The bell rang. The boys shoved past each other, squeezing through the classroom door. No one cared enough to line up for school lunch; the smell of stir-fries had turned the students feral with desire. I was late to lunch on purpose — partly because I was grossed out by the smell of sweat and burnt oil, but more because I knew J would be there, by the bleach-glossed row of water taps in front of the bathroom. I would catch his eye as I washed my hands, and he would look away, while Phùng Khánh Linh’s velvety voice and harmonious synth in “Phải lòng cô đơn” slowly amplified in the background — it was all a gay boy could have wished for.
The odd thing was that Phùng Khánh Linh hadn’t released “Phải lòng cô đơn” when I was in high school. She had just finished her Law degree, and her song “Hôm nay tôi buồn” barely hit the charts. Most V-pop sad songs at the time were bawl-your-eyes-out ballads, with powerful belting, acoustic instruments, and lyrics written as if the writer was on the brink of divorce, or marriage. “Phải lòng cô đơn” relied on electronic sound effects, starting with a guitar note that pitched into a whistle, which lingered for two seconds before soft percussion entered. Then Phùng Khánh Linh sang in a repeating melody across bars, which reminded me of Lana Del Rey’s “Venice Bitch,” a song that made me feel as if I was snuggling my lover’s arm in a car as we drove under the Southern California sun — I’d never been to Venice Beach.
I met J when I was serving as school council Minister of Culture. We had to collaborate on school events — J was nominated to represent his basketball team, and I fell in love with him after he put his hands on my shoulders in the backstage light during one of the assemblies. I had a vision of what love would be like: driving at night, swaying to music I had never heard, pretending to be numb to university applications and parents’ expectations. It was an atmosphere rather than a story, and Lana Del Rey’s sixth album Norman Fucking Rockwell — and artpop sub-genre in general — held my feelings loosely. I played the album for him, hoping he would appreciate the mood-inducing power of artpop the way I did, so that we could listen to it during our time together, which wasn’t much, and perhaps he would figure out how I feel about him. After his first listen, he told me the album was too slow. At times, I wanted so badly to call what we had love, though I immediately convinced myself it wasn’t. In retrospect, it was perfect, precisely because it was a fantasy.
In the US, the late 2010s marked the sad-girls’ reign, with an andante tempo and vaguely confessional lyrics. V-pop artists caught up with the trend years later, and Phùng Khánh Linh belonged to a lineage of sultry pop girls whose vibes were part of their artistry, such as Billie Eilish and Mitski. “Để từng ngọn gió kéo đến khiến tóc em rối bời / Ngàn lời chưa nói cho anh không sao cất lời” Phùng Khánh Linh sang in heavy reverb, as the guitar swelled, giving the song an immersive, melancholic feel. Looking back, I didn’t know if what I felt towards J was love; in fact, I didn’t know if I felt anything at all. I dreamt of what love would look like, instead of experiencing it. And “Phải lòng cô đơn” was as vague as how I felt, and, therefore, left plenty of room for my imagination — it was exactly what a yearning gay boy needed to feel less confused and lonely.
Since graduation, my life has become more boring, and the thought of texting someone at night gives me the same feeling as getting another email right when I am about to leave work. I’ve been going to the new gym for a few months, where I make small talk with one of the staff. He was lanky, and when I overheard him talking about his hometown to another regular, the eagerness of someone moving to the big city for the first time showed on his face. Last week, it was pouring hard as I rode to the gym, and I arrived with the bottom half of my shirt sticking to my body. “You’re all wet. It’s ok to skip for a day, you know,” he said to me. I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t because if I skipped, I would become ugly and never be able to find a boyfriend. I didn’t, of course. When it was time for me to leave, he walked my bike for me — I thought he was just doing his job — and asked me how to start the engine. I showed him how, and he told me that he had only ridden manual motorbikes before. After that, he told me to get home safely. On my way home, I could hear the tune of “Phải lòng cô đơn” ringing in my head as the rain, which had softened, hit my cheeks. Turning around would be desperate, so I took the long way.
