Chapter 16 — A Sweetness Forgotten

Three days after the private meeting, when Thế Khôi was working late at the office, a text message from Diệp Chi appeared on his phone screen — not about work, but a short, simple question: "That night, after I left the alley, what did you do?"

That question seemed to open a door of memory that Thế Khôi had tried to close tightly for twelve years, not because he wanted to forget, but because every time it was opened, it was no less painful than the first time.

He put down the phone, leaned back in the chair, letting his mind drift back to that night - the last night he sat on the steps of the sealed tea shop, writing the last words in the notebook, before all contact between the two of them was completely cut off.

But there was a part of that night, a part he had never told anyone, including Đình Bách - his best friend who knew all his thoughts during high school.

After leaving Lá Me alley that night, Thế Khôi did not return home immediately. He wandered around the city for hours, without a destination, just to free his mind to grapple with pain he had never experienced in his life. He stopped at the park near the school, sat alone on a familiar stone bench where the group used to gather to study for exams, looked at the streetlights reflecting on the surface of a small lake, and for the first time in his life, he cried - not the sobbing style of a child, but the silent, choked tears of a person who had just realized he was completely powerless over the one thing he cared about the most.

He remembered sitting in that park for an unknown amount of time, until the cold of the night seeped through his thin shirt, before he was awake enough to call his father that night, his trembling voice unable to be hidden.

"Dad, I can't find Diệp Chi," he spoke on the phone, his voice shaking, standing in the middle of a quiet park at nearly midnight. "I'm afraid... I'm afraid I'll never see her again in my life." Mr. Bách Quân was silent for a long time on the other end of the line, then spoke, his voice was warm but full of concern. "You should go home first. We'll talk more clearly when you calm down."

That night, when Thế Khôi arrived home, Mr. Bách Quân was already waiting in the living room, a cup of hot tea placed on the table for his son.

"Do you want me to help you find that girl?" He asked directly, without beating around the bush.

"I want to," Thế Khôi replied immediately, without any hesitation.

"I can mobilize people to search, but I want you to understand one thing clearly before deciding." Mr. Bách Quân looked at his son with serious eyes. "If that girl chooses to leave without leaving an address, it is most likely a deliberate decision, stemming from the self-esteem she is trying to protect in the most difficult situation of her life. If you use the family's power to find her at all costs, you may be violating the very thing she is trying to preserve."

Those words, although difficult to hear, still made Thế Khôi stop and think. He remembered Diệp Chi's determined eyes when refusing his help, recalling the words "I want to stand on equal footing with you" that she once confessed one afternoon long ago.

"So what should I do now?" He asked, his voice filled with helplessness.

"I wait," Mr. Bách Quân replied, his voice gentle but firm. "If the fate between you two is deep enough, one day, you will find each other again, in a way that suits both of you. But if you stubbornly pursue it at all costs, you may just be hurting someone who has already been hurt too much."

The next night, when the emotions had subsided somewhat, Thế Khôi went to Đình Bách's house, sat quietly on his friend's small balcony, looking at the sparkling city lights in the distance.

"I see you've fallen so low," Đình Bách said, handing him a cold can of soft drink. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

"Don't want to eat yet." Thế Khôi shook his head, his voice hoarse from crying so much. "I keep thinking, I don't know what I did wrong to make Diệp Chi leave like that."

"You didn't do anything wrong." Đình Bách patted his friend's shoulder, his voice low, rarely so serious. "I think, sometimes people leave not because the person who stayed behind did something wrong, but because they themselves are trying to protect something more important than feelings - like self-esteem, like their own dignity. Diệp Chi has always been like that, since I've known him."

Thế Khôi was silent, looking down at the can of soft drink in his hand, not opening it to drink, just letting the cold air seep into his palm as a way to soothe the pain rolling in his chest.

"I'm afraid," he said softly, "afraid that this is just the beginning of a gap that will grow larger, and one day, I will completely forget this feeling, forget her, as if nothing had ever happened."

"If you're sincere, you won't forget," Đình Bách said, his voice was firm. "But don't let this nostalgia become a burden that prevents you from living on. Just let it be a part of beautiful memories, and keep walking. Who knows, one day, your paths will cross again."

Đình Bách's encouragement that night, although it could not completely ease the pain, was enough to help Thế Khôi regain some composure and prepare himself to enter a new chapter of life - a chapter without Diệp Chi by his side, but still carrying her figure as a silent guiding light.

Thế Khôi followed his father's advice that night, even though it was not easy to accept it. He just silently asked his father to help verify that Diệp Chi's family was still safe, had a stable place to live, and was not in dire straits - but did not look up the specific address, did not try to contact them in any way.

During his years studying abroad, every time he remembered Diệp Chi, he reminded himself of that night, of his father's advice, and tried to believe that, if fate wanted, they would meet again at the right time.

***

Now, sitting in the office, re-reading Diệp Chi's message, Thế Khôi decided to tell the whole story - not through a brief text message, but by calling directly, his voice low and sincere.

"That night, I cried," he said, not shying away from admitting that rare weakness. "I was planning to use every means to find you, even thanks to the power of my family. But my father stopped me, saying that if you choose to leave without leaving a trace, perhaps that is a decision you should respect." On the other end of the line, Diệp Chi was silent for a long time. Her voice when she spoke was so choked that she couldn't hide it. "I don't know about that. I kept thinking... I kept thinking maybe you would quickly forget me, because your life has so many other more important things."

"I have never forgotten," Thế Khôi said, his voice was firm without any hesitation. "For twelve years, I still kept that notebook. I still remember exactly the taro sweet soup recipe you taught me. I still remember the way you laughed when I didn't wash the dishes properly for the first time."

Diệp Chi burst into tears on the other end of the line, the tears she had suppressed for twelve years were now flowing uncontrollably, not because of pain, but because of a feeling of being understood, of being confirmed that her old feelings were not unrequited or forgotten as she had feared.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice still shaking with emotion. "All these years, I've been blaming myself for leaving without a proper goodbye. Now that I've heard you tell it, I feel a little better."

"There's no need to blame yourself at all," Thế Khôi said, his voice gentle. "You did the best thing you could do under the circumstances. And I'm proud that you overcame it all on your own to become the person you are today."

The call ended not long after, but they both sensed something had changed — not an explicit confirmation of their feelings, but a twelve-year-thick layer of ice between the two of them that had begun to crack, revealing that underneath was still intact what they once felt for each other, never truly fading with time.

Putting down the phone, Thế Khôi sat quietly for a long time in the empty office, looking out the large glass window at the sparkling city at night. He thought about his father's advice, thought about the years he told himself to live on without forgetting, and felt grateful that he was patient enough to wait until today, instead of acting hastily on the temporary emotions of eighteen years old, when all the wounds were too new, too sensitive to heal properly.