The friend request from Hua Thanh Nghi remained on my screen.

Under it was one sentence.

“Thank you for lending Hoai Canh to me for seven days.”

I stared at those words for several seconds.

Then I accepted.

Not because I wanted to argue.

Because I wanted evidence.

Almost immediately, another message arrived.

A photograph.

She and Ta Hoai Canh were already inside the VIP lounge.

My husband was pouring her hot water.

My camera rested on the chair beside him.

Thanh Nghi had deliberately photographed the wedding ring I had just tried to return.

It was lying on the table beside his passport.

Her message followed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring him back to you.”

I typed only two words.

No need.

Then I blocked her.

I walked out of the airport without crying.

At eleven that night, I called a lawyer.

At nine the next morning, I was sitting in his office.

—You want a divorce immediately? —he asked.

—Yes.

—Property division?

—According to the agreement we signed before marriage.

He opened the file.

Ta Hoai Canh and I had entered the marriage with separate property.

The apartment belonged to me.

My investment portfolio belonged to me.

His company shares belonged to him.

There were almost no financial disputes.

The lawyer looked surprised.

—Then this can be very clean.

I smiled faintly.

That was exactly what I wanted.

Clean.

No screaming.

No begging.

No final chance.

While Ta Hoai Canh chased the aurora with the woman he had never truly let go of, I spent the next three days removing him from my life.

His clothes were packed.

His personal documents were placed in sealed boxes.

I canceled the supplementary card connected to my account.

The household staff received their final instructions.

And the greenhouse reservation in Finland?

I canceled it.

So did the private snowmobile tour.

The icebreaker cabin.

The glass-roof dinner.

Everything had been booked under my name.

Everything was refundable until forty-eight hours before use.

By the fourth day, my phone began ringing.

Ta Hoai Canh.

I didn’t answer.

He called again.

Then a message.

“Chi Y, why was the hotel canceled?”

Another.

“The snow train reservation isn’t showing either.”

And finally:

“Answer your phone.”

I switched it to silent.

Ten minutes later, Thanh Nghi sent me a message from another account.

“Was this necessary?”

I blocked that one too.

They eventually found another hotel.

A much worse one.

I knew because Thanh Nghi began posting photographs.

In the first, she smiled beside Hoai Canh beneath falling snow.

In the second, they ate together beside a fireplace.

In the third, she wore his scarf.

The caption read:

“Seven years late, but some promises are worth waiting for.”

My friends sent me screenshots.

I asked them to stop.

On the fifth night, Ta Hoai Canh finally sent a voice message.

His tone was cold.

“Tham Chi Y, enough.”

“You’ve already ruined half the trip.”

“When I return, we’ll talk properly.”

“I know you’re angry, but don’t let anger destroy our marriage.”

I listened once.

Then forwarded it to my lawyer.

My divorce petition was filed the next morning.

The strange thing was that after signing it, I felt nothing.

No relief.

No pain.

Just exhaustion.

Seven years of loving someone had ended not with betrayal itself, but with the realization that he had always expected me to remain where he left me.

On the final night of their trip, the aurora appeared.

I knew because Thanh Nghi posted twelve photographs.

She wore my white down jacket.

The one packed in my suitcase.

Behind her, the sky burned green.

And in one photograph, Ta Hoai Canh stood beside her.

My camera was around his neck.

She wrote:

“Some people belong beside you no matter how many years pass.”

I looked at it for less than five seconds.

Then I deleted my social media account.

The next morning, I moved.

Not because the apartment wasn’t mine.

Because I no longer wanted to live inside a museum of compromises.

I left the keys with the lawyer and took only what I wanted.

On the seventh day, Ta Hoai Canh landed.

At 4:17 p.m., he called me.

At 4:19, again.

At 4:22, twelve times consecutively.

At 4:31, my lawyer called.

—Mr. Ta has received the divorce documents.

I closed my eyes.

—Good.

At five, someone began ringing the doorbell of my old apartment.

The security system still sent alerts to my phone.

I opened the camera feed.

Ta Hoai Canh stood outside.

He still wore the black coat from Finland.

My suitcase was beside him.

He pressed the bell again.

Then called me.

I finally answered.

His voice exploded immediately.

—Where are you?

—Somewhere else.

—What does that mean?

—Exactly what it sounds like.

—Why is the house empty?

I remained silent.

He lowered his voice.

—Chi Y, stop this nonsense.

—The divorce papers are real.

Silence.

For the first time, I heard uncertainty.

—You filed while I was away?

—Yes.

—Because of one trip?

I laughed quietly.

—No.

—Then because of Thanh Nghi?

—Not entirely.

—Then what?

I looked out the window of my new apartment.

—Because when you canceled my ticket, you didn’t even think you were risking losing me.

He stopped breathing for a moment.

I continued.

—You were certain I’d wait.

—Because you always have!

The words came out before he could stop them.

There it was.

The truth.

I smiled.

—Exactly.

Then I ended the call.

That should have been the end.

But Ta Hoai Canh refused to accept it.

The next morning, he appeared at my company.

Then at my father’s house.

Then outside my lawyer’s office.

He sent flowers.

Jewelry.

Plane tickets to Iceland.

He even booked the same greenhouse again for the following winter.

I returned everything.

Thanh Nghi apparently didn’t understand either.

Three days after their return, she came to see me.

She waited downstairs at my office.

—You won —she said.

I looked at her.

—Won what?

Her face tightened.

—Hoai Canh hasn’t spoken to me since we came back.

I almost felt amused.

—That sounds like your problem.

—You deliberately divorced him to make him panic.

—No.

—Then why now?

I stepped closer.

—Because you asked him to choose.

She froze.

I continued.

—And he chose you.

—That was only seven days.

—For you.

I smiled without warmth.

—For me, it was seven years.

Thanh Nghi’s face changed.

She had expected jealousy.

Perhaps anger.

Instead, she finally understood that I no longer wanted the prize she thought she’d stolen.

A month later, Ta Hoai Canh signed nothing.

He delayed every procedure.

Requested mediation.

Claimed reconciliation was still possible.

Until my lawyer presented the airport surveillance footage and the messages regarding the canceled ticket.

Then came something I hadn’t known.

My ticket had not been canceled by the airline.

Ta Hoai Canh had personally logged into the booking account four days before departure and canceled it.

Four days.

Which meant his decision had not been made at the airport because Thanh Nghi was suddenly emotionally unstable.

He had planned it.

He had simply waited until check-in to tell me because he knew I would have no time to react.

When I confronted him during mediation, he finally stopped pretending.

—I thought if I told you beforehand, you wouldn’t agree.

—Correct.

—So what else could I do?

I stared at him.

Even now, he didn’t understand.

—You could have respected my answer.

His eyes turned red.

—Chi Y, I made one mistake.

—No.

I placed the printed cancellation record between us.

—You made a decision.

There is a difference.

The divorce was finalized three months later.

Ta Hoai Canh waited outside the courthouse.

When I walked down the steps, he followed me.

—Are you really leaving?

I turned.

His face looked thinner.

Tired.

Nothing like the composed man who had pulled another woman’s suitcase through airport security.

—Yes.

—Seven years, Chi Y.

His voice broke.

—You can really throw away seven years?

I looked at him for a long time.

Then I finally gave him the answer he had refused to understand.

—I’m not throwing away seven years.

I’m refusing to give you the eighth.

He stood there without speaking.

I walked away.

Six months later, I traveled to Finland.

Alone.

I rebooked the glass-roof cabin.

The snow train.

The icebreaker.

Everything.

That night, I lay beneath the transparent ceiling while green light slowly spread across the sky.

No husband beside me.

No first love.

No argument.

Only silence.

I took one photograph with my new camera.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message from an unfamiliar number.

I knew who it was before opening it.

Ta Hoai Canh.

Only one sentence.

“I finally understand what I lost.”

I looked at the aurora.

Then deleted the message.

Because by then, I had finally understood something too.

The most beautiful part of that trip was never seeing the northern lights.

It was discovering that I could leave the man who once made me believe I couldn’t live without him—and still arrive exactly where I wanted to go.