The friend request from Hua Thanh Nghi contained only one sentence.
“Thank you for lending him to me for seven days.”
I stared at it for several seconds.
Then I accepted.
Not because I wanted to answer.
Because I wanted her to see what happened next.
I opened the booking applications.
Hotel.
Canceled.
Icebreaker.
Canceled.
Snow train.
Canceled.
Aurora photography package.
Canceled.
The glass-roofed cabin had been prepaid under my name, so the cancellation refund came directly back to my account.
Then I called the airline.
My ticket had been canceled by Ta Hoai Canh four days earlier.
But the return tickets?
I had purchased all three reservations myself.
I canceled his.
And hers.
Finally, I opened the folder my lawyer had prepared months ago.
DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
I had never intended to use it.
That afternoon, I signed.
At 11:47 that night, Ta Hoai Canh finally called from Helsinki.
I watched the phone ring.
Once.
Twice.
Then a message appeared.
“Why can’t we check into the hotel?”
Another.
“Chi Y, answer.”
Then Thanh Nghi wrote.
“Did you cancel everything because you were angry?”
I replied only to her.
“You wanted my trip. Organize one yourself.”
Then I turned off my phone.
The next morning I moved out.
The apartment was jointly occupied after marriage, but the property itself had been purchased by me before registration.
I packed only my belongings.
My books.
My clothes.
The ceramic cups my mother had given me.
The painting I had bought during university.
Everything belonging to Ta Hoai Canh remained exactly where he had left it.
I placed the divorce agreement on the dining table.
Beside it, the wedding ring.
Then I changed the property access code.
Seven days passed peacefully.
On the eighth afternoon, my phone exploded.
Ta Hoai Canh had returned.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Then thirty-one.
Finally:
“Tham Chi Y, where are you?”
I was in my lawyer’s office.
I sent one photograph.
The divorce filing receipt.
His call came immediately.
I answered.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then his voice exploded.
—Are you insane?
I almost laughed.
—Welcome back.
—You filed for divorce while I was away?
—Yes.
—Because of one trip?
—No.
I looked out the window.
—Because of seven years.
Silence.
—Come home.
—That is my home. You’re the one who needs to move out.
His breathing became heavy.
—Chi Y, stop acting emotionally.
That phrase again.
I suddenly felt very tired.
—Did you enjoy the aurora?
He froze.
—What?
—You canceled my ticket. Took my camera. Took the woman you loved before me.
I smiled faintly.
—At least tell me whether it was worth my marriage.
His voice softened.
—Nothing happened between us.
—I didn’t ask.
Another silence.
Then he said:
—Thanh Nghi needed closure.
—And now I have mine.
I ended the call.
That evening he appeared outside the apartment.
The new code rejected him.
He rang the bell until security came upstairs.
When I finally opened the door, he looked furious.
Behind him stood Hua Thanh Nghi.
Of course.
She wore my scarf.
The blue cashmere one I had packed in his luggage because Ta Hoai Canh hated cold wind.
I looked at it.
She noticed.
Her hand immediately touched the fabric.
—Hoai Canh gave it to me because I was cold.
I nodded.
—Keep it.
Ta Hoai Canh stepped forward.
—Enough.
He held up the divorce agreement.
—I won’t sign.
—Then my lawyer will proceed without your cooperation.
His expression finally changed.
—You’re serious.
For the first time, he seemed afraid.
I looked at him.
—You really thought I was joking at the airport?
Thanh Nghi spoke softly.
—Chi Y, you’re misunderstanding everything. Hoai Canh and I only completed an old promise.
I looked at her.
—Congratulations.
She faltered.
—I told you I wasn’t trying to destroy your marriage.
—You didn’t.
I turned toward Ta Hoai Canh.
—He did.
That silenced both of them.
Then I noticed the camera in his hand.
Mine.
He held it toward me.
—Your camera.
I didn’t take it.
—Delete the photographs first.
His fingers tightened.
—Why?
—Because I don’t want another woman’s memories stored inside something that belongs to me.
Thanh Nghi’s face changed.
Ta Hoai Canh stared at me for several seconds.
Then suddenly said:
—I didn’t see the aurora.
I frowned.
—What?
—The weather changed the first four nights.
His voice became strangely hoarse.
—On the fifth night, it appeared.
He paused.
—But I kept thinking you should have been there.
I laughed quietly.
—That’s unfortunate.
His face went white.
In the past, one sentence like that would have melted me.
Now it only sounded late.
The divorce took three months.
During those three months, Ta Hoai Canh did everything he had never done during our marriage.
He waited outside my office.
Sent flowers.
Returned every item Thanh Nghi had borrowed.
He even booked another trip to Norway.
Two tickets.
He placed them in front of me.
—This time, just us.
I pushed them back.
—There is no “us.”
His eyes reddened.
—Seven years, Chi Y.
—Exactly.
I looked at him.
—It took you seven years to choose me only after I stopped choosing you.
Thanh Nghi disappeared from his side not long afterward.
Apparently, completing their youthful dream had not magically restored their youthful love.
Without me standing between them, there was nobody left to blame for what they had become.
On the day the divorce became final, Ta Hoai Canh stood outside the registry office holding my old wedding ring.
—If I had turned around at the airport…
I interrupted him.
—But you didn’t.
He closed his eyes.
I walked away.
That winter, I traveled to Iceland alone.
I booked a smaller cabin.
No complicated itinerary.
No carefully labeled wool socks for anyone else.
At two in the morning, someone knocked on my door and told me the sky had cleared.
I stepped outside.
Green light spread slowly across the darkness.
The aurora I had waited years to see.
I lifted a new camera.
And for the first time, there was nobody beside me whose happiness I needed to organize before my own.
Back then, Ta Hoai Canh thought he had taken only my plane ticket.
He was wrong.
He gave away the last place I had reserved for him in my future.
