The elevator shook violently.

Then the lights went out.

Phuong So So screamed.

“Miss Tham!”

In the darkness, she immediately grabbed my arm.

I pulled away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Her breathing became frantic.

“What do we do?”

I pressed the emergency button.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

For several seconds, only her frightened breathing filled the elevator.

Then she started crying.

“Mr. Quy…”

I almost laughed.

Even trapped inside a dark elevator, the first person she thought of was my husband.

A minute later, the emergency intercom finally connected.

Staff told us to remain calm.

Rescue was already being arranged.

Phuong So So crouched against the wall.

“Miss Tham, I’m scared.”

I stood quietly.

“Then wait.”

She stared at me through the dim emergency light.

“You really don’t care about anything anymore, do you?”

I looked at her.

“Correct.”

Perhaps my calmness frightened her more than anger would have.

She suddenly said:

“Mr. Quy won’t divorce you.”

I didn’t answer.

“He told me your marriage was arranged badly, but you’ve been with him for years.”

Still silence.

“He said you would never leave.”

That sentence finally made me smile.

“Did he?”

She nodded.

“He said no matter how angry you become, you always forgive him.”

I looked at the closed elevator doors.

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

Before my father died alone while my husband comforted you.

But I didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

After nearly twenty minutes, the doors finally opened.

Quy Tu Han was standing outside.

The moment he saw Phuong So So, he rushed forward.

“So So!”

He grabbed her shoulders.

“Are you hurt?”

She immediately collapsed against him.

“I was terrified.”

He held her.

Comforted her.

Checked her hands.

Only after several seconds did he seem to remember that I had been inside too.

He looked at me.

“Vu Dong, are you okay?”

I picked up my cardboard box.

“I’m fine.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re always like this lately.”

“Like what?”

“Cold.”

I looked at him.

“Maybe I’m tired.”

He sighed.

“Get in the car. I’ll take you home first.”

“No need.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“I have somewhere else to go.”

His expression darkened.

“Where?”

I smiled faintly.

“Somewhere that has nothing to do with you.”

I walked away.

That night, I returned to the apartment for the last time.

The divorce papers were already signed.

My passport was in my bag.

My father’s ashes had been placed with relatives according to his final wishes.

Everything I owned fit into two suitcases.

The next morning, I left for the airport.

That was when Quy Tu Han began sending messages.

At first casually.

Then impatiently.

Then frantically.

Where are you?

Why aren’t you home?

Answer me.

If you keep this up, we’ll divorce.

I stared at the final sentence.

Then smiled.

Divorce.

Exactly what I wanted.

I boarded the plane.

Turned off my phone.

And left.

Meanwhile, Quy Tu Han drove to the hospital.

He thought I had gone to see my father.

He walked straight to the ward.

Empty.

Bed stripped.

Name card removed.

He stopped a nurse.

“Where is the patient who was here?”

The nurse looked at him.

“Mr. Tham?”

“Yes.”

“He passed away several days ago.”

Quy Tu Han froze.

“What?”

The nurse’s expression became confused.

“You’re his son-in-law?”

His lips moved.

No sound came out.

She continued:

“His daughter was here alone.”

“She called the donor repeatedly.”

“She cried outside the treatment room all night.”

Then she hesitated.

“We heard a suitable donor had originally been arranged.”

Quy Tu Han’s face lost all color.

That was when he remembered.

The scheduled day.

Phuong So So crying in his arms.

Her trembling voice saying she was scared.

And his own words:

“If you’re afraid, don’t donate. We can postpone it.”

He had said one month.

As if my father’s life belonged to his schedule.

As if there would always be another month.

He called me immediately.

Phone off.

Again.

Off.

Then he called Phuong So So.

She answered cheerfully.

“Mr. Quy?”

He asked only one question.

“Did you know her father died?”

Silence.

Then:

“I…”

His voice changed.

“You knew?”

Phuong So So began crying.

“I heard afterward.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you said nothing?”

“I was afraid you would blame me!”

Quy Tu Han closed his eyes.

For the first time, her tears did not soften him.

“You knew.”

She tried to explain.

“I didn’t cause it. I was scared of the procedure. You said I didn’t have to—”

“Yes.”

His voice became hoarse.

“I said it.”

That was the part he could not escape.

He had made the choice.

No one forced him.

No misunderstanding changed it.

He had decided that So So’s fear mattered more than the emergency in front of him.

And while he took her away to relax…

my father died.

That evening, Quy Tu Han returned home.

The apartment was silent.

My clothes were gone.

My books.

My photographs.

Even the mug I always used at breakfast.

On the dining table lay one envelope.

Inside:

The divorce agreement.

My signature.

And a short note.

“You told me you would always be my support.”

“Unfortunately, when I needed you most, you were supporting someone else.”

“Don’t look for me.”

For the first time in years, Quy Tu Han panicked.

He called his mother.

She calmly told him:

“Vu Dong signed voluntarily.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave her what she asked for.”

“You knew?”

“I knew she wanted a divorce.”

He shouted:

“And you agreed?”

Mrs. Quy laughed coldly.

“Wasn’t this what you wanted?”

He went silent.

She continued:

“You spent years making that girl understand there was always someone more important than her.”

“Now she finally believes you.”

The line disconnected.

Three weeks later, Quy Tu Han received confirmation that I had left the country.

He tried to stop the divorce.

Delayed paperwork.

Called friends.

Contacted my old colleagues.

But I never responded.

During the required waiting period, he sent me dozens of emails.

At first:

“Come back. We need to talk.”

Then:

“I didn’t know your father had worsened so quickly.”

Then:

“I made the wrong decision.”

Finally:

“I’m sorry.”

I read none of them until months later.

By then, I was living in another city abroad.

New apartment.

New job.

No hospital corridors.

No marriage where I had to compete for my own husband’s attention.

The divorce became final.

Quy Tu Han broke contact with Phuong So So.

According to mutual friends, she asked him:

“Do you hate me now?”

He answered:

“No.”

Then:

“I hate the man I became when I kept choosing you.”

That was probably the first honest thing he had said in years.

One year later, I received a package.

Inside was my father’s old fountain pen.

I had left it in the apartment.

There was no letter.

Only a card:

“I know saying sorry changes nothing.”

He was right.

It changed nothing.

I kept the pen.

Threw away the card.

Then I returned to work.

For a long time, I blamed myself.

I thought if I had pushed harder, called more people, begged more desperately, perhaps the ending would have changed.

But grief eventually taught me something cruelty never could:

I was not responsible for another adult’s choices.

Not Phuong So So’s.

Not Quy Tu Han’s.

And certainly not for spending the rest of my life beside a man who only understood my importance after losing me.

The day I boarded that plane, Quy Tu Han still believed I would eventually answer.

Eventually forgive.

Eventually return.

He didn’t know that my father’s death had taken the last illusion with it.

Some people lose you during an argument.

Quy Tu Han lost me in a hospital corridor while he was somewhere else promising another woman that she would never have to be afraid.