her friend mused, “Think he’s noticed you?” “No idea.” “You’re pretty distinct – tall, skinny, glasses. Bet he remembers you.” “So what?” Her friend winked. “So I can make a plan. Relax, I’ve been a matchmaker since middle school.”

That afternoon, her friend told her to come to the library late. Her friend said she’d ask the guy to transfer her a note saying she had to leave early for an emergency. The girl sat two rows away from the “blue shirt” as usual, occasionally glancing at the door as if waiting for someone, her heart pounding. She didn’t dare look at him. So when she heard, “Excuse me,” she jumped. He gently placed a note on her table. “Your friend asked me to pass this along.” She mumbled, “Thanks,” her hand trembling as it brushed the paper’s edge. His eyes met hers briefly, a warm smile flickering, making her heart skip a beat.

She stared at her book but couldn’t read, her mind a whirlwind. Her friend’s matchmaking tips vanished from her head. She felt a pang of regret, dreading her friend’s teasing for missing her chance. Minutes passed, her hand still shaky holding the note. Once, she glanced at him, saw the blue shirt bent over his book, and felt both relieved he suspected nothing and oddly wistful for reasons she couldn’t name.

By chance, that evening, as she wheeled her bike out the gate, he stepped out too. A sudden spark of courage made her blurt, “Hi.” He smiled, nodding gently. “You… heading this way?” she stammered. “I am,” he replied, his voice soft with a warm northern lilt. She walked her bike beside him, the quiet street draped in the shade of tamarind trees. “Which school are you at?” she asked. “Technology University,” he said. “And you?” “Economics.” They walked in silence for a moment, her heart quietly racing. Then he paused. “I turn here.” “Oh… bye,” she said softly. “See you,” he replied, his smile lingering as he walked away.

Her friend scolded her endlessly after hearing the “results”. From then on, when “blue shirt” and she crossed paths, they’d exchange smiles, then went their separate ways. She lacked the confidence to talk to him again, despite her friend’s nudging. She never learned his name, and he likely didn’t know hers. But that blue shirt – she couldn’t help searching for it in the library. Seeing it brought a quiet joy; missing it left a faint ache.

After her first year, she started tutoring and had no time to visit the library. Near her home was a stall selling canh bún Bắc, a rustic northern Vietnamese noodle soup. Sometimes, instead of baguettes, she’d eat there. A bit of rich crab paste, fried tofu, blanched water spinach, small pieces of blood pudding, and bright red tomatoes. The thick noodles soaked up the golden annatto hue. A squeeze of lime, a dash of chili. A hint of shrimp paste. That’s all there was to the simple dish. The first time she tried this northern specialty, it felt unfamiliar, but soon she loved it. Yet somehow, each bite brought back that blue shirt and his smile.

One afternoon, her friend teased, “Where’s that blue shirt? Faded and worn out yet?” She only smiled, saying nothing. In her heart, she drifted back to a windy evening, watching him fade into the distance, his blue shirt billowing in the breeze. A song stirred within her: “Oh, the old shirt, billowing grandly, swept away the evening sky, like wide waves erasing a lonesome day.” (Trịnh Công Sơn, “A Memory of Love”)

Years later, she sometimes wondered: if she’d been a bit braver back then, might their story have unfolded a little longer? No one could say, perhaps only the heavens knew. So she penned a simple poem:

One missed the other… one missed one,

Who could know… only the sky above… smiles quietly.

mlefood – Minh Lê

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