I never thought I'd see him again.
Not here. Not in this city.
Not in this lifetime.
Hanoi had always felt like borrowed space—a place where I could blend into the noise, the traffic, and the haze of people rushing through lives that didn't include me. It was never home. Not really.
And yet, that morning, something shifted.
I arrived on the 5 a.m. train, stepping off with a single suitcase and a stale cup of instant coffee from the night train's cart. The station buzzed with the sleepy murmur of early travelers and the occasional clatter of worn wheels dragging across uneven tile.
The air was thick with early summer humidity. I could already feel my shirt clinging to my back, and my hair stuck to my neck in curls of stubborn rebellion. But it wasn't the weather that made my chest tight.
It was the silence in my head.
Because for once, I had no story to tell.
I came to Hanoi for work—an editing gig with a small publishing house that needed someone to check translated romance manuscripts. Three months, decent pay, no expectations. Just enough time, I thought, to start over in a place where no one knew me.
A clean slate.
Or so I hoped.
The tiny room I rented smelled faintly of mildew and incense. There was a single window that faced a brick wall and a bed hard enough to remind me I was still alive. I hadn't unpacked everything. Just enough to function.
My old laptop sat on the desk like a stranger I used to love.
I hadn't written in almost a year.
Not really written. Not the way I used to, back when I believed in words. Back when every heartbeat seemed to thrum with sentences waiting to be born.
I told myself that this move was temporary. A quiet detour.
But maybe, deep down, I was hoping something would change.
It was on the third morning that it happened.
I hadn't slept. Again. The ceiling fan clicked with each rotation, an erratic lullaby that never quite managed to send me off. So I rose early and wandered into the Old Quarter, notebook in hand, chasing some kind of peace. Maybe inspiration. Maybe closure.
The streets were just waking up. Bánh mì vendors set up on corners, the scent of cilantro and pork mixing with exhaust. Motorbikes darted like fish through a narrow stream of half-asleep traffic.
I ducked into a café—one I had picked at random, lured in by the soft hum of French music playing from a dusty speaker.
The place was nearly empty.
I ordered a black coffee, no sugar, and sat by the window. The notebook lay open, pen poised, pages still blank.
And then I heard his voice.
Just a few words.
"Cà phê sữa đá, cảm ơn."
Deep. Calm. Familiar.
The kind of voice that once read poems into my skin at midnight.
My hand froze.
The pen trembled against the page, leaving a faint dot of ink bleeding into the paper.
I told myself it wasn't him. It couldn't be.
But the air around me stilled.
I turned.
And there he was.
Khánh.
He stood by the counter, profile lit by the soft gold of morning light filtering through the glass door. He looked older. Sharper. The same slouch in his shoulders when he waited for things. The same habit of tapping two fingers on the counter while his other hand reached for his wallet.
My lungs forgot how to work.
He hadn't seen me yet.
I could've left.
I should've left.
But I didn't.
I stared like an idiot, heart slamming against my ribs, wondering if the universe really had that kind of cruel humor.
Then he turned.
Our eyes met.
And time... stopped.
He blinked once.
Twice.
And then, softly, like someone trying to remember the shape of a dream—
"An?"
His voice was tentative.
Like he wasn't sure it was really me.
I nodded.
I tried to smile, but it came out crooked.
He walked over slowly, holding his coffee like a shield.
"May I sit?"
I gestured at the empty seat. "It's a free country."
He chuckled—a short, awkward sound that didn't reach his eyes—and sat.
He looked good.
That pissed me off.
He wore a simple white button-down rolled up to his elbows, jeans, and the kind of watch I knew he couldn't afford six years ago. His hair was longer, tousled, and he'd grown a bit of stubble. He looked… settled. Like a man who knew who he was.
I hated that I still noticed.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said.
"Same."
"You live in Hanoi now?"
"No. Just here for work. Three months."
"Oh." He nodded. "Still writing?"
I paused.
"Sometimes."
That was a lie.
I hadn't written a single completed story in over a year. I'd scribbled fragments, opened and closed a dozen blank documents. But nothing came.
Not since him.
Not since the silence.
He tapped his fingers on his cup. A nervous habit I used to love.
"You look… different."
"So do you."
He looked at me then—really looked.
And in that moment, I wondered if he saw it.
The weight I carried. The broken things I kept hidden behind mascara and practiced indifference. The version of me that never quite came back from loving him.
"How have you been?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Alive."
"That's… something."
Silence stretched between us.
It wasn't the comfortable kind we used to share. Not the quiet that felt like music. This was awkward, thick with unsaid things.
He stirred his coffee, though there was nothing to stir.
I wanted to ask where he'd gone. Why he never said goodbye. Why he vanished after promising forever with those dark, serious eyes of his.
But I didn't.
I had too much pride left. Or not enough courage.
"Still reading Murakami?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked.
That question—so simple, so soft—hit me like a punch to the chest.
He remembered.
I nodded slowly. "Sometimes. When it rains."
A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.
And just like that, it was 2019 again.
We were twenty-two, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my studio apartment in Saigon, passing a worn copy of Norwegian Wood between us. He'd read aloud while I folded laundry, and we'd pretend we understood what love meant.
We didn't.
Not really.
But we believed in it. Then.
"I'm glad you're writing," he said quietly.
"I'm not," I said, truth slipping out too easily.
He looked up.
"Why?"
"Because the stories stopped."
"Maybe they're just… waiting."
I looked at him then. His eyes. Still that shade of storm before rain. The kind that used to unravel me.
"Are you here for long?" I asked.
"Couple of weeks. Visiting a friend. Business."
I nodded, unsure what else to say.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small notebook—the kind I used to carry everywhere.
He slid it across the table.
"In case you feel like writing something new."
I stared at it.
The edges were worn, the cover a deep blue. It was the kind of thing he would've bought six years ago without saying a word. Just left it on my pillow like he used to.
I picked it up.
It was empty.
Blank pages.
Untouched.
Hopeful.
"Thanks," I murmured.
He stood.
"I should go."
I nodded, clutching the notebook like it might anchor me.
He walked away without looking back.
But I did.
I always did.