It had been raining all afternoon.
The kind of quiet, steady drizzle that blurred the outlines of the city outside her window. The world looked softer, dreamlike, as if someone had painted over its harsh edges with strokes of melancholy. An stood by the glass, arms folded over her chest, watching raindrops race each other down the pane. In this moment, the city wasn't loud or overwhelming—it was still, like her thoughts.
She hadn't spoken to Khánh since that night.
That night, when she handed him the envelope and walked away before he could say anything. He hadn't reached out. Not once. And she—she had waited. Then hated herself for waiting. Because she wasn't supposed to be that girl. The girl who lingered by the phone. The girl who counted silences like wounds. The girl who expected anything from someone who had already let her go once.
But even so, something inside her still hoped.
She turned away from the window. The apartment was too quiet. Her laptop sat open on the table, the cursor blinking on an empty document. She had written nothing all morning. Her mind was a swirl of unfinished sentences and feelings she couldn't name.
A knock broke the silence.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just a polite tap. An blinked, confused for a moment. She hadn't expected anyone. And she certainly hadn't expected Minh.
He stood there in the hallway, holding a paper bag with two coffees, dressed in the same rain-slick coat she remembered from their university days. His smile was warm, familiar—like the quiet kindness you forget you've missed until it's in front of you.
"I thought you might need a reason to take a break," he said, offering her a coffee.
She hesitated. "How did you know I was home?"
"You told me last week. Friday mornings are your writing days."
She took the cup, fingers brushing his briefly. He followed her inside without asking. It had always been easy with Minh—no pressure, no guessing. Just comfort.
They sat by the window, the rain their backdrop.
For a while, neither of them said anything. It was the kind of silence that didn't need filling.
Then Minh asked, gently, "Are you okay?"
An looked down at her coffee. "I don't know."
He waited.
"I feel like I'm in the middle of something I don't understand. Like... I came back to this city hoping for something—closure, maybe. But the more I stay, the more everything unravels."
"Because of him?"
She didn't answer. Not directly. But her silence was enough.
Minh set his coffee down. "I don't want to make things complicated for you. But I can't just pretend I don't see you struggling."
Her breath caught.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now. "An... have you ever thought about leaving again?"
She looked at him. Really looked at him.
The kindness in his eyes was real. So was the history they shared—the late nights studying, the laughter between deadlines, the time he held her while she cried over her father's funeral. He had always been steady. And for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different kind of life. A simpler one. One where love didn't feel like a wound.
"I've thought about it," she admitted. "More than once."
Minh nodded slowly, then—like it took everything in him to ask—he said, "Would you consider starting over somewhere else... with me?"
The room was suddenly too quiet.
An stared at him. Her mind scrambled for words. But her heart—it just stilled.
She didn't expect this. Not from Minh. Not now.
"I don't want an answer right away," he added quickly. "I just... I needed you to know. I'm here. And if you're tired of hurting, of waiting, maybe it's time to choose someone who's been here all along."
He stood. Rain still fell behind him, a quiet curtain between now and everything that might come after.
"I'll go," he said, "but think about it. Please."
And then he left.
An sat frozen.
She didn't cry. She didn't move. She just stared out the window, coffee growing cold in her hands.
Because for the first time, someone had offered her a way out—not just from the city, or Khánh, or her past—but from this version of herself that kept holding on.
And she didn't know if she was ready to let go.
She sat there for what felt like forever. The rain outside had softened into a faint mist, blurring the glass like her thoughts. The steam from her coffee had long since vanished, leaving only a lukewarm silence in her hands. But An didn't move. She couldn't. Minh's words echoed in her chest with a quiet persistence, not loud, but steady—like a question she wasn't ready to answer.
Somewhere deep inside her, something stirred. Not guilt. Not even confusion. It was... longing. A different kind of longing than what she felt with Khánh. Minh's offer wasn't wrapped in pain or hesitation. It was gentle, patient. The kind of love that didn't burn but warmed. And maybe, for someone who had grown so used to the ache of waiting, that should've been enough.
She stood and walked slowly to her desk, brushing her fingers across the pages she had written the night before. They felt different now. Lighter, maybe. As if those words belonged to a version of herself that had already made peace with something. But the truth was, she hadn't.
She thought of Khánh.
Not just the man he was now, but the boy she remembered—the boy who lent her books and looked at her like she was the only person who ever made sense. That boy had left her once without a word, and the man he became still hadn't really returned. Or maybe he had, just not in the way she needed.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen. A message from Khánh.
"I read your story. Can we talk?"
Her breath caught.
Just seven words. But they hit harder than they should have. She stared at the message, thumbs hovering, unsure what to say. Part of her wanted to throw the phone across the room. Another part wanted to run to him, ask him why it took this long, why now—why after Minh had offered something steady, something safe.
But she did neither.
She set the phone down and walked to the window again. The city outside was slowly emerging from its haze, lights flickering on in quiet apartments, people moving beneath umbrellas like they had places to be, people to return to. And she wondered—where did she belong in all of this?
She didn't want to be the girl caught between two maybes. She didn't want to be held together by memory or pulled forward by guilt. She wanted to choose. Freely. Clearly. Not because someone needed her or because someone missed her, but because she needed herself to finally stop standing still.
Tomorrow, she would answer both men.
But tonight, she would write again.
And maybe, just maybe, she would start by naming the characters this time.