Chapter 3 — The Three-Person Trip

First, I blocked all of Fu Kiem Hanh's social media accounts, then opened the location sharing settings and unlinked them without a moment of hesitation. Every possible channel through which he might find me was decisively severed. The transfer vehicle rolled forward at a slow, steady pace. I gathered my luggage, stepped onto the carriage, and the vehicle drove straight toward the village gates.

Back at the homestay, Fu Kiem Hanh rose to his feet and walked over to the window to catch a breath of fresh air, casting a casual glance out toward the balcony. Seeing no trace of me, he merely assumed I had gone downstairs for a morning stroll. He turned around, walked back into the bedroom, and rejoined Lam Hoa Y, who was still lingering lazily in bed, refusing to wake up. With practiced patience, he fed her pieces of fresh fruit, listening as she chattered endlessly about amusing little incidents by the seaside.

As daybreak fully arrived, the early morning sunlight poured over the entire expanse of the ocean. Fu Kiem Hanh decided to call me for breakfast. He pushed open the small door leading to the tatami sofa lounge, only to find the space completely empty. A lightweight blanket lay carelessly crumpled on the sofa, and all of my personal belongings had vanished without a trace. A heavy, sinking sensation struck his chest. He broke into a rapid stride and rushed out onto the balcony. Empty. There was no sign of me whatsoever.

He hurried back and forth across the small courtyard twice, searching everywhere, yet not a single trace of me remained. Panic seized him instantly. Standing barefoot on the slightly chilled floor tiles, he frantically pulled out his mobile phone, his fingertips trembling as he dialed my number. The receiver repeatedly played the same cold, mechanical automated voice.

"I am sorry, the number you have dialed is currently busy. Please try your call again later..."

An overwhelming terror finally closed its grip around his heart.

My fingertips gently snapped the seatbelt buckle into place. The dark, reflective glass of the airplane window mirrored my features, framed by a distinct circle of reddened eyes. A stranger sitting in the adjacent window seat noticed my quiet distress. She drew a packet of tissues from her bag and pushed it gently toward my hand. Turning my head slightly, I murmured, "Thank you."

I shifted my gaze back toward the airplane window, where endless, rolling layers of sea clouds stretched out into the infinite distance. Closing my eyes, the uncontrolled memories of the past four years came flooding back in a turbulent wave.

During my very first week of university, I stood on the library steps cradling a towering stack of reference scripts that reached half my height. The books were overwhelmingly heavy, and the sharp edges had dug deep red marks into my fingertips, making it impossible to keep a firm grip. Just at that moment, Fu Kiem Hanh happened to walk by. Without a second word, he stepped forward, took more than half the load from my hands, and walked alongside me all the way to the study hall. Sunlight fell across his profile; the young man possessed gentle brows and soft eyes, and he softly asked if I was a new student in the Literature department.

Through a few casual encounters, we gradually grew close. On the day we officially defined our relationship, I told him straight that I despised the dynamic of three people sharing company. When it came to sharing affection, I would never make the slightest concession. Back then, he took my hand with absolute seriousness, solemnly promising that he would never let me fall into such an awkward predicament.

How burning hot those promises had been, and yet how bone-chillingly stark the contrast became later on.

After Lam Hoa Y forced her way into our lives, every single vow we had made completely lost its validity. We had planned a hot spring getaway months in advance to ring in the new year together, both of us longing for a private escape for just the two of us. Yet the night before our departure, Fu Kiem Hanh sent a text message stating that Lam Hoa Y's parents had been called away on a sudden business trip. With no one to look after her, he claimed he had no choice but to bring her along. He swore up and down, offering absolute guarantees that they would only stay for a single night.

Yet throughout the entire trip, his eyes never once found me. Out in the biting winter wind, he ran off to buy hot milk tea for Lam Hoa Y. While soaking in the hot springs, he constantly fussed over whether the water temperature was right for her.

There was also that brief weekend camping trip by the coast, for which I had purchased all the ingredients a week in advance. I had put up the double tent entirely by myself, full of eager anticipation for a night of stargazing by the sea. But once night fell, Lam Hoa Y cried out that she was afraid of the dark, and unreasonably wedged herself right beside Fu Kiem Hanh. The entire night, she clutched his arm and prattled on about childhood memories, her laughter refusing to die down. Meanwhile, I squatted all alone by the campfire, scrubbing the cooking ingredients.

Even on my twenty-second birthday, he had reserved a candlelit dinner for two right by the restaurant window. He had even ordered my favorite white roses. The moment the food was served, Lam Hoa Y called to say she was home alone, running a fever and feeling utterly miserable. Fu Kiem Hanh did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second; he left me sitting alone in the restaurant and drove off to buy medicine for her. By the time he finally returned in the dead of night, the custom-ordered birthday cake had long since melted and lost its shape, the frosting smeared thickly all over the packaging.

With burning eyes, I asked him, "Today is my birthday."

He merely frowned, his voice laced with impatience: "She's sick and miserable all by herself right now, she clearly needs me more. Can't you just be a little more understanding?"

All those prolonged compromises, bouts of forbearance, and self-comfort had been completely worn away by every single instance of that three-person dynamic.

The cabin announcement chime suddenly rang out, and a gentle female voice cut through the chaotic tide of my memories:

"Attention passengers, our flight will be landing in Van Thanh in thirty minutes. Please prepare for arrival."

Slowly, I opened my eyes and reached into the cloth bag resting beside me, drawing out the handwritten letter I had taken with me from the homestay balcony.