Chapter 12 — Aurora Doesn't Wait For You

You forced me to suffer injustice.” I don't accept. “Chu Nghien, I don't lack this money.” “I know.” His arms hung down. “This is the price I have to pay, not what you need.” This time, it seems he did one thing right. No longer took money to coax me, nor did he force me to accept it. He just cut out the thing he truly treasured the most, then displayed it in front of me. In that moment, I suddenly remembered the day he had just finished buying the apartment, held my hand, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass door, and asked me what color curtains I wanted. At that time, he really thought about our future. But later, in that future, too many people moved in. I withdrew my sight. “Chu Nghien, if you sell it, I won't turn back.” He nodded. “I know.” “So why are you still here?” He looked at me, snow falling in his hair. “I want to learn for once, without putting the burden of choice on your shoulders anymore.” I was silent. He took something else out of his pocket. These are two tickets to see the aurora borealis. “The forecast is very good tonight. If you don't want to see me, I'll leave the ticket at the reception. I'll go by myself." I picked up a photo and glanced at it. “Please return the other one.” His fingers stiffened. “Okay.” He turned around and actually canceled the ticket. A Lac stood next to him and clicked his tongue. “This time it looks pitiful.” I folded the ticket neatly. “Poorable does not mean worthy.” That night, I drove out to the snow field alone. When the aurora shines, the whole sky is filled with green. There were people cheering around, some hugging each other. I was standing far behind, when my phone suddenly vibrated. Chu Nghien sent a text message. “Have you seen it?” I took a photo and sent it over. Not forgiveness. Just a goodbye for this trip that has come too late. A long time later, he only texted back one word. “Okay.” … A year later, I returned home to transfer the title of my grandmother's house. The small house is located in the old town, outside the window there is an osmanthus tree. I had a worker repaint the walls, lay wooden floors, and buy myself a large desk. A Lac came to China to travel and stayed at my house. She sat on the balcony drinking tea, pointing downstairs. “That man is coming again.” I looked down. Chu Nghien was standing under the osmanthus tree, wearing a black coat, with no flowers or gifts in her hand. I went downstairs. Seeing me, he unconsciously took a step back. “I'm leaving tomorrow.” "Where to go?" "Northwest." He smiled faintly. “Participate in a long-term volunteer project, instructing patients' families in care skills. Before, I thought that just being by my side would fulfill my responsibilities, but now I understand that unhealthy dependence will drag everyone to death." I nodded. “Very good.” He took out an envelope from his backpack. “This is the last item. A statement of the remaining balance of the apartment, along with all expenses for the last trip to Finland that he changed. I've made up for it all.” I received the envelope. “Thank you.” He looked at me, heavy fatigue in his eyes. “Duong Duong, can I ask you a question?” “You ask.” “After this, have you… ever had any regrets?” Under the octopus tree, the space is unusually quiet. I didn't answer right away. Five years is not a piece of paper, you can tear it right away. Of course I was nostalgic. Missing the Chu Nghien who always remembered that I was afraid of the cold, missing the Chu Nghien who diligently peeled shrimp for me, missing the Chu Nghien who stood with me in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass door to see what color the curtains were. But I feel even more sorry for myself. “There used to be.” Chu Nghien's eye sockets turned red. I continued. “But regret doesn't mean you'll come back.”