Three years.It's been three years since Khánh walked out of my life, as quietly as a passing breeze. No goodbye. No explanation worth holding on to. Just me and an endless silence, a trail of unanswered questions, and a heaviness I couldn't quite name. I thought time would eventually soften it all. And yet, even now, I sometimes catch myself remembering him—like it all happened just yesterday.
I left the old city behind, where every corner, every familiar café whispered pieces of us. I chose a different town, one so unfamiliar its name was barely a smudge on the edge of the map. I came here to write, to send quiet stories out into the world for strangers to read—or perhaps, to try and rewrite myself, in a gentler way.
This town is small. Peaceful. And somehow, strangely familiar in all its strangeness. The cobblestone streets, the still trees, the air so light it feels like it might dissolve if you breathe too hard. No one here knows who I am. And maybe that's what makes it easier to breathe.
I slowly began to get to know the people around me. They didn't know where I came from, but welcomed me all the same. An elderly woman who sells vegetables at the morning market always smiles with missing teeth as I pass. The shopkeeper at the corner wraps bread in old newspaper and adds a quiet wish for a good day. Children playing beneath the big tree greet me with bright voices that seem to echo through the calm.
I bowed slightly in return to each greeting, as if to say thank you—for the warmth, for the absence of questions, for the space to just exist. Perhaps, in those moments, I started to feel a little less invisible.
In those early days, I wasn't in a hurry. I wandered the town like someone who'd gotten lost without needing to be found. I wrote down the smallest things in the notebook I always carried—how the sky looked just after sunrise, the crisp sound of dry leaves underfoot, the scent of damp soil after night rain. I wanted to know the town—not from a map, but through the rhythm of my steps.
And then, one unplanned morning, I stopped in front of a small café tucked beneath the shade of quiet trees. The storefront was lined with hanging flower pots, the wooden door painted a pale green that had chipped from the sun. Through the fogged window, I saw golden light spilling inside, catching the dust in the air like drifting snow. Something in me paused—not from weariness, not even from curiosity, but from a quiet pull.As if this place… had been waiting for me.
I pushed open the door. A soft bell chimed overhead like a whisper of welcome. The scent of coffee and a hint of cinnamon drifted toward me. I didn't know where this journey would lead, but I knew—whatever it was, it had already begun.
Inside, the café wasn't large. Just a few round wooden tables near the windows, and a small bar tucked at the back. The entire space was wrapped in soft light, as if everything in it had learned how to breathe gently. Watercolor paintings hung on the walls—mountains, fields, rooftops lost in mist. There was no music, just the quiet clink of a spoon stirring in a cup and the steady hum of the old coffee machine.I chose a spot by the window, where the morning light filtered through the glass in golden streaks across the table.
A young barista came over, placing a handwritten menu in front of me."What would you like?" she asked softly.I glanced down the list, written in faded brown ink, and ordered a cappuccino with a butter cookie.
"Thank you for stopping by," she smiled before disappearing, leaving me wrapped in that quiet, unexpected comfort.
I looked out the window. Across the street was a mechanic's shop, its steel gate half-open. An old man crouched under a car, carefully wiping down a part. Farther down was a flower store with a faded sign, but its pots of hydrangeas and daisies looked tenderly kept. Nothing in this town rushed. Nothing tried too hard. It simply was—and somehow, that was enough.
The coffee arrived a few minutes later, steam curling gently from a cream-colored cup. I took a sip. The bitter warmth spread over my tongue and melted into something soft, something familiar. It had been a long time since I felt okay not being okay.
I pulled out my notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote—not for any purpose, just to capture the stillness of this moment. A moment quiet enough to finally hear myself again.
"Early morning in a little café where no one knows my name. I sit with a warm cup of coffee, listening to the breath of a day just waking up. And perhaps for the first time in a very long while, I don't have to pretend I'm fine."
I paused, then wrote more slowly, almost afraid of brushing against something still too tender:
"I don't know if this is the beginning of something new, or simply me trying to run from what was. But this place—this town, this café, this light falling softly through the foggy window—makes me want to stay, even if only for a little while."
I closed the notebook and placed it beside my half-finished cup. Outside, the sun caught in the leaves, scattering golden light along the sidewalk. An old woman passed by with a slow, careful step. Her sweater was worn and patched with time, but her smile was radiant, as if she carried no weight. I smiled back before I even realized it—something inside me easing, as if I'd just set down a heavy bag I hadn't known I was carrying.
Somewhere along the way, I had grown afraid of crowded places—not for their noise, but because I vanished so easily inside them. But here, in this quiet town, in just the right kind of silence, I felt… real. Not remarkable. Not remembered. Just real.
The barista returned, speaking gently."Would you like anything else?"I shook my head, smiling. "May I sit a little longer?""Of course," she said, almost like a whisper. "Everyone does."
So I stayed. A little longer. Watching the light slide slowly across the wooden table, the scent of coffee lingering, the town beginning to wake just outside. I heard a bicycle bell, a dog barking far off, birds calling each other from the trees nearby.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring. I didn't know how long this town would hold me.But this morning, here, I felt like I was beginning again not loudly, not with certainty, but in a quiet way that felt just enough.
And so, my journey began. Softly. Gently.Like the final drop of coffee resting at the bottom of a cup small, but just enough to remember the taste.