The sky that day was a strange shade of gray—like it had forgotten whether it wanted to rain or just remain quiet. The kind of sky that hangs low, heavy with unspoken things. I stood by the window in the little café near the bridge, my fingers curled loosely around a cup of ginger tea I hadn't touched. Outside, the river flowed steadily, calmly, like it had no idea my chest was a mess of tangled breath and aching questions. I hadn't expected to see him again—not this soon, not when I still hadn't decided what to do with the memories.
Khánh had called. Not a message. Not an email. A voice call, like we used to, his number flashing on my screen while I stared at it in disbelief. I don't remember if I answered out of instinct or curiosity or some strange pull that sounded like longing. I just knew that the moment I heard his voice—slightly rougher, quieter, but unmistakably his—it was as if all the walls I had built over the past few years had been made of paper.
He said, "Can we meet?"
He didn't apologize. He didn't ask how I'd been. He didn't even hesitate, like he knew that if he paused for one more second, I'd vanish into the wind again. And maybe he was right. Maybe if he had said just one more word that reminded me of the past, I would have walked away for good. But there was something in the way his voice carried across the silence, something I hadn't heard in years—vulnerability.
So I came. I told myself it was just coffee. Just two people with a history, sitting in a place that didn't belong to either of us, in a city that had seen too many reunions like ours. I chose the window seat because it gave me a view of the bridge—because I didn't want to look at him first.
But when I heard the bell above the door chime, and I turned my head just slightly to check if it was him, time didn't slow down the way I feared. It moved normally, almost cruelly so, and yet I felt every heartbeat like a drum beneath my skin.
He looked the same and yet not at all. The boyishness in his eyes had softened into something older, wearier. His hair was longer, his coat a deep navy that made him look more like someone who spent time thinking than speaking. But the way his eyes found me—it was exactly how he used to look at me in the mornings, when I was still pretending I didn't love him as much as I did.
He sat down without a word. We stared at each other for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than twenty seconds.
And then he said, quietly, "You came."
I looked at him and wondered what version of me he had imagined would show up—whether he had hoped for the soft girl who once waited outside his lectures with coffee, or the stormy woman who had left without giving him a chance to ask why. I didn't know which one I was now.
"I almost didn't," I admitted, voice steadier than I expected. "I don't know what I'm doing here."
The silence that followed was not awkward. It was loaded, suspended, a breath between two cliffs. Outside, a bicycle bell rang as someone cycled past the café, and a small child laughed somewhere behind us. Life, it seemed, continued even when we didn't know what to say.
Khánh ran a hand through his hair, his fingers hesitating as if unsure whether they had the right to be nervous. "Neither do I," he said. "But I thought if I didn't try… then maybe I'd never stop wondering."
I looked away. "Wondering about what?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes drifted toward the window, toward the river. "About whether you still think of me when it rains. Whether you still remember that night we stood under the tree behind the museum, and you said the world felt like it was holding its breath."
I did remember. I remembered it all. But I didn't say that. Instead, I let the tea grow colder in my hands as I studied the lines of his face, the tired hope in his voice, the quiet desperation he tried to hide under every composed word.
"I've changed," I said softly. "I'm not the same person who stood beside you that night."
"I know," he replied, almost too quickly. "So have I."
The words hung between us, two truths that refused to be ignored. Change. Distance. Time. And yet, here we were—two people who had changed, sitting in the same city, breathing the same air, looking for something they hadn't dared to admit they wanted back.
I asked, "So what is this? Why now?"
His jaw tensed, the way it always did when he was trying to find the right words. "I don't know what I'm asking for, An. I just know that when I saw your name in that article last week, my heart did something it hadn't done in years. And I realized… it was you. It's always been you."
I should've felt something—shock, anger, even joy. But all I felt was the weight of too many years and the ache of too many almosts. My fingers tightened around the cup.
"Do you think that's fair?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper. "To come back into my life with that kind of confession after everything?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "No. It's not fair. But it's honest."
And somehow, that honesty hurt more than anything else.
Outside, the clouds shifted, and a faint glow of sun peeked through like the sky had finally made up its mind. The light fell on his face, softening the sharpness, reminding me of mornings we once shared when things were simple and we hadn't yet hurt each other. I looked at that version of him and wondered—could we ever find our way back, or were we only here to finally let go?
"I don't know what I feel anymore," I murmured. "Sometimes I think I've moved on. Other times, like now, I feel like I'm right back where we ended."
Khánh leaned forward slightly, not enough to cross the table, but enough for me to feel the tremble in the air between us. "Maybe we don't need to decide anything today. Maybe we just… sit here. And let the silence do what it needs to."
For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel the urge to run. I didn't feel the pressure to define everything, or to explain my wounds, or to protect myself from what might come next. I just… breathed.
And in that small moment, the city outside softened—the buildings less distant, the sky less unsure. Maybe, just maybe, the strange city wasn't so strange after all. Maybe, if I listened closely enough, it was trying to tell me something too.
The waitress came by quietly, refilled our water glasses without asking, then disappeared into the hum of low conversations and clinking cutlery. I wondered if she could sense the tension—if people who worked in cafés learned how to read the weight of silence between two people the way baristas learn how to time an espresso shot. I wanted to ask him about his life, what he'd been doing all this time, but the questions felt too shallow, too clinical for the heaviness that sat between us. What I really wanted to ask was: Why now? Why not years ago, when I still believed you'd come back?
But instead, I said, "Have you been in this city long?"
Khánh nodded, his fingers brushing the edge of his cup. "A few months. I moved here for work. Didn't expect to run into you." He paused, then added, "But maybe I hoped I would."
I gave a small laugh—soft, hollow. "Isn't that what we all do? Pretend we're not looking while hoping to be found?"
He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I never stopped looking, An."
I turned my gaze to the river again. Its surface rippled gently as the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of early summer—green leaves, concrete warmed by the sun, the faint sweetness of some nearby flower. The city felt alive in a way I hadn't noticed in a long time. Maybe because, until now, I'd been walking through it like a ghost.
"I used to think forgetting you was a form of healing," I said slowly. "But it turns out forgetting doesn't mean it stops hurting. It just means you've built stronger walls."
Khánh didn't say anything. He didn't try to justify, or explain, or defend what had happened. And maybe that was what I needed most—not a reason, but a quiet space to feel what I hadn't allowed myself to feel.
"When I left," I continued, "I thought it was the only way to survive. Loving you back then... it was like holding something too beautiful, knowing it would eventually break me."
"I know," he whispered. "I let it break you."
His honesty hit like a wave—quiet but forceful. There was no blame in his voice, no rehearsed apology. Just a deep acknowledgment of the pain that still lingered in the shadows of our memories. I closed my eyes, breathing in the moment, letting it settle. And then I asked the question that had been sitting on the edge of my mind since the second he walked through that door.
"Do you want us back, or do you just want the chance to stop feeling guilty?"
He looked startled—but only for a second. Then he shook his head slowly. "I want the chance to learn how to love you right. Not out of guilt. Not out of nostalgia. But because... I've grown. And I still choose you."
It was such a simple answer, yet it undid something in me. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but in the quiet way a wound begins to breathe again when air first touches it. I didn't know what that meant for us. I didn't know if we could undo the past, or if we even should. But I knew this: for the first time in years, the ache in my chest had softened into something tender, something that wasn't grief or anger or longing. It was... hope.
Outside, the clouds had cleared. The sun lit the tops of buildings with a golden hue, and on the sidewalk, two teenagers laughed as they walked past, one of them swinging a backpack over his shoulder like the world was still full of new beginnings.
I turned back to Khánh, really looking at him. The boy I had loved was still there—buried beneath time, beneath regrets, beneath the silence—but so was someone else. Someone older. Someone who, maybe, had learned that love wasn't just about grand gestures or beautiful nights, but about showing up when it mattered most.
"I'm not promising anything," I said quietly. "Not yet."
He nodded. "I'm not asking you to. Just… let this not be goodbye."
And maybe it wasn't.