I opened the door.
Trinh Viet stood outside.
He looked terrible.
His hair was messy, his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then his gaze moved past me into the small room.
The twenty-square-meter apartment.
The narrow bed.
The cheap folding table.
The heater that barely worked.
His expression changed.
—You’ve been living here?
I laughed softly.
—For almost two years.
His eyes snapped back to mine.
—Why didn’t you tell me?
I stared at him.
—You never asked.
Silence.
He looked as if I had slapped him.
I stepped aside.
—You wanted to talk. Five minutes.
He entered.
His eyes traveled around the room again.
There was nowhere for him to sit except the chair beside my desk.
For three and a half years, I had spent countless nights at his spacious apartment.
I cooked there.
Cleaned there.
Waited for him there.
Yet he had never once come here.
Not once.
Trinh Viet sat down slowly.
—I canceled the snow-mountain trip.
I didn’t react.
—Gia Di isn’t going either.
Still nothing.
He leaned forward.
—Lam Te, I swear there’s nothing between us.
—I know.
He froze.
—I believe you.
His face showed obvious relief.
Then I continued:
—That’s why it’s worse.
The relief vanished.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
—If you were cheating, I could hate you.
My voice was calm.
—But you didn’t betray me because you loved someone else.
I looked at him.
—You simply cared about her more naturally than you ever cared about me.
He opened his mouth.
—That’s not true.
—Then tell me my birthday.
He went still.
I smiled.
—Don’t look at your phone.
His lips parted.
Nothing came out.
—Our anniversary?
Silence.
—What food am I allergic to?
He lowered his eyes.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I finally had my answer.
—Now tell me Gia Di’s birthday.
His face went pale.
He knew it.
Of course he knew it.
—Lam Te—
—What does she hate eating?
He didn’t answer.
—What place did she say she wanted to visit?
His fingers tightened.
I nodded.
—Exactly.
He stood abruptly.
—I can change.
That sentence would have destroyed me once.
Now it only made me tired.
—Why now?
—Because I didn’t realize—
—That I could leave?
He stopped.
I looked at him.
—You didn’t suddenly realize you loved me.
I smiled sadly.
—You realized I stopped waiting.
He stayed for almost an hour.
I didn’t throw him out.
I didn’t cry.
I simply listened.
He told me he had been under pressure at the lab.
That Chu Gia Di was younger and often needed help.
That because she was from the same hometown, his mother naturally treated her like family.
He said he had never thought that any of it would hurt me.
That sentence stayed with me.
He had never thought.
That was the problem.
For three and a half years, I thought about him in everything.
He barely thought about me at all.
Before leaving, he stood at the door.
—Give me one month.
I frowned.
—For what?
—To prove I can change.
I looked at him for a long time.
Then I shook my head.
—I gave you three and a half years.
His eyes reddened.
—Lam Te…
—I don’t want to spend another month taking a test with you.
I closed the door.
This time, he didn’t knock again.
The following week, I returned to work.
I changed my routine.
I stopped taking the subway line that passed near his apartment.
I deleted the food-delivery addresses saved under his name.
I removed the reminder for his birthday.
The strangest thing was how many pieces of my life had been arranged around him.
Once I started deleting them, entire spaces appeared.
Time.
Money.
Energy.
For the first time in years, I had enough of all three.
I signed up for a weekend photography class.
I started having dinner with colleagues.
One Friday, someone asked:
—What do you want to do this winter?
I answered without thinking:
—See the sea.
The words made me stop.
The sea.
That stupid little wish I had carried for three and a half years.
So I booked a ticket that night.
For myself.
Trinh Viet kept trying.
Not dramatically.
He began doing small things.
A scarf appeared at my office reception because the weather had turned colder.
I returned it.
He sent me a ticket to the beach.
I refunded it.
He waited outside my company once with dinner.
I told security not to let him upstairs.
Then Chu Gia Di contacted me.
Her message was surprisingly direct.
Sister Lam Te, can we talk?
I almost ignored it.
Then curiosity won.
We met in a café.
She looked uncomfortable.
—I think you misunderstood my relationship with Brother Viet.
I smiled.
—You came here to tell me that?
—No.
She looked down.
—Actually… I came to apologize.
That surprised me.
She continued:
—I knew you were his girlfriend.
—I also knew he treated me differently.
My fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
At least she was honest.
—At first I thought it was because we were from the same hometown.
Then she gave a small, embarrassed smile.
—Later, I started enjoying it.
I didn’t interrupt.
—Whenever you called while we were eating, sometimes I deliberately kept talking so he wouldn’t answer.
Her voice grew quieter.
—When his mother sent food, I knew he would share it with me before you.
—And the snow-mountain trip?
She hesitated.
—I mentioned it because I knew you’d always wanted him to travel with you.
There it was.
Not an innocent misunderstanding.
Not a great romance either.
Just a small competition I hadn’t even known I was participating in.
I nodded.
—Thank you for telling me.
She looked startled.
—You’re not angry?
—I was.
I stood.
—But the person who owed me loyalty wasn’t you.
Two months later, I went to the beach.
Alone.
The winter sea was almost empty.
The wind was so strong that my hair kept covering my face.
I stood barefoot near the water and laughed when the first wave soaked the bottom of my trousers.
I took a picture.
For a moment, my finger hovered over Trinh Viet’s name.
For three and a half years, every beautiful thing made me want to send him a photo.
That day, I didn’t.
I sent it to my mother instead.
Then I put the phone away and watched the horizon.
It felt strange.
Peaceful.
Complete.
When I returned to Beijing, Trinh Viet was waiting outside my company.
He looked at me.
—You went to the sea.
I nodded.
—Yes.
—With whom?
—Myself.
Something in his expression broke.
—You always said you wanted me to take you.
—I did.
—Then why didn’t you tell me?
I smiled.
—Because I finally understood I didn’t need you to take me.
That sentence silenced him completely.
After a while, he asked:
—Is there really no possibility left?
I thought about the young man who had once chased me for three months.
The scarf.
The coffee shop.
The promises beside Houhai.
I had loved him.
That wasn’t false.
But love ending didn’t mean it had never existed.
—I hope you become better, Trinh Viet.
Hope flashed across his face.
Then I added:
—For the next person.
He lowered his eyes.
And this time, when I walked away, he didn’t follow.
A year later, I saw a photograph from a mutual friend.
Trinh Viet had finished his research project.
Chu Gia Di had transferred to another university.
He was standing alone beside his colleagues, smiling faintly.
I looked at the photograph for two seconds.
Then scrolled past it.
No pain.
No jealousy.
Nothing.
That was how I knew I had truly healed.
For years, I believed love meant waiting patiently until someone finally had time for me.
I was wrong.
Someone who loves you shouldn’t need to lose you before remembering what matters to you.
Trinh Viet eventually learned how to value me.
Unfortunately for him, he learned it after I had already learned something more important:
The sea was always there.
I was the one who had spent three and a half years waiting for someone else’s permission to go see it.
