The morning after I saw Khánh again, the city felt quieter than usual. Or maybe it was just me, tuning out the usual hum of life around me. I walked to the office like I always did, taking the same path along the riverbank, stopping at the same coffee stall for my usual black coffee—no sugar, no milk. But everything looked slightly off. The way the sunlight filtered through the tree branches, the rhythm of the wind pushing leaves into spiral dances, even the sound of footsteps behind me—all of it seemed sharper, like the world was watching me more closely than before.
Or maybe, I was the one watching myself.
Every few steps, I would remember the way Khánh had looked at me across that café table—the way his eyes softened when he said he still chose me. I hated how those words echoed. How they lingered even after I tried to distract myself with spreadsheets, meetings, and deadlines that didn't care about broken hearts or unfinished conversations.
That afternoon, my coworker Mai waved a flyer in front of me. "You're coming to the alumni exhibition tonight, right?" she asked, a hopeful tone in her voice. "You have to. Your name's in the catalog."
I blinked. I had almost forgotten. Months ago, I had submitted a photo essay from a project I did in Kyoto—quiet portraits of strangers I'd met on the street, paired with lines from anonymous love letters found in antique bookstores. The concept had been about longing without names. Distance without time. Now, it felt a little too close to home.
"I'll try to stop by," I replied vaguely, not wanting to commit.
But by 6:30 that evening, I found myself standing in the gallery's entrance, a glass of sparkling water in hand, my nerves tight beneath a calm surface. The space was soft and open, with warm lighting and quiet instrumental music playing in the background. People milled around in pairs and small groups, murmuring appreciatively in front of framed photographs and digital projections. I kept to myself, walking slowly along the perimeter, pretending to be fully engaged in the art.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
Khánh.
He was standing near the back wall, hands in his pockets, looking up at a piece from someone else's series. He wasn't looking for me. He wasn't surrounded by people. He just… existed in the space, like a quiet note in a song that didn't need to be loud to be heard.
My chest tightened. I hadn't expected him to be here. I didn't even think he knew about the exhibition. I could've turned away, melted into the crowd, disappeared into the nearest hallway. But I stayed. Something kept my feet rooted. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that same pull that had made me answer his call in the first place.
I made my way to the far wall, where my photos were displayed. A few people were reading the little cards beneath the frames, quietly discussing the images. One woman whispered to her friend, "This one makes me feel like I've forgotten something important."
I smiled faintly. That had been the point.
"An."
The voice came from behind me—low, hesitant, familiar.
I turned.
Khánh stood a few feet away, hands no longer in his pockets, eyes on mine. He looked less composed than the last time. Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe it was the fact that we were now standing in front of something I had created—something that had come from a part of me he no longer fully knew.
"You came," I said, before I could stop myself.
He nodded. "I didn't know you were part of the exhibit. I saw your name in the catalog while I was already here. I… I was going to leave."
"But you didn't."
"No," he said. "I didn't."
We stood there in silence for a moment. Around us, the room shifted. People came and went. Voices rose and fell. But between us, time slowed—thick, hesitant, like the first inhale after being underwater too long.
"I didn't think this city could hold us both," I said quietly, more to myself than to him.
Khánh smiled sadly. "It's big enough. But maybe not quiet enough."
I looked at him then, really looked. Not as the boy I used to love. Not as the man who once broke my heart. But as someone standing beside me in this fragile, complicated present. He wasn't chasing me. He wasn't asking for anything. And yet his presence stirred every layer I thought I had sealed away.
"I don't know what this is," I admitted. "Or what I'm supposed to do with you being here."
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "I just wanted to see who you've become."
My throat tightened. I turned away slightly, looking at one of my own photographs—an old man sitting alone at a train station, staring into nothing. The caption read: "I wait, even when I don't know what for."
When I turned back, Khánh had taken a step closer, but still respected the space between us. "Can I tell you something?"
"Only if it won't change anything," I whispered.
"It won't," he said. "I just… I'm proud of you."
The words hit harder than I expected. Not because they were grand or romantic, but because they were so quietly sincere. And maybe, in that moment, they were exactly what I didn't know I needed to hear.
"I should go," I said, not unkindly.
"I'll walk you out."
We didn't speak as we left the gallery. Outside, it had started to drizzle, the kind of soft rain that glistened under the streetlights but didn't demand umbrellas yet. I hesitated near the edge of the sidewalk, unsure whether to call a taxi or walk.
"I like this kind of rain," I said quietly, more to myself than to him.
"I know," Khánh replied. "You said once that it made you feel honest."
I looked at him sharply. "You remember that?"
He shrugged, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. "I remember everything I didn't say when I should have."
And with that, he turned slightly, as if to give me space to leave. But I didn't. I stood there, watching the rain touch the edges of his hair, catching the way he looked up at the sky—not searching for anything, just… existing.
It was strange, the way one person could feel like both a stranger and a home at the same time.
"I kept something," I said, without really planning to. "An old voice memo. You playing piano. I never deleted it."
Khánh looked at me, surprised. "I didn't know you still had that."
"I never listened to it. Until last night."
He took a small breath. "And?"
"And it sounded like someone trying to say something without words."
He nodded slowly. "That's exactly what it was."
Neither of us said goodbye. We didn't hug. We didn't promise anything. We just stood there—two people in the rain, letting the past pass quietly between them, while the city hummed softly around us.