And so, An had been living and working in this quiet little town for six months now. She had grown accustomed to its unhurried rhythm, its kind and familiar faces, the scent of aged wood in the cafés, and music as gentle as memory. Every morning, she returned to the same seat by the window, ordered a cup of hot coffee, opened her laptop, and typed out stories as if it were a ritual stitched into her breath.
That morning was no different. A soft acoustic song drifted from the small speaker on the bookshelf, and the chirping of sparrows outside the window added a delicate touch to the calm air. The café wasn't crowded but was alive with the ordinary sounds of life — the clink of spoons against ceramic, the low hum of the coffee machine, the shuffle of chairs on worn tile. Just another peaceful day.
Until An saw Khánh.
At first, it was only a reflection in the fogged glass. She didn't pay much attention. In a small town, people come and go, and even unfamiliar faces eventually start to feel known. But something about the silhouette caught her the quiet curve of the shoulders, the muted tones of his coat, the slightly tousled hair that seemed to defy any comb. It was an ache of recognition before her eyes had even caught up.
An looked up.
It felt like winter had slipped into the warmth of morning. Sudden. Cold. And it made her chest tighten. It was Khánh. There was no mistaking him. The eyes, the posture, the hush that seemed to cling to him like an old song. He stood just beyond the doorway, golden light pouring over his shoulder and collar like he had stepped out of a forgotten dream.
He hadn't seen her yet. He glanced around absently, as if searching for an empty seat — someone simply passing through, unaware of the storm gathering inside someone else's world. An sat perfectly still, her hands gently resting on the table, her eyes locked. Her heart, caught off guard, stumbled in its beat, and memories she thought long-buried stirred with sharp, sudden clarity.
I didn't know what I was feeling. It wasn't panic. Not quite joy either. It was a quiet upheaval, like meeting an old version of myself — the one who once believed in something simple and beautiful, before everything fell apart.
Then Khánh saw her.
Their eyes met, and the room seemed to hush itself. He wasn't surprised, not like she thought he would be. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. There was only stillness as if he, too, had just come face to face with a piece of his past that had refused to fade.
They said nothing. Neither moved. The moment stretched between them, silent but weighted. The sounds of the café faded, like a film turned to mute. And in that stillness, their hearts stirred with questions neither dared to voice.
I wanted to ask why. Why now? Why here? Had he thought of me at all in these past years? Had some forgotten melody or the color of the sky ever made him pause and remember? But I stayed silent. I feared that speaking might shatter whatever fragile thread held this moment together.
Khánh didn't approach. He simply stood there for a while longer, then nodded slow, gentle. A gesture not of recognition, but of something more fragile, more human. A way of saying: I see you. I remember.
An returned the nod. No smile. No words. Just a quiet acknowledgment that they still existed in each other's story, even if they no longer shared a page.
And for a fleeting second, they were not strangers. Nor were they what they once had been. Just two people, standing on the thin line between past and present, where memory breathes but does not speak.
Khánh looked away first. He walked to the counter and ordered a take-away coffee, his voice still low and smooth, like a familiar breeze. An watched every movement — how his fingers wrapped around the cup, how his shoulders seemed heavier than before. When he turned to leave, he didn't say a word. No goodbye. No hello. But somehow, in that silence, everything was said.
I remained there, unsure whether to hold on or let go. A part of me wanted to call out to him. Another part knew today wasn't meant for words. Some reunions don't need explanations. Sometimes, it is enough to know that the other person is still here, somewhere in the same world, breathing the same air.
And that… that was enough.
An remained in her usual seat, the cup of coffee in front of her slowly going cold, though she hadn't taken a single sip. The words half-typed on her laptop screen faded into the background, blurred and forgotten. Her eyes no longer belonged to the page—they were still drawn toward the door, to where Khánh had stood just moments ago, where he had turned and walked away, leaving behind a silence that somehow shifted the air around her.
Inside her, something stirred—an emotion too quiet to be called sadness, too weightless to be grief. It was like the brush of late-season wind, soft but enough to unsettle the dust she thought had long settled.
Why today? I asked myself—not out of bitterness, but in the stunned quiet of someone caught off guard. For six months, I had grown used to this slower rhythm, to the stillness of mornings, to not thinking about him so often. And yet, with just one look—one brief glance—everything I'd folded away so carefully began to unfold again.
An rested her elbow on the table and placed a hand near her lips, almost instinctively, as if holding herself from saying something aloud. The café still hummed with familiar sounds—silver spoons tapping porcelain, the low hiss of the espresso machine, chairs scraping softly against tiled floors. But within her, the world had gone quiet. And in that quiet, old questions returned.
Did Khánh know she was still writing? Did he remember how she used to read her drafts aloud to him, curled up on the sofa as the afternoon sun slanted through the curtains? Did he think of her now, in fleeting, ordinary moments?
She didn't know. Perhaps she never would. Too much time had passed, and even the simplest memories now felt like fog—intangible, just out of reach.
After a long pause, she closed her eyes and drew in a steady breath. Then slowly, deliberately, she reached for her keyboard. Her fingers still trembled faintly, but she forced herself to write—not about Khánh, not about this morning, but about the feeling of waiting for something uncertain.
And then, the words returned.
They came quietly at first, like hesitant guests at the door, but soon settled into a gentle rhythm. Her story lived again—not the lifeless fragments she had written out of obligation, but something soft, steady, real. Maybe Khánh had left. Maybe he would never return. But something about today felt like a beginning.
A first chapter—one without a name yet, but not without meaning.