Chapter 1 — Leaving You, I Shine

As soon as I received the divorce papers, I immediately submitted my resignation. The next day, my ex-husband returned to the company from Singapore. When he personally sought me out, the Human Resources employee's face turned pale: "Miss Lam completed the resignation procedure yesterday." I am Lam Chieu, working as Assistant General Director at Co Thi Real Estate Group for six years. Six years, not to say long, not short, but just enough to squeeze a person from the age of twenty-four to thirty, turning from a bright hot blood into a puddle of stagnant water. The chair in the Civil Affairs Department is stiff. While I was waiting for the number to be called, Co Hanh, sitting opposite, kept texting. The light from the screen shone on his face, his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, his thumb was moving quickly, as if he was dealing with something more urgent than a divorce. Probably more urgent. After all, divorce for him is just an item on the schedule that needs to be completed.

“Lam Chieu, Co Hanh, please come to counter number 3.”

He stood up, the folds of his trousers were straight, his back buckle reflected the light. When he arrived in front of the counter, he glanced at me, his eyes calm, as if he was confirming where today's meeting room was located.

“Where to sign?”

That was the first sentence he said to me today, also the only sentence. The employee pointed, he bowed his head to sign, the pen nib rubbing on the paper made a rustling sound. In three seconds, the name was neatly placed on the paper. Then he gave me the pen. The pen body still retains the warmth from his palm. I took it and signed my name. Lam Chieu. I've been writing these two words for thirty years, but I've never written them so heavy like they were carving a stone stele. When receiving the green book, the staff said the usual sentence: "Please keep it carefully." Co Hanh has turned away. His phone rang again, he answered, his voice was calm: "Yes, change the flight to the day after tomorrow. I've seen the contract in Singapore, there are no problems with the terms." He said as he strode out. The sound of leather shoes hitting the tile floor was decisive, beat by beat, like a countdown. I stood in place, watching his back disappear behind the door, hand clutching the blue notebook. The corner of the cover was a bit frayed, rubbing heavily against my fingertips. Six years into his marriage, he walked out this door in just twelve seconds. I counted. It's raining outside, not too big or too little, just enough to make you wet. I didn't bring an umbrella, standing on the porch watching his black Mercedes drive out of the parking lot, passing me without slowing down. Rainwater was swept up by the wheels, soaking half of my skirt. He didn't see me. Or you can see it, but that's not important. I fumbled and took out another piece of paper from my bag. A4 size, folded into thirds, left corner printed with Co Thi Real Estate logo. I wrote my resignation letter yesterday afternoon, the words were polite and distant, like writing an email to a stranger.

“For personal reasons, I would like to take a leave of absence from work.”

Personal reasons. These four words are so convenient to use. I called a car and read the company address. The driver saw that I was soaked and gave me a packet of tissues: "Girl, it's raining so much, wipe it off." I took it, didn't wipe my face, just wiped the mud off my dress. Arriving at Co Thi building at 5:30 pm. Tieu Chu at the front desk saw it I walked in and immediately smiled: "Mrs. Lam, Mr. Co is not at the company today."

“I know.”

I did not go to the General Director's office on the 42nd floor, but went straight to the elevator to the 38th floor - the Human Resources Department, and gave my resignation letter to Mr. Luu - the department head. Old Luu took it, glanced at it and was stunned: "Assistant Lam, you are like this..."

“The process just follows the regulations.”

“But your position… do you need to report it to President Co?”

“No need.”

I said these two words very calmly. Old Luu stared at me for 5 seconds. He must have read the non-negotiable look on my face so he didn't advise anymore, opened the system and started browsing.

“What is the fastest time to finish?”

"If all stages are approved... it will be before work tomorrow."

“Okay.”

I went upstairs to pack my things. The 42nd floor was as quiet as if there was no one there, all overtime colleagues were meeting by phone in the conference room. My seat is right outside the door of the General Director's office, a gray table, two computer screens, a document shelf, and a potted snake plant in the corner of the table. I bought this pot of snake tongue at the flower shop downstairs on my first day of work, for 15 yuan. Six years on, it's developed even better than my condition. I put my personal belongings in a paper bag: a ceramic cup, a desk calendar, two pens, and a spare pair of glasses. So pitifully little. For six years, I spent more than two thousand days and nights in this office, working overtime until dawn countless times, but my belongings really belonged to me, just a paper bag to hold it all. I wiped out all personal documents on my computer, logged out of all browser accounts, and restored my desktop to its cleanest state. Finally, I took down my employee card. The photo on the card is still taken six years ago. Lam Chieu is 24 years old, his hair is tied neatly, his eyes are bright, and the corner of his mouth carries a carefree smile. I placed my employee card and key card to open the door on the table, picked up my paper bag and left. When the elevator got down to the first floor, Tieu Chu finished his shift and changed to a male on night shift. I handed him the card: "Lin Chieu, employee code D00217, the Human Resources department will check with you tomorrow." He took it, wrote it down in the registration book, then looked up and said: "Sister Lam, have a safe journey." Go safely. I nodded, pushed the revolving door and walked out. The rain still fell, smaller and faster than before, splashing on my face, making it impossible to tell if it was rain or something else. I didn't look back at the building. The light on the 42nd floor is still on, but it no longer has anything to do with me. The phone rang once. WeChat message from Co Hanh: "Come home to eat on Saturday, mom told me to bring something home." No names, no questions. Just like before, it was like he was giving orders to his subordinates. I looked at the screen for 3 seconds, locked the phone, and hailed a taxi.

“Driver, go to Dong Thuy Ho street.”

That's where Phuong Du - my best friend lives. The car passed two intersections and the phone rang again. OA system notification: "Your resignation application has entered the approval process, expected to be completed within 24 hours." I turned off the notifications, leaned my head back on the chair and closed my eyes. The sound of the rain outside the window was faint, as if listening through a membrane. Phuong Du was waiting for me downstairs, holding an umbrella in one hand and a plastic bag with two cans of beer and a bag of peanuts in the other. Seeing me get out of the car, he tilted his umbrella towards me: "Your face looks so bad. That guy." attitude?

“Where to sign?”

“What?”

“The only thing he said to me today. Where to sign?

Phuong Du paused for two seconds, then thrust the plastic bag straight into my hand: "Go upstairs. Don't think about that guy named Co tonight. After drinking, go to sleep." Upstairs, the living room was messy in a "vibrant" way - clothes thrown on the sofa, laptop with design software open on the tea table. Phuong Du is a freelance illustrator whose schedule is the opposite of that of normal people. I put the paper bag on the ground and put the snake plant pot on the windowsill.