The message from Hua Thanh Nghi read:

“Thank you for lending him to me for seven days.”

I stared at those words for a long time.

Then I accepted her friend request.

Not because I wanted to argue.

Because suddenly I wanted to see everything.

Every photograph.

Every place.

Every moment that would help me remember why I was leaving.

I took a taxi directly from the airport to my lawyer’s office.

The divorce agreement had already been drafted two weeks earlier.

I had prepared it after discovering that Ta Hoai Canh had secretly changed one passenger name on our hotel reservation.

At the time, I still hoped I was misunderstanding.

Now there was nothing left to misunderstand.

My lawyer looked surprised when I walked in.

—You were supposed to be flying today.

—I changed destinations.

I signed my name.

—Send this to him.

Then I went home.

The apartment was exactly as we had left it that morning.

Two mugs beside the sink.

His slippers near the sofa.

Our wedding photograph on the shelf.

I stood there for several minutes.

Then I began packing.

Not his things.

Mine.

For two years I had designed every corner of that house around Ta Hoai Canh.

The coffee machine he liked.

The mattress firmness he preferred.

The curtains that blocked enough morning light because he hated waking early.

When I removed everything that belonged to me, I realized how little of myself I had actually left there.

That night, his first message arrived.

“Landed.”

Ten minutes later:

“Why aren’t you answering?”

Then:

“Thanh Nghi says you didn’t send the complete itinerary.”

I almost laughed.

I replied with one sentence.

“Enjoy your trip.”

He immediately called.

I declined.

Within minutes, Hua Thanh Nghi posted her first photograph.

Ta Hoai Canh stood behind her beneath falling snow, wrapping the scarf I had bought around her neck.

The caption read:

“Some promises simply arrive seven years late.”

I liked it.

Three minutes later, Ta Hoai Canh called again.

This time I blocked his number.

On the second day, I moved out.

On the third, I transferred my half of our shared savings into the account specified by our marital agreement.

On the fourth, my lawyer sent the divorce documents electronically.

That was when Ta Hoai Canh finally stopped enjoying the trip.

According to the messages he sent from new numbers, he thought I was bluffing.

“Chi Y, enough.”

“I told you not to mention divorce while angry.”

“I’ll explain when I return.”

Then, hours later:

“Why did you move your things?”

Apparently, he had asked his assistant to check the apartment.

I didn’t answer.

That evening, Hua Thanh Nghi uploaded photographs from the glass cabin I had booked.

The aurora stretched green across the sky.

She wore my husband’s coat.

Beside her was my camera.

The caption said:

“Finally finished the journey we promised each other in college.”

I looked at the photograph once.

Then deleted every screenshot I had saved over the years.

There was no reason to collect evidence of a relationship I no longer wanted.

On the sixth day, Ta Hoai Canh came home early.

He abandoned the last day of the itinerary and bought the first available flight back.

I knew because my lawyer called me.

—Your husband is downstairs.

—Ex-husband soon.

—He refuses to leave.

I looked through the office window.

—Let him wait.

He waited almost three hours.

When I finally walked downstairs, Ta Hoai Canh was standing beside his car.

No carefully arranged coat.

No calm expression.

He looked like he hadn’t slept.

The moment he saw me, he rushed forward.

—Where have you been?

—Working.

—Why did you move out?

I looked at him.

—Because we’re divorcing.

His expression darkened.

—I never agreed.

—You don’t need to like it.

He pulled the ring from his pocket.

The same ring I had tried to return at the airport.

—You left this.

—I returned it.

—Stop saying things like that.

His voice suddenly rose.

—It was seven days, Chi Y!

I stared at him.

—Exactly.

He froze.

—You replaced me for seven days as if I were a hotel reservation.

I stepped closer.

—My ticket.

—My seat.

—My itinerary.

—My camera.

—My suitcase.

—Even the wool socks I packed for you.

His face changed.

Apparently, he hadn’t realized that detail.

I smiled bitterly.

—You didn’t just take another woman on my honeymoon.

You made me prepare your romantic trip with her.

He reached for my hand.

I stepped back.

—Nothing happened between us.

—I don’t care.

That answer frightened him.

—What do you mean you don’t care?

—Exactly what it sounds like.

For years, he had been comfortable with my jealousy.

My questions proved I still wanted him.

My anger proved he still had power over me.

Now I had none.

He lowered his voice.

—Thanh Nghi was emotionally unstable after ending her engagement.

—Then she needed a therapist.

I looked straight into his eyes.

—Not my husband.

He went silent.

The divorce negotiations lasted two months.

Hua Thanh Nghi disappeared from his social media almost immediately.

Later, mutual friends told me they had argued during the trip.

She had believed taking my place meant she had won him back.

Ta Hoai Canh apparently spent the last days calling me instead of looking at the aurora.

How ironic.

He had finally reached the place he had promised her seven years ago.

And all he could think about was the woman he had left at the airport.

Three months after our divorce was finalized, I went to Iceland alone.

Not because I wanted to complete the honeymoon.

Because I refused to let that destination belong to them.

I booked a different hotel.

Bought a new camera.

Made no schedule.

On the third night, the aurora appeared.

Green light unfolded across the black sky.

I stood there in silence.

My phone vibrated.

Ta Hoai Canh.

Another unfamiliar number.

One message:

“I’m outside your hotel.”

I turned slowly.

He was standing several meters away in the snow.

He had somehow learned where I was.

His eyes were red from the cold.

Or perhaps from something else.

—Chi Y.

I didn’t move.

—I finally understand.

I smiled.

—No.

His face tightened.

—What?

—You understand that I left.

I looked toward the sky.

—That isn’t the same as understanding why.

He stood there silently.

Then he whispered:

—Can we start again?

Above us, the aurora became brighter.

The sight I had waited years to see.

Strangely, it no longer felt like a promise.

It felt like freedom.

I raised my new camera.

Took one photograph.

Then looked at the man who had once believed I would wait forever.

—Seven years ago, maybe.

I lowered the camera.

—Two years ago, probably.

Then I smiled.

—But not anymore.

I walked past him into the snow.

And this time, the person left standing beneath the aurora was not me.