Chapter 9 — A Sweetness Forgotten

Thế Khôi did not believe that Diệp Chi's "will report later" promise lasted more than a week.

The third day after the mother and son left Lá Me alley, he returned to the old alley and saw that the tea shop had been completely sealed, the door was locked tightly with a red cross-stitched paper clearly stating the date of withdrawal. He asked familiar neighbors, but no one knew exactly where Diệp Chi's family had moved to - only vaguely hearing "seems to have moved to the suburbs" from a nearby grocery seller.

He went to Tường Vy's house, hoping that Diệp Chi's best friend would know something.

"Diệp Chi didn't say anything to me," Tường Vy replied, her face equally filled with worry. "When I called, the number couldn't be reached; it had changed. I'm also going to look for her."

"Do you have any information from the school?" Thế Khôi asked, his voice was a bit hoarse because he hadn't slept well for two days in a row.

"She has applied to leave school." Tường Vy shook her head, her eyes red. "The homeroom teacher said that the contact address in the file is also the old address, there is no new update."

Thế Khôi stood still for a moment, feeling like the whole world was collapsing under his feet. He didn't understand why Diệp Chi chose to disappear completely, instead of giving him a chance to help, even if it was just a small chance.

"I don't understand," he said, his voice choked. "Why didn't she tell me? I didn't do anything wrong."

"You're not wrong." Tường Vy looked at him, her voice softened. "But you don't understand Diệp Chi. She's the kind of person who would rather die than let anyone pity her. Since middle school, she's been like that - one time the whole class contributed money to buy her a new school bag because they saw that the old one was torn, but she refused to accept it and used the old school bag for another year."

Thế Khôi was silent, the pieces of Diệp Chi's memories gradually pieced together into a clearer picture - the almost stubborn self-esteem, the attitude of always trying to manage everything on his own, the shyness every time he asked for help, even with the smallest things. He used to think that was a cute trait, but now, that trait has become a wall separating the two of them.

"What are you going to do next?" Tường Vy asked.

"I will find her," Thế Khôi replied, his voice resolute. "By all means," Tường Vy looked at him for a long time, then suddenly asked a question that startled Thế Khôi. "Do you know why Diệp Chi likes you?"

"No." He shook his head, a bit confused by the unexpected question.

"Because you're the only one who has never looked at her with pity," Tường Vy spoke, her voice low and serious, rarely seen. "Even me, sometimes I accidentally show sympathy when mentioning her family's situation, and I know she hates it even though she never says so. As for you, you always treat her as an equal, never once showing favoritism."

“So why is she avoiding me now?” Thế Khôi asked, his voice full of confusion.

"Because this time, the situation is so bad that even she is afraid. If she let you know, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from helping, and once you helped, that equal footing would no longer exist." Tường Vy sighed. "She would rather lose you than lose the feeling of being recognized by you as an equal."

Thế Khôi was silent, Tường Vy's words were like a knife cutting deep into his heart, both painful and making him understand something he had never thought of before - sometimes, the most sincere love was what made people leave each other, just for fear of ruining the most precious thing between two people.

***

But "every way" of an eighteen-year-old student, even though he comes from a powerful family, still has its limits.

Thế Khôi hired someone to find information about Chử Ngọc Lành's family, but the clues only stopped at confirming that the mother and daughter had left the city, possibly moving to a neighboring province, with no specific address re-registered. He went to the bank that foreclosed on the house, tried to find out contact information, but was refused to provide it due to customer information security reasons.

He even asked his father to intervene, knowing full well that this was an awkward request.

"Dad, I need to find a family that moved away without leaving an address," he said, standing in front of his father's desk, his voice filled with urgency. "Dad, can you help me?"

Mr. Bách Quân looked at his son and immediately realized that this was the family of little girl Diệp Chi that he had met at the school gate. "What are you going to do after you find them?"

"I want to help. I want to make sure Diệp Chi is okay," Thế Khôi replied, not hiding it.

Mr. Bách Quân was silent for a moment, then shook his head, his voice serious but not cold. "I can help you find them, but I think you should think carefully. If that girl proactively left without leaving an address, perhaps it was a decision she had carefully considered. Forcing to find people when they are not ready is sometimes not the right way to express affection, but only makes people feel more violated."

"But you can't just leave things like that." Thế Khôi objected, his voice filled with helplessness. "I need to know if she's okay, if her family has enough to eat, if—"

"I understand you're worried," Mr. Bách Quân interrupted, his voice softening. "But you also need to understand, sometimes the way to respect someone the most is to respect their decision to leave, even if it hurts you."

Thế Khôi stood still, his father's words were like a bucket of cold water pouring into the impatience that had been burning in his heart for the past few days. He knew his father had a point, but his eighteen-year-old heart was not mature enough to accept that truth easily.

***

The last night before the new school year started - the school year when Diệp Chi and Thế Khôi were supposed to enter the university lecture hall on separate paths but still keep in touch - Thế Khôi rode his bike alone to Lá Me alley, standing in front of the sealed tea shop door, now covered with a thin layer of dust from abandoned time.

He sat down on the familiar steps, the place that had welcomed him and Diệp Chi dozens of afternoons, took out an old leather-bound notebook from his backpack - a notebook filled with sweet soup recipes and trivial notes about the girl who taught him how to live a normal, honest life.

He turned to the last page, where the crossed out words were still faintly visible under the streetlight: "I don't know if I should say it, but maybe I'm liking someone I shouldn't like too soon."

He picked up the pen and wrote a new line below, not crossing out this time.

"I liked it. I still like it. And maybe I will like it for a long time, even though I don't know when I'll have the chance to say it."

The night wind blew through the old tamarind canopy, small leaves falling onto the notebook page, like a silent farewell from the very alley that witnessed the entire budding and hastily ended love story of the two people.

Thế Khôi sat there for a long time, until the street lights began to flicker signaling that it was almost dawn, then he stood up, closed the notebook, and put it in his backpack carefully as if he were storing a treasure.

He didn't know that, nearly fifty kilometers away, in a cramped room in a suburban industrial park, Diệp Chi was also staying up all night, sitting by the small window looking out into the darkness, clutching her old phone - the phone that she had deliberately not changed the number, just silently turned off, blocking all communications, but still kept it as the last fragile thread connecting her to the past that she knew she had to let go of.

She reopened the last message Thế Khôi sent before she cut off contact completely — a simple message: "Wherever you are, I hope you're okay. If one day you need me, I'm still here." She read and reread that message countless times, word by word, until tears silently fell onto the phone screen, which was blurred because of its age.

Then she turned off the phone, put the phone in the bottom of her suitcase, locked it tightly, as if locking a part of her youth in the dark, preparing to step out into a completely new life, where she would have to stand on her own, not relying on anyone, not even the person she loved the most.

Outside the window, the sky began to brighten. A new day, a new life, is waiting for her ahead - strange, harsh, and completely devoid of the sweet afternoons spent over a pot of taro tea, where her eighteen years have ended forever from tonight.