The moment Hua Tam Nhien stepped out wearing my dress, I made my decision.

I turned to the employee beside me.

“Please cancel the wedding dress order.”

The employee froze.

“Miss Trinh?”

“And the reception dress.”

Ta Canh Hoai finally looked up.

“What are you doing?”

I ignored him.

“The deposit doesn’t need to be refunded.”

The employee looked between us nervously.

“But your wedding is next week.”

“I know.”

Ta Canh Hoai stood.

“An Du, enough.”

I looked at him.

For the first time that afternoon, his full attention was finally on me.

Funny.

It took canceling our wedding to make him look at the bride.

“I’m not getting married.”

The room became completely silent.

Hua Tam Nhien’s smile vanished.

Ta Canh Hoai stared at me for several seconds before giving a short, irritated laugh.

“Stop making childish threats.”

“I’m not threatening you.”

I carefully removed my veil.

“I’ve already decided.”

His expression darkened.

“Because she tried on a dress?”

“No.”

“Then because of the return gifts?”

“No.”

“The cocktail?”

“No.”

His patience finally snapped.

“Then what exactly do you want?”

I looked at the man I had loved for six years.

“I want to stop waiting for someone who only knows how to make time for other people.”

He went still.

I entered the fitting room and changed.

When I came out, Ta Canh Hoai was waiting at the door.

Hua Tam Nhien was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“I told her to leave.”

“How unusual.”

“An Du.”

He caught my wrist.

“Let’s go home and talk.”

I pulled my hand free.

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“You can’t cancel a wedding one week before it happens.”

“Why not?”

“The invitations have been sent. Both families are coming. The hotel is booked.”

I almost laughed.

Suddenly he cared about the wedding.

“You don’t like waiting,” I said. “So don’t wait for me next week.”

Then I walked away.

That evening, I began canceling everything.

Flowers.

Photography.

Reception.

Desserts.

When I called the sweet tea shop to cancel the wedding order, the owner recognized my voice.

“Miss Trinh? What happened?”

I looked at my mother’s cookbook lying open beside me.

“Nothing happened.”

Then I corrected myself.

“Actually, something finally did.”

I woke up.

The next morning, Ta Canh Hoai discovered I’d moved out.

I took very little.

Clothes.

Documents.

My mother’s cookbook.

And the box containing the return gifts I’d chosen myself.

Everything else could stay.

At 8:12, he called.

I declined.

At 8:14, again.

Then 8:17.

8:21.

8:26.

The man who couldn’t tolerate waiting five minutes called me seventeen times before noon.

I answered none.

At two, he sent a message.

“Where are you?”

Another arrived.

“We need to talk.”

Then:

“I canceled my afternoon meetings.”

And finally:

“I’ll wait at the apartment.”

I stared at that sentence.

Six years ago, I would have rushed back.

Instead, I turned off my phone.

That night, Hua Tam Nhien came to see me.

I wasn’t surprised.

She found me at the small dessert shop I’d rented temporarily while deciding what to do next.

She stood in the doorway wearing a white coat.

“Sister An Du.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Her smile stiffened.

“I came to explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“Mr. Ta and I really haven’t done anything.”

“I believe you.”

She clearly hadn’t expected that.

I continued arranging bowls.

“You don’t have to sleep with someone to show his fiancée where she ranks.”

Her face changed.

“I never wanted to ruin your relationship.”

I looked at her.

“Then why did you wear my dress?”

She fell silent.

“Why did you let him replace the wedding gifts I’d spent months choosing?”

Nothing.

“Why ask him whether you looked better than me?”

Her eyes hardened slightly.

There.

That was the real Hua Tam Nhien.

“I only asked a question.”

“And he answered.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly.”

She looked away.

After a moment, she whispered:

“If your relationship could be destroyed by such small things, perhaps it wasn’t strong to begin with.”

I smiled.

Finally, something we agreed on.

“You’re right.”

She looked startled.

“So you can have him.”

“I don’t want—”

“You do.”

I placed the last bowl on the shelf.

“But understand something. I’m not giving him to you.”

I met her eyes.

“I’m returning him.”

She left without another word.

For the next three days, Ta Canh Hoai waited.

Outside my apartment.

Outside my workplace.

Outside the dessert shop.

He waited so long one evening that the security guard called me.

“Miss Trinh, Mr. Ta has been downstairs for almost four hours.”

“Tell him to go home.”

“He says he’ll wait.”

I looked through the upstairs window.

He was standing beneath a streetlight.

It was snowing.

For a moment, an old memory pierced me.

A younger Ta Canh Hoai standing beside me outside the sweet tea shop.

Looking at his watch.

Complaining.

But staying.

I almost went downstairs.

Almost.

Then my phone lit up.

A message from Hua Tam Nhien.

“Mr. Ta isn’t answering. Do you know where he is? I’m having a difficult night.”

Thirty seconds later, Ta Canh Hoai’s phone rang below.

I watched him look at the screen.

He declined it.

It rang again.

He declined it again.

On the third call, he answered.

I couldn’t hear what was said.

But two minutes later, he looked toward my window.

Then walked away.

I laughed quietly.

Some things really didn’t change.

The wedding day arrived.

At eleven in the morning, I was supposed to be standing in a bridal suite.

Instead, I was in my mother’s old kitchen.

I had decided to reopen the dessert shop she’d once dreamed of owning.

I was testing her pear-flower sweet soup when someone knocked.

Ta Canh Hoai stood outside.

He was wearing the suit he’d bought for our wedding.

“An Du.”

I didn’t invite him in.

“The ceremony starts at twelve.”

“I know.”

“Everyone is there.”

“Then you should go.”

His eyes reddened.

“They’re waiting.”

I almost smiled.

“Now you know what that feels like.”

He looked as though I’d struck him.

“I was wrong.”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t have brought Tam Nhien to the dress shop.”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have changed the gifts.”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have kept making you wait.”

“No.”

He stepped closer.

“I’ve cut contact with her.”

I shook my head.

“You still don’t understand.”

His face tightened.

“This isn’t about whether you choose her now.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about the fact that I had to leave before you chose me.”

He stopped breathing for a moment.

I continued quietly.

“For six years, I explained you to myself.”

You hate queues.

You’re busy.

You’re tired.

You aren’t romantic.

You don’t notice details.

You don’t know how to comfort people.

Every disappointment came with an excuse.

Then Hua Tam Nhien appeared.

And suddenly, the man who hated waiting could stand in line.

The man who never noticed details remembered she couldn’t drink cold beverages.

The man who was always impatient could stay on the phone until she hung up first.

“You didn’t change for her,” I said.

“You simply showed me that you were always capable of doing those things.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“You just didn’t want to do them for me.”

He had no answer.

And once again, his silence answered everything.

I closed the door.

He stood outside for a long time.

But this time, waiting couldn’t save him.

Six months later, my dessert shop opened.

I named it No More Waiting.

My mother’s pear-flower sweet soup became our signature dessert.

There was almost always a line outside.

One Saturday afternoon, I noticed a familiar figure standing at the very end.

Ta Canh Hoai.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then forty.

Nearly an hour.

When his turn finally came, he stood in front of me.

“One pear-flower sweet soup.”

I prepared it myself.

He took the bowl but didn’t leave.

“I’m getting better at waiting.”

I smiled.

“I noticed.”

His eyes held a faint hope.

“Does that count for anything?”

I thought about it.

Then nodded.

“Yes.”

His face brightened.

“It means you’ve learned something.”

The hope disappeared.

I continued gently:

“But not every lesson comes with a second chance.”

He lowered his eyes.

After a while, he took the bowl and left.

I watched him walk toward the door.

Then another customer stepped forward.

“Miss, how long is the wait?”

I looked at the line outside.

“About fifteen minutes.”

She groaned.

“That’s long.”

I smiled.

“It depends on what you’re waiting for.”

Because I finally understood what Ta Canh Hoai had taught me.

Waiting itself was never the problem.

People will wait an hour for something they truly want.

They’ll make time.

They’ll remember details.

They’ll become patient.

And when they repeatedly make you wait while finding endless patience for someone else, believe what they’re showing you.

The night I watched Ta Canh Hoai stand in line for Hua Tam Nhien’s cocktail, I thought my heart had broken.

It hadn’t.

It had simply stopped making excuses.

He once told me that waiting was the greatest waste of time.

In the end, he was right.

I had just spent six years waiting for the wrong person.