Chapter 13 — I Won't Wait for You to Return

More and more young women, drawn by our growing reputation, began to flock to our homestay. We would spend our days dyeing fabric in the courtyard, our fingertips perpetually stained a deep, vibrant indigo. We would zip around the lake on electric scooters, throwing our heads back to meet the wind and shouting at the top of our lungs. As evening fell, we would set up a stove outside, huddled together to share a pot of mushroom hotpot so delicious it made our tongues curl with delight. For the first time, I realized that I had spent years believing my only role was to be a shadow, lurking quietly in the background to arrange every detail of Ze-Yu’s life. But in truth, I was perfectly capable of standing behind the camera myself, capturing a light that belonged to me alone.

Ha-Nhan had changed as well. The unconscious habit of glancing at her phone had vanished; she no longer startled awake in the dead of night to fetch stomach medicine for Yan. She had once mistaken endless waiting for love, but now, she finally poured that patience and tenderness into herself and those who truly cherished her. A-Luong had developed a soft spot for her, finding new ways each day to gift her wild fruits he had gathered from the woods. Ha-Nhan neither rejected him nor rushed to accept; she simply received them with a serene smile, reciprocating with a cup of coffee she had brewed by hand. We were in no hurry to dive into new relationships. We did not need some man to save us; we had already saved ourselves.

It was that very afternoon when I received a flight itinerary screenshot, leaked by a fan in an gossip group. Ze-Yu’s schedule had been sold off by scalpers. His destination: Da-Li. Immediately following this, another message appeared in the group, sent by one of Yan’s peers, lamenting, "Has Old Yan lost his mind? He’s been kicked off the project, yet he’s still buying a red-eye ticket to fly to Da-Li tonight."

I tapped my fingers against the tabletop as I stared at the two screenshots. They had finally realized that we were not just throwing a tantrum or waiting for them to turn back around. We genuinely did not need them anymore. Ha-Nhan put her phone down, her voice perfectly calm. "It seems they are almost here."

I pulled a tissue to wipe my hands, indifferent. "Let them come. We aren't the ones in charge of the gates to Da-Li."

"I didn't throw it away. I've kept it all this time."

Ze-Yu stood outside the homestay gate, pulling off the sunglasses that had masked half his face. His eyes were webbed with broken blood vessels, and his chin was covered in dark, coarse stubble, as if he hadn't slept a wink. He clutched an old wooden box in his hands. The edges were worn smooth and shiny from years of handling. I stood on the threshold, watching him lift the lid. Inside lay the gray woolen scarf I had knitted for him seven years ago, resting in silent, moth-eaten repose.

"Tranh-Tranh, look. I’ve carried it with me everywhere." His voice was gravelly, laced with a desperate attempt to please that he couldn't quite hide. I looked at the scarf and remained silent for a long moment. Memories of shivering through the winter in Heng-Dian and sharing a single bowl of instant noodles in the dead of night flashed before my eyes like a flicker-film. He caught the slight tremor in my gaze and mistook it for a softening of my heart. He took a step forward, his voice growing frantic.

"Making my relationship with Lin-Wei public was purely a move by the management team. I had no way to defy the company’s decisions. But I’ve broken off the engagement now." His eyes burned with a plea that bordered on the pathetic. "Tranh-Tranh, as long as you agree to post a statement saying that everything before was just a misunderstanding, that we parted on peaceful terms, the company can still salvage the situation. I can restructure everything. We can start over."

I looked at his face—still objectively handsome, yet now utterly foreign to me—and felt a chilling clarity. He hadn't traveled all this way because he finally understood the depth of the wounds he had inflicted upon me. He was here because his contracts had been shredded, his films had been cut, and the looming shadow of compensation hung heavy over his head.