Work in this little town remained gentle and fitting, like the quiet life I once dreamed of. Each day, I arrived at the small office nestled beneath tree-lined streets, working alongside kind, measured people. No one asked where I came from, nor why I chose this soft-spoken place to begin again. They simply welcomed me with warm tea in the morning, small stories of weekend markets, and gentle suggestions for my next article. I found peace in the way they left me alone — not with indifference, but with respect.
Among them was Minh.
He sat at the desk across from mine, not too close, not too far. He wasn't the kind of person one would immediately notice, but somehow, his presence always made the space feel quieter, steadier. He rarely spoke, usually just nodded in greeting, but he was always there when someone needed help. I remember once, the printer jammed and before I even asked, Minh stood up, calmly removed the cartridge, wiped his hands with the tissue he always carried, and returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.
I used to think it was just simple kindness. But then came the little things that began to linger.
One morning, I arrived early and found a thin scarf folded neatly on the chair I always used. That day, the wind had picked up and I'd forgotten my coat. No one mentioned the scarf, and yet when I glanced at Minh, he was already at his desk, eyes on his screen, fingers tightening subtly around his tea mug as if hiding something unspoken.
Another time, I stayed late. Most of the lights in the office had dimmed and everyone had left. When I stepped out, Minh was standing by the gate, his posture relaxed under the golden hue of the streetlamp. As I approached, he simply nodded and walked a short stretch of the stone path beside me. We didn't speak. Just two colleagues leaving at the same time.
These things happened quietly. No one pointed them out. No one gave them names. But I saw them. And I felt them.
Minh never asked about my past. Not a single question. No curious glance, no invasive silence. But there was something in the way he looked at me when I seemed tired. Something gentle in the way he allowed me space without ever drifting too far. Like a breath — light, tender, yet undeniably real.
I don't know if he's hiding a feeling he hasn't quite found words for, or if he's simply a man with more kindness than he lets on. I'm not even sure what I feel, when I catch his gaze and feel my heart momentarily tighten before it releases, like wind curling through an open window.
I haven't forgotten Khánh. There are still nights I wake suddenly, aching for an old phrase, a familiar kitchen, the sound of him calling my name in that low, slightly husky voice each morning. I can't yet look at anyone with a heart fully open, not when the past refuses to close its door.
But I've begun to notice the difference in how Minh treats me. It's not obvious. But it's there — quieter, deeper, and something I can't quite ignore.
Still, neither of us says anything. No one takes a step forward. Everything rests in glances, in the way we wait for each other at the edge of the rain, in a ginger tea left on my desk without a note. And maybe it is this silence that holds me still each time I feel something begin to stir.
We continue working together like ordinary people, sharing sunny mornings, rainy afternoons, and even the days that pass without anything worth remembering. But sometimes, inside that stillness that looks so normal, I know I am being seen — in a way that is distant, gentle, and undeniably different.
There are afternoons I linger longer in the office, not because of work, but because the golden light feels too lovely to leave behind. The room slowly empties. The hum of typing softens. The ceiling fan turns steadily, as if spinning time itself into a quiet haze. I sit, eyes blurring from the screen, then glance up — and Minh is still there.
He's typing something, focused, eyes never turning to me, not even once. But I know he doesn't need to stay. His tasks are nearly done. He could leave. Yet he doesn't. He remains, like a silent shadow that never abandons. A presence that says nothing, yet means everything.
I lower my gaze and open my notebook. Not to write — but to hide from the feeling I had no name for. The blank page waited, like the part of myself I hadn't yet dared to touch. I wrote a few lines, crossed them out. Then I left only one sentence:
"Some people care for you by never asking."
I wasn't sure who it was for. But closing the notebook left my heart a little quieter.
That evening, I passed by a small bookstore near the square. The lights cast golden shadows over short wooden shelves where old books lay in silence, waiting to be found. I picked up a blank journal — unlined, ivory-toned, not too thick. I've always preferred pages without borders. They feel more honest, like life — unruled and full of space for feeling.
Back home, I brewed jasmine tea and sat beside the half-open window. Outside, the chirping of insects rose and fell like distant waves. The breeze stirred the curtains, as if they were whispering something only my heart could hear. I placed the journal on the table and wrote the first line:
"This town teaches me to listen to the things left unsaid."
At some point, I stopped chasing grand emotions. Now, the smallest things — a glance held a heartbeat longer, a cup of tea placed just right, the presence of someone whose reason you don't need to ask — have become enough to feel seen.
I haven't forgotten Khánh. And I don't yet love Minh. But I'm learning not to close myself off. Learning to let feelings come, even if they're quiet and uncertain. Minh doesn't knock on the door of my heart. But he stands nearby, patient, waiting for something even he may not be ready to name.
And I, in this strange in-between, find myself softened by his slowness.
Maybe some things only arrive when the time is right. And maybe the right time isn't when we are most empty, but when we are full enough not to hurt each other anymore.