The next morning, An woke up with a dull ache in her chest. It wasn't from lack of sleep—though she had tossed and turned for most of the night—it was from the heavy silence that had followed Khánh's unexpected reappearance. It was strange how something as simple as a name, a glance, a voice from the past could make her feel like time had reversed and all her carefully built walls were no longer enough to protect her.
She stood by the window of her small apartment, holding a warm cup of tea. The city was already alive—motorbikes swerving through narrow streets, vendors shouting their morning deals, the smell of rice porridge and bread drifting up from the alley below. She watched the people, wondering if any of them had ever experienced the kind of heartbreak she carried like a second skin.
Her phone sat face down on the table, silent. No follow-up message. No explanation.
Khánh hadn't reached out again.
But wasn't that his specialty? Showing up and then vanishing, like a ghost who only wanted to haunt and never be touched?
Later that afternoon, she found herself walking into a small, quiet bookstore tucked away between two buildings in District 3. It wasn't intentional. She'd only meant to escape the heat and the noise. But the cool air and scent of aged paper calmed her nerves. The wooden floors creaked gently as she walked among the shelves, fingers brushing lightly against titles she had once loved.
She paused in front of the poetry section. Her eyes caught a slim blue volume—"Letters to a Young Poet." She remembered once lending it to Khánh, back when he was still sending her messages in the middle of the night, quoting Rilke and Neruda, saying he wanted to write something that would outlive them both.
He never returned that book.
And yet here it was again.
She flipped it open and let her eyes drift down the page. The words hit her like a whisper:
"Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage…"
For a moment, she closed her eyes. She was twenty-three again, curled up on Khánh's sofa, legs under a warm blanket, his voice in her ear as he read those lines aloud. They had been in love then. Or at least, they had believed they were.
She put the book back.
It wasn't until she was near the door that she heard it—his voice.
Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
"An."
She turned.
There he was. Standing near the fiction section with a paperback in his hand. Khánh. The man she had loved and lost. The man who had left her with nothing but questions and silence.
He looked… different. Older, maybe. Tired. His hair was a little longer, and there were faint shadows under his eyes. But his smile was the same. That slightly crooked, hesitant smile that had once made her feel safe.
"Hi," he said gently.
An stared at him for a moment. Her heart was racing. Her palms felt cold.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice barely steady.
He held up the book. "I come here sometimes. Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
She didn't respond.
"I meant what I said yesterday," he continued. "That I owe you an explanation."
An narrowed her eyes. "An explanation for disappearing? For ghosting me after two years together? For leaving without a word and then texting me out of nowhere like nothing happened?"
Khánh flinched. "Yes. For all of that."
She crossed her arms. "You don't get to just walk back into my life like this."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I tried to move on. I really did. But I always wondered what would've happened if I'd stayed. If I'd fought harder."
An laughed bitterly. "You didn't fight at all."
"You're right," he admitted. "I was scared. Of everything. My job, my future, commitment… You."
"Me?"
"You made me feel things I didn't think I was ready for. I thought leaving was better than staying and hurting you worse later."
"Well," An said, voice cold, "you managed to hurt me anyway."
They stood there in silence, surrounded by stories written by people who understood how words could both heal and destroy.
Finally, she said, "I'm not ready to forgive you. I don't even know if I want to."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he said softly. "I just want to talk. Really talk."
She looked at him—at the face she had once memorized, at the eyes that used to light up whenever she walked into a room.
And then she looked away.
"There's a café I write at. Same place I used to go before," she said. "If you want to talk, meet me there tomorrow. Eight o'clock."
Khánh looked surprised but nodded. "I'll be there."
An didn't reply. She just turned and walked out of the bookstore, not looking back.
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
Her thoughts ran wild—memories of their first date, that trip to Đà Lạt, the way he used to wake her up with sticky notes stuck to the fridge.
They had built something real. Or so she had believed.
But then, just like that, it had vanished. Like a story left unfinished.
The next morning, she arrived at the café early.
It was a small place with wooden beams, vintage posters, and slow jazz playing from a dusty speaker. The owner still remembered her and gave her a nod as she sat by the window.
She ordered black coffee, no sugar. It tasted like memory—bitter and strong.
At exactly eight o'clock, Khánh walked in.
She didn't stand up. Just looked at him.
He took the seat across from her. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then he said, "Thank you for meeting me."
She said nothing.
"I thought about writing you a hundred times," he continued. "But I didn't know what to say. I was a coward, An."
"Yeah," she said. "You were."
"I was dealing with stuff I didn't know how to talk about. My dad had just gotten diagnosed. My job was on the line. Everything felt like it was slipping away. And I… I panicked."
"You should've told me."
"I know. But I didn't want you to think I was weak."
An looked at him, eyes sharp. "You weren't weak because you were struggling. You were weak because you ran."
That hit him hard.
He nodded slowly.
"I deserve that."
They sat in silence for a while. The coffee between them grew cold.
Finally, An said, "So what now? You explained. I listened. Are we supposed to go back to how things were?"
"No," he said. "I don't expect that. I just… wanted to be honest this time."
"Too late for honesty," she replied. "But maybe not too late for closure."
He looked down. "Do you want closure?"
An looked out the window. The street outside was starting to fill with people. Life was moving forward, with or without them.
"I'm not sure," she said.
After Khánh left the café, An remained seated by the window. Outside, the sun had risen higher, casting soft golden light across the wooden table and her clasped hands. The coffee in front of her had gone cold, but she didn't bother to touch it. Her thoughts were tangled, like a half-finished book unsure of which chapter should come next.
A part of her wanted to get up, walk away, and pretend that conversation never happened. But another part—the part that had once loved Khánh so fiercely—clung to the memory of his eyes, his voice, the silence between his words.
She remembered those rainy nights years ago, when they were still together. Khánh used to bring her hot ginger tea, saying its warmth reminded him of her voice whenever she told stories late at night. She would curl up on his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart like the rhythm of an unwritten song.
"You once said you'd never leave," she murmured to herself. "And then you left. No warning. No goodbye."
Was it her fault for trusting too deeply? Or his, for never being brave enough to stay?
Her phone buzzed. It was Linh.
"Are you okay?"
An stared at the screen without answering. She knew if she picked up, Linh would hear her voice shaking. She didn't want to cry. Not over Khánh. Not over someone who had abandoned her when she needed him most.
And yet, the ache inside her chest wouldn't go away.
She kept replaying that moment in the café—the way his eyes had found hers across the room, filled with something she couldn't name. Even though she had braced herself for it, her heart still skipped a beat.
"I used to think," she whispered, "that if we ever met again, I'd smile and walk away like I never knew him."
"But in the end… I still listened."
And that was what hurt the most.
She left the café, catching a motorbike taxi home. The city moved around her in slow motion. Couples holding hands. A child's laughter spilling from a nearby drink stall. A street vendor shouting prices for grilled rice paper. Everything was ordinary, and yet inside her, everything felt like chaos.
Back home, she shrugged off her jacket and sank into the chair. Her laptop sat waiting on the desk, still open to the draft of a story she had abandoned weeks ago. The heroine had also been left behind by someone she loved. Ironically, An had never figured out how to end the story.
Now, perhaps, she finally knew.
Not everyone who returns is meant to stay.
And not everyone who's forgiven deserves another beginning.
But at the very least, Khánh had spoken. And she had listened.
Maybe that was the first step in letting go.