By the time I came to my senses, I was standing in the cold Cambridge rain.

I had no umbrella.

Water soaked through my coat and ran down my hair, but I barely felt it.

Only one sentence kept repeating in my head.

“She loves me more than I love her.”

So that was what my love had become.

Not something precious.

A guarantee.

A certainty that no matter how many times Tham Hoai Canh chose someone else, I would remain exactly where he left me.

That night, I did not confront him.

I went home, took a hot shower, and opened the email I had ignored for almost a month.

Beijing National Astrophysics Institute.

They had contacted me again after learning that the research position I once rejected had reopened.

The final line read:

“Dr. Giang, if you are still interested, the position remains yours.”

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Six years ago, I would have chosen Tham Hoai Canh.

Three years ago, I would have chosen him.

Even one month ago, perhaps I still would have.

That night, I typed:

“I accept.”

Three words.

And suddenly, my entire future changed.

Over the next three days, I prepared everything quietly.

I withdrew from the American relocation arrangement.

Transferred my personal research files.

Sent several boxes to Beijing.

Booked my flight.

And contacted a lawyer regarding the divorce.

Tham Hoai Canh noticed nothing.

He was too busy planning Boston.

He talked about apartments near the university.

Research funding.

The Chinese grocery store Hua Ninh had recommended.

Her name began appearing more frequently once I knew to listen for it.

“Hua Ninh says winters there are terrible.”

“Hua Ninh found a neighborhood with good transportation.”

“Hua Ninh knows someone who can help us settle in.”

Us.

But somehow every detail of “our” life came from her.

The night before departure, he placed two passports on the table.

“Tomorrow, don’t be late.”

I looked at them.

“Okay.”

He smiled and touched my hair.

“Once we arrive, you’ll understand this was the right decision.”

I almost asked:

For whom?

Instead, I said nothing.

The next morning, we left Cambridge together.

At the airport, Tham Hoai Canh checked our luggage.

He was unusually cheerful.

“We’ll land in Boston in the afternoon.”

I nodded.

Then his phone rang.

The moment he saw the screen, his expression softened.

Hua Ninh.

He stepped away to answer.

That was all the time I needed.

I took my suitcase.

My passport.

And walked toward another terminal.

My flight departed forty minutes before his.

Destination:

Beijing.

I sent him one message only after boarding.

“Hoai Canh, my flight is not going to Boston. Our futures separate here. The divorce documents will be sent to you. Take care.”

Then I turned off my phone.

Twelve hours later, I landed in China.

My older brother was waiting at arrivals.

The moment he saw me, he frowned.

“You lost weight.”

I smiled.

“That’s your first sentence?”

He took my suitcase.

“What do you want me to say? Welcome home?”

My throat tightened.

He looked away, pretending not to notice.

“Mom made soup.”

That almost broke me.

For years, I had remained overseas because of Tham Hoai Canh.

I had convinced myself that going back meant giving up.

But when the familiar Beijing winter air hit my face, I realized something.

Coming home was not retreating.

Sometimes it was simply returning to the place where you had abandoned yourself.

Meanwhile, Hoai Canh discovered my message only after boarding began.

According to Chu Dich, he ran through the terminal looking for me.

Called thirty-seven times.

Asked airline staff whether I had boarded another flight.

By the time he understood where I had gone, my plane had already left British airspace.

He landed in Boston alone.

Hua Ninh was waiting for him.

She had flowers.

She had prepared dinner.

She had even helped rent the apartment he had expected me to share with him.

But when she reached for his suitcase, Hoai Canh stepped back.

“Where is Thanh Nghi?” she asked.

He stared at her.

“She went home.”

Hua Ninh was silent for a moment.

Then she smiled softly.

“Maybe she’ll come after she calms down.”

That sentence finally made him understand what he had spent years believing.

That I would always come after him.

Only this time, I didn’t.

A week later, the divorce agreement arrived in Boston.

He refused to sign.

He called my brother.

My mother.

Chu Dich.

My old colleagues.

Anyone who might convince me.

Eventually, he called the institute directly.

I was leaving the laboratory when reception told me someone had been waiting outside for two hours.

Tham Hoai Canh.

He had flown back from America.

He stood beneath the bare winter trees, still wearing the coat I bought him three years earlier.

When he saw me, he walked toward me immediately.

“Thanh Nghi.”

I stopped.

“You came back.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did.”

His face tightened.

“You sent me a divorce agreement.”

“Yes.”

“Because of Hua Ninh?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

He looked confused.

“Then why?”

“Because of you.”

He went silent.

I continued.

“Hua Ninh was only the person who helped me finally understand what our marriage had become.”

“I never slept with her.”

“I believe you.”

That answer startled him.

“I don’t need you to betray me physically for me to know I was no longer your first consideration.”

His eyes reddened.

“I was worried about her.”

“And you were certain I would understand.”

He said nothing.

“You wanted America because she was there.”

“No.”

“Would you have signed that contract if she lived in Beijing?”

His silence gave me the answer.

I smiled faintly.

“You see?”

Hoai Canh stepped closer.

“I can reject Boston.”

“No.”

“I’ll stay in Beijing.”

“No.”

“I’ll cut contact with Hua Ninh.”

I looked at him.

“You still think the problem is where you live or who you call.”

His voice broke.

“Then tell me how to fix it.”

I thought about the girl who changed her major for him.

The woman who rejected opportunities for him.

The wife who believed being “understanding” meant being loved.

“You can’t.”

He stared at me.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to choose me anymore.”

That was the first time he looked truly afraid.

I continued quietly:

“I want to choose myself.”

The divorce was finalized four months later.

Hoai Canh eventually returned to Boston.

Not with me.

Hua Ninh tried to build the future she thought had finally become available.

It lasted less than two months.

According to Chu Dich, the moment I disappeared, Hoai Canh stopped finding her fragility charming.

Every call became pressure.

Every request became irritating.

Without me standing behind him as the “understanding wife,” there was nobody left to absorb the consequences of his choices.

One year later, I published my first major research paper after returning to astrophysics.

The institute held a small celebration.

My brother sent me a photograph afterward.

I was standing beneath the observatory dome, laughing.

For several seconds, I barely recognized myself.

Then an email arrived.

From Hoai Canh.

Only three lines.

“I used to think you were afraid to lose me.”

“Now I understand I was the one who should have been afraid.”

“Congratulations, Dr. Giang.”

I read it once.

Then archived it.

Outside, the night sky above Beijing was unusually clear.

Years ago, I had given up studying the stars because I thought love required sacrifice.

Now I understood something much simpler.

The person who truly loves you should never need you to become smaller so they can remain the center of your universe.

Tham Hoai Canh had been certain I would follow him anywhere.

He was right for many years.

Until the day he looked toward America…

and finally discovered that the woman who had always walked behind him had chosen another direction.