Chapter 6 — Left Behind in the Rain

I flipped open the notebook. The pages were densely packed with the handwriting of Bui Chinh. He had meticulously documented every detail of the past four years, chronicling each instance where he used his performative tenderness to discipline me, coercing me into submission. At the bottom of every single page, the word "sorry" was scrawled repeatedly. I glanced at the first page, then shut the book, my face completely devoid of expression. I swept the diary, a testament to his desperate, pathetic penance, into the trash bin at the corner of the alley, right alongside yesterday's refuse. That evening, Bui Chinh appeared at my doorstep, holding a thermos of scallop and seafood porridge he had just learned to cook. It was the meal I used to love most. With an expectant, hopeful gaze, he asked, "Diem, have you read the diary yet?"

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I threw it away."

Bui Chinh's hand trembled so violently that the piping hot porridge spilled over his knuckles, leaving a large, angry scalded patch on his skin. Yet, he seemed entirely numb to the physical pain. His voice shook as he pressed, "Why? Why won't you even give me a chance to make amends?"

I stopped in my tracks, the emotions I had suppressed for months finally fracturing under the weight of his presence. My eyes burned with unshed tears, and I interrogated him, my voice cold and sharp: "When you were recording those details, did you ever stop to think how desperate I felt when I was nearly buried alive in that mudslide? Did you care how much I suffered when my cat died on a cold, sterile surgical table?"

Bui Chinh opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

"Your tenderness was nothing more than high-handed charity! You used your favoritism toward Lam Ha to grind my self-esteem into the dust, and now you come here pretending to be heartbroken?"

Bui Chinh's legs buckled, and his tears finally broke their dam. "I was wrong. I truly know I was wrong. I swear, I will never meet with Lam Ha ever again! Please, just give me a chance to start over." He gripped the doorframe, his voice choking with sobs. "Diem, I really cannot live without you. In this entire world, there is no one left who can tolerate me unconditionally the way you once did."

Hearing those words, I felt a sudden, sharp sense of irony. Even now, the thing he mourned was not me, but rather the tool that had offered him infinite, unquestioning tolerance. I looked at the man, once so arrogant, now reduced to a pathetic figure groveling in the dirt. The agony that had once torn me apart had completely evaporated.

"Bui Chinh, the version of Tong Diem who used to cry and chase after you in the pouring rain died on that Qixi Festival," I said. I pulled my gaze away and turned to walk into my shop. "At this point, even hating you feels like a waste of my time."

Half a year later, my small bakery on Pingjiang Road had become a well-known establishment with a stellar reputation. Every afternoon, people queued along the stone-paved path, waiting to purchase my pastries. In the early mornings, I calmly placed fresh osmanthus cakes into elegant paper boxes, preparing to welcome the first customers of the day. Since our final break, Bui Chinh had vanished from my life entirely. However, every month, a substantial sum labeled as "ingredient costs" was anonymously transferred into my shop's business account. When the weather turned cold, expensive heating appliances would arrive on time at the shop. I never touched that money. Every month, I transferred the entire amount to a scholarship fund for young girls in the mountainous regions. As for the designer clothes he sent, tags still attached, I bundled them up and donated them to the local welfare institute.

One day, while I was out procuring supplies, I received a package from within the city. It contained documents from Bui Chinh's lawyer. Inside was a signed transfer of assets; he had relinquished all profit dividends and ownership rights to the high-end confectionery store we used to own together. Tucked beneath the documents was a black credit card with an unlimited limit. At the end of the folder was a handwritten note in Bui Chinh's familiar script: "I know you don't need these, but I will always remain in a place where you can find me if you ever look back. I wish you a brilliant future and a life of true freedom."

I looked at the note and gave a faint, detached smile. It turns out that even the most selfish person, when truly stripped of everything and pushed to the brink of loss, can eventually learn how to let go. It was just a pity that I no longer had any use for this belated redemption. I locked the documents and the black card in the deepest drawer of my desk, never to be opened again.

Later that afternoon, as I was tidying the shelves, a long email from Lam Ha appeared on my screen. Attached to the message were several screenshots of bank transfers--proof that she had sold off all her designer handbags to pay off her online loans. In the email, Lam Ha did not offer excuses, nor did she ask for money. She merely reminisced with a touch of sincerity about our college days, when we had squeezed into a cramped, rented room, eating instant noodles and sharing a single, cheap piece of cake. "Diem, I am sorry. I was ruined by Bui Chinh's vain favoritism, and I turned into a monster. In the end, I lost you, the only person in this life who had ever truly treated me with kindness."

I read through the long message with a calm heart. When I reached the section describing our old rented room, a flicker of nostalgia crossed my mind, but I did not reply. I simply moved my finger, lightly swiped the conversation window, and marked the message as read.