CHAPTER 1 – THE DAYS WITHOUT EXPLANATIONS
An learned to recognize the sound of rain before the sound of people.
In the early mornings, when the city had not fully awakened, rain would already be tapping softly against the glass roof of her small apartment. Not urgently. Not heavily. Just enough to remind her that another day had begun—whether she was ready for it or not.
She sat by the window, both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone lukewarm. She had made it fifteen minutes ago and forgotten to drink it. Forgetting small things had become easy ever since Minh left.
Minh did not disappear all at once. He withdrew gradually, carefully, the way a tide pulls back without announcing itself. First, his replies grew slower. Then meetings were postponed. Then calls went unanswered. And finally, one afternoon, he stood in front of her and said he needed time.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” he had said.
“I just… need to understand where I am.”
An remembered that day too clearly. The way Minh avoided her eyes. The way he clutched the strap of his backpack as if letting go would cause everything to fall apart.
She had nodded.
An always nodded in moments when she did not know what else to hold onto.
Three years had passed since that afternoon.
Three years was not long enough to forget someone, but it was long enough to learn how to live as if you were no longer waiting—at least on the surface.
An had moved apartments twice. Changed jobs once. Cut her hair shorter. Learned how to cook for one. Learned how to watch movies alone without feeling hollow.
But some habits refused to fade.
Every evening after work, she stopped by the small café on the corner of the old street. The place was quiet, warmly lit, with a wide glass window facing a road that always seemed damp. Not because the coffee there was the best. But because it had once been Minh’s favorite place.
The table by the window—table number four—was still there. An always chose it. She never called it waiting. She called it familiarity.
Some days she brought a book and never opened it. Some days she wrote a few lines in her notebook and tore them out. Some days she simply watched people pass by, wondering whether Minh had ever walked along this street during the past three years.
She had never texted him after the day he left.
Not because of pride. Not exactly because of anger.
But because she was afraid.
Afraid that if she reached out, she would discover that all those years of silence had only been hers.
This afternoon, the rain returned.
An sat at table number four, her fingers resting on the rim of a still-warm cup. She had just finished work. Her coat was damp. Her hair slightly disheveled. Her face bare of much makeup—she no longer had a reason to impress anyone.
The café door opened.
The small wind chime above the frame rang softly.
An did not look up right away. She had heard that sound hundreds of times. But this time, something felt different.
The air inside the café seemed to shift—or perhaps it was only inside her chest.
“Black coffee. No sugar.”
That voice.
An froze. Her heart began to race painfully. She did not lift her head. She was afraid that what she heard was only memory playing a cruel trick.
But something—perhaps the weight of the silence itself—forced her gaze upward.
Minh was standing there.
He looked thinner. His shoulders slightly slouched. His hair no longer neatly styled. A dark coat clung to him, damp from the rain. But it was Minh—undeniably.
Their eyes met.
There was no music. No cinematic pause. Just a look that lasted longer than necessary.
Minh stared at her as if he were unsure she was real.
An looked at him as if blinking might make him disappear.
“An…” Minh spoke first, his voice rough.
She stood up—slowly, carefully, as if afraid of breaking the fragile moment between them.
“Hi, Minh,” she said.
Her voice was steadier than she expected. Perhaps because she had practiced saying those words in her mind for three years.
They stood facing each other, less than a meter apart, yet separated by an entire lifetime.
“I… didn’t expect to see you here,” Minh said.
An gave a small smile. “I’m not that surprised. I come here often.”
Minh glanced around the café, then back to the window table. His eyes lingered on table number four longer than necessary.
“May I…?” he hesitated.
An nodded without speaking.
They sat across from each other.
Two cups of coffee were placed on the table. Steam rose between them, but neither touched theirs.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And An knew—in that exact moment—that her days of silence had finally ended. Not because Minh had returned. But because there were questions that could no longer be avoided.
