The friend request from Hua Thanh Nghi contained one sentence:
“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Hoai Canh for you.”
I stared at it for three seconds.
Then I accepted.
Not because I wanted to argue.
I only wanted to reply once.
“No need. From today onward, take care of your own man.”
I sent it.
Then I blocked her.
At that moment, something inside me became unexpectedly quiet.
I had thought ending seven years of love would feel like tearing flesh from bone.
Instead, it felt like finally putting down a suitcase I had carried too long.
I left the airport.
But I didn’t go home.
I went directly to a law office.
The lawyer reviewed the marriage documents and asked:
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to wait until your husband returns?”
“No.”
I placed the ring on the desk.
“He already made his choice at the airport.”
The lawyer nodded.
Then pushed the divorce agreement toward me.
I signed.
This time my hand didn’t shake.
The first thing I did afterward was cancel every reservation made in my name.
Not theirs.
Mine.
The glass-roof cabin.
The snow train.
The icebreaker excursion.
The restaurant deposit.
The photography package.
I recovered almost eighty percent of the money.
The remaining twenty percent?
I considered it tuition.
Seven years of education was expensive.
That evening, Ta Hoai Canh called from Helsinki.
I let it ring twice before answering.
His voice was irritated.
“Why did the hotel say the reservation was canceled?”
“Because I canceled it.”
There was silence.
“What?”
“The reservation was under my name.”
“Chi Y, stop making trouble.”
I almost laughed.
He was thousands of kilometers away with another woman, and somehow I was still the one “making trouble.”
“You told me I wasn’t going.”
“That doesn’t mean you cancel everything!”
“Why not?”
“Because Thanh Nghi is already exhausted.”
I looked out the lawyer’s office window.
There it was.
Still her.
Always her.
“Then book another hotel.”
“Everything nearby is full.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
His voice hardened.
“Send me the original itinerary.”
“No.”
“Chi Y.”
“I deleted it.”
“Why would you delete six months of planning?”
“Because I’m not going anymore.”
He fell silent.
Then his voice softened slightly.
“Fine.”
“Be angry.”
“When I get back, we’ll talk.”
I smiled.
“No need.”
“What does that mean?”
“The divorce agreement will arrive before you do.”
This time the silence lasted much longer.
Then he laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he thought I was bluffing.
“You’re divorcing me over a trip?”
“No.”
“I’m divorcing you because when you had to choose between your wife and a woman who openly told you she wanted to test whether you would still choose her…”
I paused.
“…you carried her suitcase.”
His breathing changed.
“Chi Y, don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not.”
“You know Thanh Nghi’s situation.”
“Yes.”
“She canceled her engagement because she still loved you.”
“Exactly.”
“So you understand.”
“No.”
I smiled.
“That is exactly why I’m leaving.”
Then I hung up.
For the first two days, Ta Hoai Canh did not call again.
His pride was stronger than his panic.
Instead, Hua Thanh Nghi posted photographs.
A snow-covered street.
Two cups of coffee.
My camera sitting on a restaurant table.
Then a photograph of Ta Hoai Canh from behind, standing beneath falling snow.
The caption:
Some promises are seven years late, but still worth fulfilling.
Friends began messaging me.
“Are you okay?”
“Did you two fight?”
“Why is Thanh Nghi using your camera?”
I answered none of them.
I was busy.
I moved out.
Our apartment had always been registered in both names, so I took only what belonged to me.
Clothes.
Books.
My mother’s tea set.
My work computer.
A small lamp I had bought before marriage.
I left the wedding photographs.
The furniture.
The expensive coffee machine he liked.
And every pair of wool socks I had purchased for the trip.
Not because I wanted him to see them.
I simply no longer wanted to pack for him.
On the third day, I received an email.
A professional program in Singapore had reopened a place I had rejected the previous year.
Back then, Ta Hoai Canh had said:
“Why go abroad for a year? We’re planning for children soon.”
So I declined.
This time, I wrote:
I accept.
My departure date was in twelve days.
For once, my future did not require his schedule.
The fourth night, Ta Hoai Canh saw the aurora.
I knew because he called me six times.
Then sent a photograph.
Green light spread across a dark sky.
Beautiful.
Almost exactly like the postcard he had given me.
Beneath the photograph, he wrote:
You would’ve loved this.
I stared at that sentence.
Then replied:
I know.
He called immediately.
I answered.
His voice sounded strange.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes.”
“Thanh Nghi went inside.”
I said nothing.
He continued:
“The aurora appeared tonight.”
“I saw.”
For several seconds, only wind could be heard through the phone.
Then he said:
“I kept thinking you should be standing here.”
My chest hurt.
But not enough to change anything.
“You had that option.”
“Chi Y.”
“You canceled my ticket.”
“I thought there would be another trip.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You always thought there would be another time.”
Another honeymoon.
Another anniversary.
Another apology.
Another year.
He had spent seven years borrowing against a future he assumed I would always provide.
His voice dropped.
“Come next year.”
“No.”
“I’ll take you anywhere you want.”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
I looked at the suitcase beside my bed.
“My life back.”
He became completely silent.
Then asked:
“Are you really serious about divorce?”
“Yes.”
He finally sounded afraid.
“Wait until I come home.”
I almost laughed.
That word again.
Wait.
“I waited seven years.”
Then I ended the call.
Things began going wrong between them on the fifth day.
Not because of me.
Because the fantasy had finally obtained what it wanted.
Hua Thanh Nghi had imagined Ta Hoai Canh under the aurora for seven years.
She had not imagined him spending half the trip staring at his phone.
She sent me a message from another account.
Did you have to ruin everything?
I did not answer.
An hour later, another appeared.
He keeps asking whether you’ve replied.
Then:
If you wanted him, why did you let him come with me?
That one almost made me laugh.
I finally responded.
Because a husband who needs his wife to physically stop him from leaving with another woman is not a husband worth keeping.
Then I blocked her again.
Later, I learned what happened.
Thanh Nghi confronted him in the cabin.
She asked:
“If she signs the divorce, will you marry me?”
Ta Hoai Canh did not answer.
That was when she realized something she had never considered.
She wanted proof that he would choose her over me.
She got it.
But choosing her for seven days was not the same as wanting a lifetime with her.
She asked again.
“Hoai Canh, if Chi Y leaves, what are we?”
He reportedly answered:
“I don’t know.”
She laughed.
Then said:
“So I destroyed my engagement to prove something to a man who doesn’t even know whether he wants me?”
For once, both of them understood what they had done.
Too late.
They returned two days early.
I was not there.
Ta Hoai Canh opened the apartment door and immediately noticed the silence.
Then my missing shoes.
My books.
The empty half of the wardrobe.
He called me.
No answer.
He opened the bedroom drawer.
The marriage certificate copy was gone.
On the table lay the divorce papers.
Already signed by me.
Beside them was his camera.
Hua Thanh Nghi had returned it at the airport.
Inside the camera were more than seven hundred photographs.
Snow.
Forests.
Frozen lakes.
Aurora.
Ta Hoai Canh and Hua Thanh Nghi standing together.
But the last photograph was different.
Apparently, a tourist had taken it without them noticing.
Thanh Nghi was smiling at the sky.
Ta Hoai Canh was looking down at his phone.
My name was visible on the screen.
That was when, according to his mother, he lost control.
He called everyone.
My parents.
My friends.
My office.
Even the lawyer.
When nobody told him where I was, he drove to my workplace.
My desk had already been cleared.
He found my manager.
“Where is Chi Y?”
“She resigned.”
His face changed.
“Why?”
“She accepted an overseas program.”
“Where?”
“I’m not authorized to tell you.”
He slammed his hand on the desk.
“When did she leave?”
My manager looked at him strangely.
“Yesterday.”
Ta Hoai Canh went white.
Yesterday.
While he had been flying home believing he could still “talk me out of it,” I had already boarded another plane.
This time, nobody had canceled my ticket.
He found out I was in Singapore three weeks later.
Not from me.
From a professional conference announcement.
My photograph appeared beneath a speaker list.
THAM CHI Y — REGIONAL DEVELOPMENT FELLOW
He flew there the same night.
I walked out of the conference center and found him waiting beneath the awning.
He looked exhausted.
“Chi Y.”
I stopped.
For seven years, hearing his voice had made my heart race.
Now I only felt tired.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I needed to see you.”
“No.”
“You needed to believe I would still be waiting when you came back.”
His face tightened.
“I made a mistake.”
“One?”
He fell silent.
I continued:
“You canceled our honeymoon once because Thanh Nghi needed you.”
“You canceled our second honeymoon because Thanh Nghi needed you.”
“You let her tell me to my face that she wanted to see whether you would still choose her.”
“And then you chose her.”
His eyes reddened.
“I came back early.”
“So?”
“I didn’t stay the seven days.”
I stared at him.
“Do you want credit?”
His face fell.
“No.”
“Good.”
He stepped closer.
“I didn’t understand until I was there.”
“What?”
“That I didn’t actually want that trip with her.”
I almost smiled.
“But you wanted it enough to cancel my ticket.”
His lips parted.
Nothing came out.
That was the truth he could never escape.
He had not lost me because of one magical realization beneath the aurora.
He lost me at the airport.
When he looked at two women—
and assumed one of us could simply be postponed.
“I thought you’d forgive me.”
“I know.”
“You always did.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“That’s why I thought—”
I interrupted him gently.
“That’s why you kept doing it.”
He closed his eyes.
For once, he had no defense.
Our divorce was finalized four months later.
Ta Hoai Canh delayed signing twice.
The third time, his grandfather apparently told him:
“A person who loves you is not obligated to wait until you become worthy of them.”
He signed.
Hua Thanh Nghi did not become his wife.
Their relationship never truly began.
What she wanted was proof she still mattered more than me.
Once I left the competition, there was nothing left for her to win.
I never hated her as much as she probably expected.
She had been selfish.
So had he.
But Ta Hoai Canh had been my husband.
The promise had been his.
That distinction mattered.
I stayed in Singapore.
The one-year program became a permanent position.
I traveled.
Norway.
Sweden.
Finland too.
Two years after the divorce, I finally returned to see the aurora.
I booked everything myself.
A glass cabin.
Snow train.
The exact icebreaker route I had planned years earlier.
The night the aurora appeared, I stood alone beneath a sky filled with green light.
And I cried.
Not because I missed Ta Hoai Canh.
Because for years I had believed the beauty of that moment depended on who stood beside me.
It didn’t.
My phone vibrated once.
An old email account had received a message.
From him.
Only one sentence:
I finally understand why “next year” was not an apology.
I read it.
Then closed the screen.
I never answered.
Above me, the northern lights stretched across the sky.
Seven years earlier, I would have wished for him.
Three years earlier, I would have wished he regretted losing me.
That night, I wished for nothing.
I already had what I needed.
Ta Hoai Canh went crazy after discovering I had actually left because he had spent years believing my patience was permanent.
It wasn’t.
The day he took his first love to chase the aurora, he thought he was borrowing seven days from our marriage.
He only understood later that some things, once given away, do not wait for next year to be returned.
