I stared at the message for two seconds.
303.
Then I looked up at the male dormitory.
Chu Pham Dinh and To Mong had already disappeared inside.
I sighed and walked toward the entrance.
The dorm supervisor stopped me immediately.
“Girls aren’t allowed upstairs without registration.”
Before I could answer, someone shouted from the third-floor balcony:
“She’s with me!”
Several students looked up.
A young man leaned over the railing, hair still wet, wearing nothing but a pair of dark pants he had clearly pulled on in a hurry.
Even from downstairs, I recognized him.
Can Minh Khai.
The eldest grandson of the Can family.
The person everyone at Kinh Do University had been discussing since admission results were announced.
National science valedictorian.
Perfect score in mathematics.
Heir to a family whose companies occupied half the financial district.
And also the person who had spent the last year sending me twenty messages whenever I failed to answer one.
He pointed at me.
“To Duong, mask!”
I closed my eyes.
He really remembered.
I put it on.
The supervisor immediately waved me through.
When I reached the third floor, room 303 was already open.
Minh Khai stood outside with a towel around his neck.
He looked me over.
“You’re late.”
“I arrived five minutes ago.”
“You stood downstairs talking to another man for four minutes and forty seconds.”
I stared at him.
“You timed it?”
“No.”
He paused.
“My roommate did.”
A voice came from inside.
“Liar.”
Minh Khai kicked the door shut with his heel.
Then he took the bag from my hand.
Only then did I realize Chu Pham Dinh was standing several meters away.
To Mong beside him.
Both were staring at us.
Chu Pham Dinh’s face was particularly strange.
“You know Can Minh Khai?”
I answered naturally.
“Yes.”
Minh Khai glanced at him.
“Unfortunately, she knows you too.”
Chu Pham Dinh’s expression darkened.
“We grew up together.”
Minh Khai nodded.
“I know.”
That surprised him.
“How?”
Minh Khai looked at me.
“She complained about you exactly once.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t complain.”
“You said, ‘Some people really change when money disappears.’”
“That was an observation.”
“Fine.”
He turned toward Chu Pham Dinh.
“She observed you.”
I wanted to leave immediately.
To Mong suddenly smiled.
“To Duong, you didn’t tell us you knew Young Master Can.”
Her tone was soft.
Careful.
The same tone she used whenever she wanted something.
I understood immediately.
The To family’s situation had changed during the past year.
My father’s companies had collapsed publicly.
But To Mong and her mother had not gone to the countryside with us.
They stayed in the northern city.
Apparently, they had assumed my father was finished.
So had Chu Pham Dinh.
Minh Khai handed me a key card.
“Come inside. Your things are here.”
Chu Pham Dinh frowned.
“Her things?”
I walked past him.
Room 303 had two bedrooms and a shared study.
On the desk sat three boxes.
Books.
Exam papers.
A laptop.
And a thick folder containing documents I had sent to Minh Khai months earlier.
During the year I spent in my father’s hometown, my internet connection was terrible.
The nearest serious tutoring center was two hours away.
So Minh Khai had mailed me textbooks.
Recorded lectures.
Practice examinations.
Sometimes even handwritten solutions.
At first I had refused.
He replied:
“Then consider it debt. When you get into Kinh Do, buy me dinner.”
I accepted.
And I got in.
Not to the Pedagogical College next door.
To Kinh Do University.
Department of Applied Mathematics.
Second-highest entrance score in the province.
The only person above me was standing beside me complaining that I hadn’t brought him breakfast.
Chu Pham Dinh followed us into the doorway.
“To Duong.”
I looked back.
“What?”
“What department are you in?”
“Applied Mathematics.”
He froze.
To Mong’s smile disappeared.
“But… Kinh Do’s cutoff…”
“I know.”
Minh Khai leaned against the desk.
“She missed first place by two points.”
Then he added resentfully:
“Because she made a stupid mistake in chemistry.”
I glared at him.
“You promised never to mention that again.”
“I’m still angry about it.”
Chu Pham Dinh stared at me.
“You passed Kinh Do?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That question almost made me laugh.
“You broke up with me.”
His face changed.
For the first time since meeting again, the contempt disappeared.
“You could have contacted me.”
“For what?”
Silence.
Minh Khai looked between us.
Then he suddenly understood.
“Oh.”
He folded his arms.
“You really thought she came downstairs looking for you?”
Chu Pham Dinh’s jaw tightened.
“This is between us.”
“No.”
I closed the box.
“There is no ‘us.’”
To Mong grabbed Chu Pham Dinh’s arm.
“Pham Dinh, let’s go.”
He didn’t move.
Instead, he stared at the key card Minh Khai had given me.
“Why does she have access to your room?”
Minh Khai raised an eyebrow.
“Because I gave it to her.”
“You’ve only known her for a year.”
“And?”
Chu Pham Dinh’s voice became colder.
“You don’t know what her family is like.”
The room went silent.
I looked at him.
That sentence finally erased the last bit of childhood affection I still had for him.
Minh Khai straightened.
“What is her family like?”
Chu Pham Dinh hesitated.
“Her father is under investigation.”
“And?”
“His company collapsed.”
“And?”
“She has nothing now.”
Minh Khai laughed.
Not loudly.
But enough to make Chu Pham Dinh’s face turn red.
Then he took out his phone and placed it on the desk.
A financial news alert had just appeared.
TO GROUP INVESTIGATION CONCLUDED: NO CRIMINAL WRONGDOING FOUND. ASSET FREEZE TO BE LIFTED.
My fingers stopped.
I knew the result was coming.
I didn’t know it had been announced today.
To Mong snatched out her phone.
Her face went white.
Minh Khai continued:
“Also, her father didn’t return home because he was bankrupt.”
He looked at me briefly before speaking again.
“He went back because someone inside his company was leaking information to competitors.”
Chu Pham Dinh frowned.
“What?”
My father had told me the truth only three months earlier.
The bankruptcy had been partly real.
But the investigation had also been used to force hidden shareholders and corrupt partners into the open.
He took me away because threats had already reached our family.
And while everyone believed the To family was finished, investigators quietly traced the people selling company information.
Two of those people were connected to To Mong’s mother.
To Mong clearly didn’t know.
Her hands began trembling.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked at her.
“You should call your mother.”
She did.
No one answered.
Twenty minutes later, she ran out of the dormitory.
Chu Pham Dinh stayed.
He looked at me for a long time.
Then said quietly:
“So when you left…”
“You thought I became worthless.”
His face stiffened.
“I was trying to protect my family.”
“No.”
I picked up my bag.
“You were protecting yourself from being associated with us.”
He couldn’t deny it.
Three months later, the investigation ended completely.
My father recovered control of most of his businesses.
To Mong’s mother was implicated in leaking internal documents and manipulating company accounts.
To Mong left Kinh Do shortly afterward.
Chu Pham Dinh tried contacting me several times.
I never blocked him.
I simply stopped answering.
That seemed to hurt him more.
Years later, at graduation, he approached me one final time.
Minh Khai was standing beside me holding two bouquets because he claimed one “looked too cheap on its own.”
Chu Pham Dinh looked at us.
Then at me.
“If your family hadn’t recovered, would you still have ignored me?”
I smiled.
“That’s exactly why I ignored you.”
He didn’t understand.
So I explained.
“When I had everything, you said you would stay beside me forever.”
“When I lost everything, you left before I even asked you to stay.”
I glanced at Minh Khai.
During the poorest year of my life, he had never once asked what my family could give him.
He had only asked whether I had finished the mathematics paper he sent.
Chu Pham Dinh lowered his eyes.
“I made a mistake.”
“Yes.”
“Can we start over?”
“No.”
Minh Khai immediately turned his head toward me.
I sighed.
“Don’t look so happy.”
“I’m not.”
He was smiling.
Chu Pham Dinh finally walked away.
A moment later, Minh Khai handed me one bouquet.
“So.”
“What?”
“You owe me dinner.”
“For what?”
“One year of tutoring.”
“I thought that debt was already paid.”
“No.”
He leaned closer, suddenly serious.
“That was tutoring.”
“This is different.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What do I owe you now?”
He smiled.
“One chance.”
This time, I didn’t make anyone ask ninety-nine times.
I gave him one.
And years later, whenever someone mentioned the childhood sweetheart who abandoned me when my family fell, I felt nothing.
Because Chu Pham Dinh had taught me one useful lesson:
The person who leaves when your life becomes difficult does not deserve to return when it becomes beautiful again.
