Chapter 6 — He Only Woke Up After the Divorce

I turned and walked away. This time, he did not pursue me. Yet, that very evening, Zhou An sent me a message.

Ms. Ky, General Manager Bui drank a great deal tonight. He kept mumbling the same phrase over and over, though he seemed quite unaware of what he was actually saying.

I did not want to ask, but my fingers betrayed me, tapping out the question before I could stop them: What did he say?

Zhou An replied: He said, "She smells of coffee, but it is not the kind I brew."

I locked my screen and tossed the phone to the far side of the pillow. I turned over, closed my eyes, and tried to anchor myself in the thought that this no longer concerned me. It was irrelevant. It had been fourteen days since the divorce. I began to seriously contemplate moving to another city. Although Bui Dien had lost his memory, his behavior remained entirely unchanged. No, that was not quite right—it was worse. In the past, he at least knew his place; he knew he was my husband, and therefore he had a righteous justification for managing my life. Now, he lacked even that pretext, yet he did not miss a single opportunity to exert his influence. I changed my driving route three times, yet his car would always appear with eerie precision in my rearview mirror. I switched to a new gym, and the following day, he appeared in the very same swimming pool. I made plans to have hotpot with Hua Nhung. The door to our private room was pushed open from the outside. Bui Dien stood in the threshold, still trailing the evening chill behind him. Hua Nhung’s chopsticks clattered into the pot.

Hello, he said, nodding to Hua Nhung before shifting his gaze to me. This location is too loud. I have already instructed someone to arrange another room for you.

Bui Dien! I slammed my hand on the table and stood up. What exactly do you want?

He looked at me, his expression chillingly calm. I am helping you relocate to a quieter room. This side of the building is too close to the main road; the traffic noise is excessive.

I do not need your help! I do not need your help! You are my ex-husband! Ex! Do you understand?

A server peeked into the room from the hallway, then quickly retracted. Bui Dien’s eyes did not flicker. He simply watched me, as if observing a prized possession of his that had suddenly flared into a tantrum. A stifling sense of frustration rose in my chest. This sensation was painfully familiar. Every argument during our marriage had unfolded exactly like this. I would scream until my voice grew hoarse, yet he remained immovable. The angrier I became, the calmer he stayed. In the end, once my strength was completely spent, he would walk over, pull me into his arms, and say, All right, stop being angry now.

And the next day, everything would revert to the status quo. The words I spoke were never truly heard by him.

Bui Dien, I took a deep breath and pointed toward the door. Get out.

He did not budge.

I am counting to three. If you do not leave, I will call the police.

Hua Nhung whispered nervously beside me, Duong…

One.

He stared at me.

Two.

His hands were buried in his pockets, his jaw tightly clenched.

Three…

Very well, I will leave.

He took a step back and opened the door. But before stepping out, he murmured, Eat less of that hotpot. It is bad for your stomach.

The door clicked shut. Silence filled the room for five long seconds. Hua Nhung asked cautiously, Is he… truly suffering from amnesia?

Yes, it is true.

Then how does he know your stomach is sensitive?

I fell silent. I did not know. Perhaps his body remembered. Perhaps it was muscle memory. Or perhaps the impulse to control me had been carved so deeply into his bones that it required no participation from his conscious mind. But regardless of the cause, I refused to be controlled any longer. That night, I made a decision. I picked up my phone and dialed Bui Dien’s number. He answered faster than I could press the call button.

Ky Duong.

Bui Dien, I am telling you this for the last time.

He remained silent.

If you continue to follow me, I will file for a personal protection order.

A long, heavy silence stretched across the line. Finally, his voice came through—hoarse, low, and carrying an emotion I could not quite define. Are you… afraid of me?