Chapter 7 — A Letter to the Snowy Day

Shen Dieu looked as if he were crumbling to pieces. "I cannot go back. The house is completely empty, leaving nothing behind. You thought you could break up with me, and you thought that I was the one who could not leave, but only when I returned home alone did I realize that I was the one who could not bear it! I am terrified to go home. I am afraid that when I arrive, there will be no lights on, no one waiting for me, no pair of slippers by the door, no stuffed animals, no shared photographs. Yet, goddamn it, your note is still on the refrigerator, and I feel as though my entire soul has been drained away. Ky Nhien, I am so afraid. I will not go out to play anymore, okay? Please, just come back!"

Gone was all the arrogance he once possessed; he looked at me with an almost pleading expression. "Wife, come home. Can we reconcile?"

"Reconcile?" I softly chewed on the word, savoring its hollowness.

"Yes, reconcile! We can go back to how things were before, pretending as if none of this ever happened." Shen Dieu spoke with increasing agitation, grabbing my wrists. "Everything I owe you, I will make up for it. You wanted to get married, didn't you? Let us get married!"

"Make up for it to me?" I curled my lips in a cold smile. "Then... what about the child?"

"We are still young; we can have children later. We—"

As Shen Dieu’s gaze began to fade into a desperate pallor, I pushed his hands away. "That is impossible, Shen Dieu. We are beyond repair."

Shen Dieu’s eyes turned bloodshot, his voice choking with emotion. "But you once said I was the person you loved the most."

"Love eventually erodes," I looked at him, feeling an immense, heavy fatigue. "Shen Dieu, I truly do not love you anymore."

On the day of my engagement, I received news that Shen Dieu had attempted suicide by slitting his wrists and had been rushed to emergency care. A day that was meant to be one of perfect happiness suddenly hit a strange, abrupt stop. Trinh Huu observed my expression and gently took my hand. "You should go."

I silently tightened my grip on his hand, and after a moment, I replied, "There is no need."

What would be the point of looking now? Was there anything left to say? All the words that should or should not have been spoken, the good or the bad, the love or the hate, had been scrubbed clean by the passage of time. Whatever I said now would hold no meaning.

"You have a new message." On the way home, I heard the notification chime. Outside, the snow was falling, and the lights inside the car were dim. I opened the mailbox.

Ky Nhien, as I write this letter, heavy snow is falling outside my window. It reminds me of the first time I met you at the bar. Actually, I had noticed you long before that. You were wearing a white dress, huddled in a chair, looking completely out of place, yet your eyes were staring at me with a brilliant intensity. I stood on stage, and looking at you through the lights, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. Later, when someone bothered you, you stood in front of your friend—at that moment, I thought you were such an interesting girl. Clearly, you were timid to the point of cowardice, yet you insisted on stepping in front of others; it was a ridiculous contradiction.

Only later did I realize that you were always like that. Clearly a cautious and shy person, you could still throw everything away for the sake of love. Yet, when you stopped loving, you could be so clean and decisive, letting go the moment you said you would. In the art of letting go, I am not your equal. Or perhaps, I am just not as intelligent as you. You always knew what you wanted, while I only understood what I truly needed once it was already lost.

After you left, every corner of the house reminded me of what I had forfeited. Your note is still in the TV stand drawer, and your handwriting remains on the medicine box. Your slip of paper reading "Remember to eat" is still on the fridge. I never removed it; every time I come home drunk and see those four words, I go blank—as if you were still in the kitchen, wearing an apron and preparing hangover soup for me.

I admit that I am a complete scoundrel. I took your gentleness for granted and treated your love as something to be squandered. It was not until I saw you calmly say "I do not love you anymore" that I realized, too late, that some things, once shattered, can never be made whole again.

That child—I dream of it constantly. It is not that I did not want it; in truth, I was insanely happy, thinking every day about becoming a father. Would it look like you or me? Perhaps it would look like you. I would have tried to be a good father, and you would certainly have been a wonderful mother. We would have been a family of three, me carrying the child on my shoulders, you smiling and linking your arm through mine.

I was just too foolish. At the time I should have bowed my head, I instead uttered words that caused harm. Since then, happiness never returned. Every time I get drunk, I think: if only I had been a little more mature, a little more responsible, would we still be together now, waiting for the baby to arrive? Sadly, there is no "if." I always remember the look in your eyes when you left; I truly should have held you tight then.

But Ky Nhien, I am not worthy of saying I regret it. Perhaps this is the last time I will bother you. I simply cannot forget you, and I cannot sleep anymore. I want to have a good, long sleep. From now on, I wish you happiness. I wish for you and him to grow old together and remain united for a lifetime.

Shen Dieu.

I gripped my phone tightly. Outside, the snow was still filling the sky. I turned my head and seemed to see the Shen Dieu of that year on the street corner. Snow gathered on his shoulders, and he looked down at me with a smile in his eyes. "Do you want my contact info?" he said. "Sure."

A wave of my hand swept away the shadow of Shen Dieu. Trinh Huu held an umbrella over me: "Let’s get out of the car. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Let’s go." I smiled, stood up, and took his hand, walking together toward the warm, welcoming lights.

The snow will eventually cover everything. And then, a new spring will begin. I tightened my hold on Trinh Huu’s hand and did not look back.