Will you die with me?

“Will you die with me?” That was the first question I asked after confessing my feelings to him. My face at that moment was probably trying to look charming; I tried to appear more feminine even though I didn't have to.

My name is Phuong, Le Du Phuong. I am currently 25 years old. I graduated at the age of 22 after pursuing a degree in business administration. At school, I had many female friends in the same field, all dreaming of “becoming female entrepreneurs.” Ultimately, I can't deny that the media did an excellent job of romanticizing business. Stories about female entrepreneurs or government officials always made me admire them to some extent. Besides that, I was always described as “dark” and intelligent. Dark because sometimes I can be negative, and smart because I always got high grades and was relatively obedient to my parents. I received more praise than I thought I deserved, from judges at high school competitions, my aunts and uncles, and teachers, which made me a bit ‘delusional’ at 17. Humans are ultimately social creatures; we are all influenced by our surroundings to some extent, and I am no exception. The empty compliments and images of success made me believe that the ladder of success looked so beautiful, so full of dreams. I didn't know how bad things could be out there.

I admit and used to be proud that I was somewhat attractive. I looked slim enough, and the parts that needed to be big were big. Not bad for someone who only did basic skin care like me. Not long after entering college, a guy from the capital approached me. He was very sweet, very gentle, and very much in love with me. At least, that's what I thought. Not long after getting what he wanted, he dumped me. He treated me like a disposable item. I was nothing more than his village whore. And he actually told everyone in the department that I was a whore. He was willing to make me the target of everyone's ridicule. I experienced the special treatment of being doused with water, something I thought only happened overseas. What did I do wrong? Did I not satisfy him enough? Or did I really seduce other men without knowing it? Was I that insensitive? Was that all I was worth? I knew I was too complacent with my own illusions, but was I really that bad? So that’s why I was treated this way? I think I deserve it, and this isn’t the first time. It’s simply a higher form of rejection.

My high school years were somewhat controversial. I was a bit critical of the public school system. I couldn't stand many things. The school library barely existed, extracurricular awards were corrupt, events were poorly organized, the schedule was unreasonable, administrative procedures were unclear, we had to pay to hang an air conditioner that was already there, and we had to pay bribes for various procedures even though we were eligible. I spoke up about these issues and, of course, wanted to help, not only for my own benefit but also for the benefit of the children who will attend the school in the future. All I got in return were a few empty words of thanks and a barrage of criticism. "Everything is fine as it is, so why change it? Just put up with it and stop complaining. If you want better conditions, just go to college." Perhaps I complained too much; in the end, I only wanted a better education. For this reason, I was relatively ostracized. I say relatively because there were still many people who interacted with me. They came and asked me their questions, invited me to join their study groups, and said I was their friend. “Oh, so I do have many friends after all.” I thought to myself. The strange thing about these friends was that they never seemed to have any time for me. The usual response was, “Sorry, I'm busy today.” Perhaps that's why I still drank coffee alone on weekends. Perhaps that's why I had to cry alone when I had my heart broken in high school.

Recalling that stain makes me feel a bit disgusted, and the rest is just stupid. Back then, I was quite infatuated with a student who had relatively good grades in school. At first, it was just admiration. Partly because I liked to follow other people's successes. I liked the hope it brought me, especially when I could contribute to their success. I often helped others with their problems, and it was the same with that student. At first, we communicated because he wanted me to help him with his comments on a population survey. From then on, I started finding more excuses to hang out with this friend. Metal rubbing together for long enough will eventually spark. I mustered all my confidence to say, “Let's date.” We started going home together, going on dates, or cruising around town. I was usually the driver on those outings. I even started drinking bubble tea regularly just because he liked it, even though I preferred coffee. Everything was going great until a month later:

“I'm bored, let's break up,” he bluntly told me.

“We've only known each other for a month,” I wondered.

"A month is a long time, you know. When you're young, you have to experience many things to be satisfied. Why should I be stuck with just you?"

“But I really like you.”

“Your liking me is just a current feeling; you'll get bored of it too.”

“You bastard.”

"Who do you think you are to judge how I manage my relationships? It's only because you're pretty that I agreed to be with you. Do you think you're the only one with good looks?"

He ended it abruptly.

“In short, I'm tired of you. Let's break up.”

Looking back, I was really naive back then. I was dreaming of a sweet, fairy-tale relationship while my peers just wanted to have fun. I was already hated, and now it felt even heavier. Even the people I considered friends gradually disappeared. Actually, they just drifted away from me. Of course, I tried to hold on to them, just like I tried to hold on to that relationship. In the end, everything fell apart.

Of course, if that were all, I wouldn't have been able to completely break down, so life brought me the most unexpected gift. The death of my family.

My relationship with my family isn't the most rosy, but it's probably the most enduring. I always tried to keep a close enough distance from them. After all, they were the ones who raised me, and it would be terrible if I distanced myself from them. They left me less than three days after I graduated. According to the police, my father had a high blood alcohol level, so he lost control of the towering Fortuner. I clearly remember telling him that if he couldn't stay alert while driving, he shouldn't buy such tall cars. My father didn't care because he thought we already had a Mazda 3, so there was no need to buy another low car. What I remember most about that accident is dragging myself to the hospital only to receive two long-stiffened corpses. It was 1 a.m. in the morgue. Outside, not a single drop of rain fell, as if mocking me for not going home to pick them up that day. Perhaps this happened because I was too far away from them. Did they have any regrets? In the fleeting memories of their lives, how much of it was our time together? But all those questions no longer mattered. Before my eyes were only two pale corpses with broken teeth, dried blood at the corners of their mouths, shattered skulls, crushed eyes, and my mother's hand pierced by a piece of the car, creating a hole. I couldn't say anything; I couldn't cry because I had already cried all my tears before coming here. I quietly walked out of the hospital. Quietly, I approached the outpatient area to buy three baked eggs. I placed them on their beds as I had done in middle school. The eggs had a slightly charred outer layer, and the whites were a little more firm. “The eggs are too warm.” This wasn't what disgusted me; I couldn't feel disgust towards my parents. What disgusted me was the somewhat fake sympathy of my relatives at my family's funeral. Those who never cared, never asked about us, or sent a friendly greeting were now pretending to be sad in front of my family's altar. “I'm so sorry for your loss.” I felt nauseous at those words. After putting on their show of grief, they immediately started whispering about things that would tear me apart even more.

Now I have a four-seater car with no passengers. I have a multi-story house to use as a memorial hall. The things that used to be so big around me no longer have the same meaning as before. I am completely alone.

After graduating, I grabbed my resume and ran. It was exhausting that all companies demanded work experience in this field. Of course, I had worked part-time since my freshman year, for an online newspaper, which could also be called a tabloid. Besides working part-time in a different field, I had also completed my internship requirements at university. However, that wasn't enough for me to step into the human resources department or handle the procedures of any company I applied to. All of that ultimately led me to a shabby advertising company. A place where I would continue to be scolded for the next two years.

At my lowest point, I met Nam. Actually, I knew about Tran Nam before we met. He was the author of my favorite book. Back in my freshman year, when I was an amateur journalist, one of our clients had commissioned an article promoting Nam's book, ‘The Far End Without the Sun’. I was truly surprised after reading the book. The work had a very strong personality, a style that was not clearly defined, where everything sometimes stuck together, creating a feeling of confusion and sometimes tension. It was a perfect book for me, someone who was fascinated and full of questions about the person behind it. Later, Nam only published one more book, ‘If You Still Want to Hear Me Sing’. Nam's two books always have a special place on my bookshelf. Even though they aren't perfect, I truly love them. I often bring them with me when I go to a cocktail bar I frequent. I tried to convince myself that alcohol would help me calm down. But the more I drank, the more I read, the more it made me think. Finally, I blurted it out:

“Maybe dying would be much more comfortable.”

“It's not as bad as you think.”

“I'm sorry, I just think that way.”

“Guess what, you're going to drink the last glass, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you want to go?”

“I feel so heavy.”

“I think you're thin.”

“You're crazy.”

“I'm sorry, I was just joking.”

“What's your name?”

“My name is Nam – Tran Van Nam.”

“You're a writer, right?”

“I used to be, but my books don't sell.”

“You've published two books, and I really enjoy reading them.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“But I think you can't write anymore. Why don't you die with me?”

“Why do you want to die?”

“I told you, I feel so heavy.”

“That's not the answer I was hoping for.”

“Why are you asking me so many questions? You don't even know me.” I started tearing up as he kept asking.

“Because you're my reader.”