Chapter 2 — No Resentment, No Forgiveness

Tossing and turning until four in the morning, I finally gave up, sat up, and washed my face. Before leaving, I left a note for Chu Minh Hien. It was exactly like every other time. It contained only a single sentence: "Porridge is in the pot."

When I dragged my suitcase downstairs, the world had not yet awakened. Street lamps cast a faint, sickly yellow glow. The apartment complex was so quiet that the rhythmic rattle of my suitcase wheels against the pavement sounded like thunder. I hoisted my luggage into the trunk, slid into the driver's seat, and turned the ignition. I set my destination on the navigation system: Chengdu. As the car rolled past the gates, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. The complex where Chu Minh Hien and I had shared two years of our lives began to shrink into the morning mist, and as I rounded the corner, it vanished entirely. I rolled down the window. The late autumn air rushed in—biting and cold—but it cleared my mind with a sharp, welcome clarity. My phone buzzed. It was a message from To Dao.

"Have you left yet?"

"Yes."

Immediately, she sent a link to her location. "Send me a status update every two hours. And keep your location sharing on so I know where you are."

"Understood."

I set the phone down and glanced at the screen one last time. Chu Minh Hien… not a single message from him. He was likely still asleep. When he woke and found my note, he would probably assume I had simply gone to work, as I did every day. He had no idea that the girlfriend he had betrayed was currently hurtling down the highway toward Chengdu. My SUV pushed forward at 120 kilometers per hour. With the windows wide open, my hair whipped wildly in the wind. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and pressed hard on the accelerator. The car surged forward into the unknown.

The first day, I drove for nearly ten hours. From the west side of the city, I merged onto the highway, passed through Mien Duong and Duc Duong, and by dusk, I finally arrived in Chengdu. I had booked a bed in a female dormitory at a hostel near the ancient streets of Cam Ly. The other two girls sharing the room were out. I unpacked, washed my face, and sat by the window to watch the throngs of people below. The hostel’s bedsheets were cotton, worn thin by countless washes and smelling faintly of detergent. My phone lit up suddenly. A message from Chu Minh Hien.

"Have you arrived? Have you eaten yet?"

I stared at the words for several seconds before replying. "I’ve arrived. I just checked into my room and I'm about to go out to find something to eat."

He replied instantly. "Good, stay safe. Oh, and which supplier are you working with this time? Do you need me to reach out to any contacts I have in Chengdu to help you out?"

"There’s no need. It’s just a small project. I can handle it myself."

After sending the message, I turned the screen off and leaned against the windowsill, staring blankly into the distance. Below, tourists were snapping photos. Two rows of ginkgo trees lined the street, their leaves turning a brilliant, heart-wrenching gold. It was achingly beautiful. I suddenly remembered three months ago—my birthday. That morning, before he left the house, Chu Minh Hien had kissed my cheek and smiled. "I'll be home tonight to celebrate with you."

After work, I stopped to buy a cake and groceries, cooking a full spread by myself. I waited. By eight in the evening, he messaged: "I’m still at the site."

I waited until nine. He sent another: "Almost done."

It wasn't until eleven at night that he finally returned, reeking of alcohol. He held me, apologizing profusely, claiming the clients had forced him to drink. The cake went uncut. The food on the table sat cold and untouched. He held me close, whispering, "I'll make it up to you in two days."

I know the truth now. That day, he wasn't busy with work. He was busy registering his marriage to someone else.