On the third day of isolation, my fever reached thirty-nine degrees.

I woke sometime after midnight to someone pounding on my door.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I buried my head beneath the blanket.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I rejected it.

It rang again.

I rejected it again.

A message appeared.

“Open the door.”

I stared at those three words.

Even after five years, I recognized the tone.

Luc Duy.

I sat up so quickly that the room spun.

Another message arrived.

“I know you’re awake.”

How?

I dragged myself to the door and looked through the peephole.

Luc Duy stood outside.

Black coat.

Mask.

Two enormous bags in his hands.

I opened the door three centimeters.

“What are you doing here?”

His gaze swept over my face.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Boss. Very encouraging.”

“Temperature?”

“Thirty-nine.”

His expression darkened.

“Have you taken medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Eaten?”

I hesitated.

His eyes became colder.

“Giang.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I suddenly remembered why dating this man had once been exhausting.

I opened the door slightly wider.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“You could get infected.”

“I know.”

“Then go home.”

He lifted the bags.

“Your manager said you’re living alone.”

My heart skipped.

“So?”

“So I’m leaving these here.”

Medicine.

Electrolytes.

Fruit.

Soup.

A thermometer.

Even the ginger candy I used to eat whenever I had a sore throat.

I stared at it.

“You still remember?”

The moment I asked, I regretted it.

Luc Duy’s eyes met mine.

“How could I forget?”

Neither of us spoke.

Five years disappeared for one dangerous second.

Then I stepped back.

“Thank you.”

I began closing the door.

His hand stopped it.

“Why did you leave?”

I froze.

There it was.

The question we had avoided since the interview.

“I have a fever.”

“You had five years.”

“Luc Duy.”

“Not even a message.”

His voice remained quiet.

That somehow hurt more.

“One day we were planning where to go after graduation. The next day your apartment was empty.”

I gripped the door.

“You never contacted me either.”

He laughed once.

“I went to your house.”

My fingers tightened.

“What?”

“Your mother told me you’d gone abroad and didn’t want me looking for you.”

My feverish mind suddenly cleared.

“She said that?”

“She said you’d chosen your future.”

He looked at me.

“And that I should have enough dignity not to chase someone who had already made her choice.”

I couldn’t speak.

Because my mother had told me something completely different.

She had said Luc Duy hadn’t come.

Hadn’t called.

Hadn’t even asked where I’d gone.

I had spent five years believing that silence was his answer.

He had spent five years believing it was mine.

“Go home,” I whispered.

His eyes hardened.

“Giang—”

“Please.”

Maybe he saw something in my face.

He finally released the door.

Before leaving, he said:

“When you’re better, we’re finishing this conversation.”

For the first time since returning home, I wasn’t afraid of seeing my ex-boyfriend.

I was afraid of discovering why we had become exes at all.

—

A week later, I returned to work.

At 9:07 a.m., an email arrived.

From: Luc Duy.

Subject: Meeting.

One sentence:

“My office. Ten minutes.”

I considered resigning.

Then I remembered the five-hundred-thousand salary.

Fine.

Heartbreak had already cost me five years.

It wasn’t getting my paycheck too.

I entered his office.

Luc Duy placed an old envelope on the desk.

My name was written across it.

In my mother’s handwriting.

“I kept it.”

I stared.

“What is that?”

“The letter she gave me after you left.”

I opened it.

The contents were short.

“Luc Duy,

Giang has chosen to study abroad and start a new life. She asked us to tell you not to wait for her. Please respect her decision.

Don’t contact her again.”

My hands started trembling.

“I never said this.”

“I know that now.”

“How?”

“Because of your face.”

I looked up.

His expression was unreadable.

“My mother opposed us,” I said slowly. “She thought your family was too complicated. Your father had just fallen ill, your company was unstable, and she thought I’d sacrifice my career for you.”

Luc Duy’s jaw tightened.

“My father recovered.”

“I know.”

“And the company survived.”

“I know.”

“You followed my news?”

I looked away.

“Occasionally.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Every week?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The smile disappeared almost immediately.

“What did she tell you about me?”

I swallowed.

“That you didn’t come.”

His face went still.

“She said you knew I was leaving and didn’t try to stop me.”

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then Luc Duy opened a drawer.

He took out a small box.

Inside was an old train ticket.

The date was the day I left the country.

“I went to the airport.”

My eyes burned.

“My flight wasn’t from the airport.”

“I know.”

“What?”

“I found out six hours too late that you’d taken the high-speed train to another city and flown from there.”

He looked down at the ticket.

“I chased the wrong plane.”

That stupid sentence broke something inside me.

I laughed.

Then started crying.

Luc Duy stood.

He took one step toward me.

Then stopped.

Five years ago, he would have hugged me without asking.

Now he simply held out a tissue.

“Don’t cry in my office.”

I snatched it.

“Heartless.”

“You disappeared for five years.”

“You believed my mother!”

“You believed yours!”

I stopped.

Then laughed through my tears.

He did too.

It was ridiculous.

Painfully ridiculous.

Two stubborn twenty-two-year-olds.

Two families convinced they knew better.

Five wasted years.

But understanding the past didn’t automatically restore it.

I wiped my face.

“Luc Duy.”

“Yes?”

“We can’t pretend nothing happened.”

“I know.”

“And you’re my boss.”

“I know.”

“And workplace relationships are a terrible idea.”

“I know.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Can you say anything else?”

“Yes.”

He leaned against the desk.

“When are you resigning?”

I nearly choked.

“What?”

“You said workplace relationships are a problem.”

“My salary is five hundred thousand!”

For the first time, Luc Duy laughed openly.

“Good.”

“What is good?”

“At least I finally know what you love more than me.”

“Money.”

“I noticed.”

—

Nothing happened between us after that.

At least, nothing official.

He remained my boss.

I remained his employee.

But little things changed.

When meetings ran late, food appeared for the entire team—not just me.

When I submitted a proposal, he criticized it so ruthlessly that I nearly threw my laptop at him.

When I improved it, he approved it without stealing the credit.

He never treated me differently in front of colleagues.

That mattered.

Because the Luc Duy I remembered had loved me.

But the man I was meeting now had learned how to respect me too.

Three months later, I led my first major project.

After the client signed, my department went out to celebrate.

Someone asked:

“Boss Luc, who gets the biggest bonus?”

Luc Duy looked around the table.

“Giang.”

Everyone cheered.

I stared suspiciously.

“Favoritism?”

He calmly took out the performance report.

“Highest client satisfaction. Best margin. Delivered eleven days early.”

Then he looked at me.

“If you don’t want the bonus, I can cancel it.”

I immediately grabbed the report.

“Thank you for recognizing talent, Boss.”

Everyone laughed.

Later that night, I found him waiting outside the restaurant.

“Need a ride?”

“No.”

“I didn’t say with me.”

A car stopped.

The driver opened the door.

I rolled my eyes.

“Still annoying.”

“Still stubborn.”

I climbed inside.

Before the door closed, Luc Duy said:

“Giang.”

“What?”

“My mother wants me to go on another blind date.”

For some reason, my stomach tightened.

“So?”

“I refused.”

“Why tell me?”

He looked directly at me.

“Because five years ago, other people decided what happened between us.”

His voice softened.

“I don’t want anyone deciding again.”

My heart began beating too fast.

“Then what do you want?”

“You.”

No hesitation.

No sarcasm.

Just one word.

“But not the twenty-two-year-old version of you I lost.”

He stepped closer.

“I want to know the woman who came back.”

I looked at him for a long time.

Then I smiled.

“Start with coffee.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That’s all?”

“One coffee.”

“And after that?”

“If you behave, maybe dinner.”

He laughed.

“And if I don’t?”

I closed the car door.

“Then I’ll block you again.”

—

A year later, Luc Duy proposed.

I said no.

He stared at me.

I let him suffer for exactly seven seconds.

Then I added:

“Ask me again after my promotion review.”

His expression became indescribable.

“You’re serious?”

“Very.”

Six months later, I became department director.

That evening, he took me back to the same building where we’d had my final interview.

Same office.

Same desk.

He sat across from me.

“Miss Giang.”

I laughed.

“Yes, President Luc?”

“Simply introduce yourself.”

I played along.

“Giang, twenty-eight years old. Department director. Excellent professional ability. Financially independent.”

“Relationship status?”

I pretended to think.

“Complicated.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Marriage plans?”

“Depends on the offer.”

He placed a ring box on the desk.

“No salary?”

“Lifetime contract.”

“Bonuses?”

“Negotiable.”

“Annual leave?”

“With me.”

“Rejected.”

He laughed and came around the desk.

Then his expression softened.

“No one interferes this time.”

I looked at him.

“No disappearing.”

“No believing other people’s words before asking me.”

“No making decisions for each other.”

“Agreed.”

This time, when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.

Years ago, I thought our relationship ended because neither of us loved the other enough.

I was wrong.

Sometimes love doesn’t disappear.

Sometimes it gets buried beneath pride, misunderstanding, family interference, and two people too young to ask the right question.

Five years later, I walked into an interview expecting only a job.

Instead, I found the man I had never properly said goodbye to.

And Luc Duy?

He thought he was hiring an employee.

He didn’t know he was finally getting the answer to the question he’d carried for five years:

Why did she leave?

The answer was simple.

I hadn’t left him.

I had been told he let me go.

And he had been told exactly the same thing about me.

This time, neither of us listened to anyone else.