That morning, the city felt quieter than usual, like it was holding its breath just before a storm. An sat at her desk with a cup of tea that had long gone cold, watching the mist cling to the glass of her window. The world outside was gray, draped in a kind of stillness that made everything feel suspended—like time itself had slowed down just for her to catch up.
But she wasn't sure she wanted to catch up with anything anymore.
It had been over a week since she saw Khánh. Just once, just briefly, but enough for everything she had neatly tucked away over the years to unravel again. She had hoped the days would dull the sting, that the memories would fade back into the corners where she had left them. But they didn't. They hovered. Quietly. Persistently.
Every night, she found herself staring at the ceiling, wondering what she could've said if she had been braver. What would have happened if she had asked, "Why now? Why here?" Or if she had let herself stay just a little longer instead of walking away with her heart knotted tight.
The silence between them had never really been empty. It had always been full of all the things they didn't say.
She turned to her notebook again, the one she reserved for thoughts she couldn't write into fiction. Pages half-filled with scattered sentences, fragments of feelings, things she didn't know how to name. She flipped to a blank page and slowly began to write:
"I told myself I had moved on. I lied so beautifully I almost believed it."
Her pen stopped.
The truth was, she hadn't moved on. Not really. She had buried things. Covered them with work, with travel, with a life filled with schedules and to-do lists. But grief doesn't disappear just because you stop looking at it. And neither does love.
It just waits.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to stop the ache building behind her eyes. She hadn't cried that day at the bookstore. Not when she saw him. Not when she walked away. But the tears had come later, quietly, like a tide creeping in when you least expect it.
An stood up and opened the window, letting the humid morning air drift into the room. Somewhere below, a woman was calling her child, her voice sharp but laced with tenderness. It made An smile faintly—life kept happening, even when yours felt like it was on pause.
She remembered the day she first met Khánh, years ago in Hanoi, under a sky just like this. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't fate. It was just two people in the same place at the same time. He had offered her a seat in a crowded café, and somehow, that small act turned into a thousand shared moments. It was never the grand gestures that stayed with her—it was the quiet ones. The way he remembered how she took her coffee. The way he looked at her when she was lost in thought.
But people change. Or maybe they just reveal who they really are with time.
She had changed too.
She wasn't the same girl who used to wait by the phone, hoping. She wasn't the one who stayed silent just to keep the peace. She had built herself from the pieces he left behind. And yet, part of her still softened at the thought of him. Still wondered if he missed her the way she missed him—unexpectedly, in the small, quiet hours of the night.
That afternoon, she walked to the library near her apartment. It was old, tucked away between modern buildings, but it smelled like home—dusty pages, warm wood, quiet air. She ran her fingers along the shelves, not looking for anything in particular. Sometimes, she just liked being surrounded by stories that weren't hers.
She found a book of poems and sat near the back, flipping through the pages. Her eyes caught a line:
"We loved with a love that was more than love."
She closed the book slowly, heart stuttering. Poe had written it centuries ago, but somehow it felt like her own thought, stolen and written down before she had the chance.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Linh:
"Dinner tonight? You need a distraction."
An smiled. She replied with a simple:
"Yes. Thanks."
When she got home, she found herself writing again. But not fiction. Not this time.
She wrote a letter.
"Dear you,
I never hated you. I hated how quiet you became.
I hated that you left me to carry all our unfinished sentences.
I hated that I still write about you, even now, when I swear I'm over it."
The pen trembled in her hand.
"But I also loved you.
God, I loved you so quietly that no one noticed but me.
And maybe that's the saddest part.
That I loved you alone."
She folded the letter and placed it in the back of her drawer.
No envelope. No name.
Just in case she ever needed to read it again—not to remember him, but to remember how far she had come.
That night, at dinner with Linh, she laughed. Not the polite kind, but real laughter, the kind that rose from deep inside her chest. And for a moment, she felt light again.
Afterward, she stood on her balcony, the lights of the city blinking like distant stars. Her hair lifted in the breeze, and she closed her eyes.
Maybe some stories didn't need endings.
Maybe closure wasn't something someone else gave you.
Maybe you wrote it yourself, one quiet word at a time.
And in that still moment, with the world moving gently around her, An finally let herself believe that healing didn't always look like forgetting.
Sometimes, it looked like finally choosing yourself.
Later that night, as the rain began tapping gently against the windowpane, An lay in bed wide awake. The soft hum of the city outside had settled into a low, rhythmic lull, but her thoughts refused to quiet. She stared at the ceiling, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of her blanket, mind drifting through memories that came without permission.
She remembered one particular night from the past—a rainy night not unlike this. She and Khánh had taken shelter beneath a narrow tin awning outside a closed shop, sharing a half-broken umbrella that did little to keep them dry. She had been shivering from the cold, and he had wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close without a word. It had felt natural, effortless, as though their bodies had always known how to fit together. She could still feel the warmth of his coat against her cheek, the way he had whispered, "Just a little longer," as if he wanted the rain to never stop.
And now, years later, she still carried that moment. Not in bitterness, but in quiet sorrow. Some memories were like photographs you didn't hang on walls but kept folded inside drawers—faded but never forgotten.
She turned on her side, pulling her pillow closer, as if it could offer answers.
Why did it still matter?
Why, after everything, did a part of her still long for something that had already ended?
Maybe because it never truly had a proper ending. No final conversation, no goodbye that sounded like closure. Just a long silence that grew roots in the space between them.
An sat up slowly and walked to the small writing desk by the window. The rain had grown steadier, casting soft patterns against the glass. She opened her notebook again, flipping past old pages filled with fiction and fragments. She didn't know what she was looking for until she found a page she had written months ago. Just one sentence, scribbled quickly, like a thought too dangerous to linger on.
"If you ever come back, I hope I'm strong enough to stay still."
She traced her finger over the words, heart aching. Back then, she had written it in defiance. Now, it felt more like a quiet wish—one she wasn't sure she still believed in.
A vibration startled her. Her phone, left on the nightstand, had lit up with a message.
From an unknown number.
Just three words.
"Still thinking of you."
Her breath caught.
She stared at the screen, hand frozen mid-air. The words felt like a thread pulled loose from a wound that never fully healed.
She didn't reply.
Not because she didn't want to—but because she didn't know how.
What do you say to someone who once meant everything but now feels like a stranger?
She turned off the phone, set it face down, and walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Below, the streets shimmered under the rain, quiet and endless.
She whispered to the night, not expecting an answer, "I'm still thinking of me too."