The silence that followed their last conversation stretched on for days.
An didn't message him. She didn't open their old chat again. She didn't even re-read his last words. But every now and then, she'd glance at her phone when a notification popped up, heart skipping for a second—only to find it was nothing. A sale notification. A reminder to drink water. A message from her editor.
Never him.
Yet, strangely, that silence was not suffocating. It didn't hurt like it used to. It lingered around her softly, like the aftertaste of bittersweet coffee. Present. Noticeable. But not unbearable.
Instead of checking her phone, An wrote.
Not just for deadlines or money—but for herself. For the first time in a long while, she was writing with clarity. Not to run from her pain, but to understand it. To translate the ache in her chest into characters who could carry it for her.
In one story, a woman sat alone in a quiet room, remembering the exact temperature of someone's hand.
In another, a man walked through a familiar city after years away, hoping the corners still remembered his footsteps.
None of the stories were titled. She didn't need to name them.
She knew who they were.
Meanwhile, Khánh did not text either.
He didn't want to pressure her. After what he'd said—after finally laying down the weight he'd carried—he knew the rest was not in his control.
So he waited.
Each morning, he returned to the same café. He'd sit in the same corner seat where they had talked. He never stayed long. Just enough to drink a coffee, listen to the jazz in the background, and remember.
Sometimes, he brought his sketchbook, a habit he thought he'd forgotten.
He sketched people passing by. The barista's distracted smile. A woman biting her lip while reading a novel. A mother wiping crumbs off her toddler's chin.
But sometimes, without realizing it, he'd draw her.
An—sitting with her hair tied up in that loose bun, a pen resting against her cheek, eyes distant.
Once he caught himself sketching the curve of her wrist, and he closed the notebook quickly.
Some wounds didn't bleed anymore—but they still stung.
Linh noticed the shift in An almost immediately.
"You're quieter," she said one afternoon, stirring the foam in her latte.
"I'm writing more," An replied with a faint smile. "It helps."
"Are you writing about him?"
An paused. "Maybe."
"Do you still think about him?"
"All the time," she admitted. "But not in the way I used to. It's different now."
"How so?"
An looked out the window. The street outside was golden with sunlight, children chasing shadows across the pavement.
"It doesn't hurt as much," she said. "And that scares me, too. Because it means I'm healing."
Healing wasn't linear. Some days, An woke up feeling light, ready to face anything. Other days, she would scroll past an old photo or hear a song and suddenly want to cry for no reason at all.
But she let herself feel it.
She didn't resist anymore.
She had learned that feelings, when ignored, only grew louder.
One night, An stayed up writing until dawn. She didn't even realize it until the sky turned from navy to soft pink, and birds began chirping outside her window.
Her apartment was a mess—papers everywhere, cold tea on the desk, sticky notes covering the walls like fragments of her heart.
But her mind was clear.
She had written something that felt like truth.
Not polished. Not perfect. But real.
She stared at the pages.
A story.
About a woman who waited.About a man who left.And about how silence didn't always mean the end—sometimes, it was the space where love could breathe again.
The next evening, Khánh sat at the café once more. He wasn't expecting anything. Not a message. Not a miracle. He just wanted to be near the memory of her, even if she didn't return.
He took a sip of black coffee—no sugar, no milk. The bitterness grounded him.
Then he heard the bell on the door.
He didn't look up right away.
But when he finally did, his breath caught in his throat.
An was standing there.
Hair loose over her shoulders. A long beige coat wrapped around her. In her hand—a small stack of papers tied with a red string.
She didn't smile. Didn't speak.
She walked straight to his table and sat down across from him.
The silence between them was not awkward.
It was full of unsaid things.
Of pages unwritten.
"I wasn't sure I'd come," she said finally.
"I didn't expect you to," he replied, voice quiet.
They looked at each other.
Not with longing. Not with regret.
With understanding.
"I've been writing," she said, placing the stack on the table.
He looked at it. It wasn't bound. The pages were full of her tight, slanted handwriting and margin notes.
"This is…?" he began.
"My story," she said simply.
"About us?"
"About me," she corrected. "But you're in it."
He exhaled. "Can I read it?"
"That's why I brought it."
He picked up the first page but didn't read right away. His eyes stayed on her.
"Why now?"
An hesitated, then said, "Because I'm not angry anymore. I'm tired of holding things in. Tired of pretending I wasn't broken when you left."
"I was broken too," he said. "I just didn't know it."
"I believe you," she said softly. "But believing doesn't mean I'm ready. It just means… I want to try."
A pause.
Then she added, "This story doesn't have a happy ending. Not yet. But maybe it could."
Khánh blinked, his throat tightening.
"And if I want to be part of that story?"
She slid the pages toward him.
"Then start here," she said.
Outside, the sky had turned a gentle grey, but no rain fell. Just clouds drifting slowly, as if time itself had slowed to let them breathe.
Inside the café, the soft jazz music swelled.
Khánh picked up the pages.
And read.
Khánh read in silence.
Each page was a window into her — the pain, the unanswered questions, the quiet nights waiting for a message that never came. He read about the loneliness that wrapped around her like a second skin, about the bitterness she tried to swallow, and the courage it took to let go without ever really forgetting.
An didn't look at him while he read. Her eyes remained fixed on the window, her fingers tracing slow circles on the cold surface of her glass. There was something fragile about her in that moment, as if she had opened a door that she had kept locked for too long.
Finally, Khánh looked up.
"You write beautifully," he said, his voice a little raw. "It hurts to read… but it's real."
An said nothing.
"I didn't know you were hurting that much," he continued.
"You didn't need to," she replied quietly. "You had already made your choice."
He nodded, accepting the truth like a stone sinking in water. "I'm not here to ask for forgiveness again. I just… reading this, I'm grateful."
"For what?" she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism.
"For the fact that you still allowed me to see this part of you," he said. "You didn't have to."
She turned toward him, finally meeting his gaze.
"Because part of me wanted closure," she admitted. "But another part of me… I wanted to see if you were still him."
"Him?"
"The man I once loved."
Khánh didn't respond right away. His expression softened, pained and gentle at once. "I don't know if I'm still him," he said. "But I've spent the last few months trying to be someone who wouldn't hurt you again."
The silence between them shifted—no longer tense, but full of possibilities. Like standing on the edge of something not yet defined.
"I'm not saying I've forgiven you," An said carefully. "And I'm definitely not saying I want to start over."
"I understand," Khánh replied, not flinching.
"But… I think I'd like to get to know you again. Slowly. Without expectations."
His lips curved slightly. "I'd like that, too."
They sat for a while longer, letting the air between them settle.
"I'll keep writing," An said after a while. "Maybe next time, I'll write about a girl learning to love again."
"And if that girl meets someone from her past, in a café they both used to love?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Maybe," she said, returning the smile, "she'll let him read her first draft."