Chapter 12 — There's No More Room For You

"Your aunt cried several times. Au Vi had to go to jail for two years, and had to pay more than 3 million yuan (about more than 10 billion VND). Yeu Yeu, do you know those things about her?"
I told you.
“Then why didn't you say so sooner?”
“Do you believe me if I tell you?”
She was silent for a long time. Then she changed the subject.
“Do Chu, that boy, is always looking for you.”
“I know.”
"He doesn't seem to be living very well. My aunt Truong told me he's lost weight, the company has been sold, and he stays locked up in the city where I used to live all day, and doesn't go home. Yeu Yeu, you and he..."
“Mom.” I said, “It's not 'between you two' anymore.”
Hanging up the phone, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass door. Bangkok's sunset is very beautiful, the sky turns from orange to dark purple, the city's outlines become soft and blurred in the sunset. The phone vibrates. It was a text message from an unknown number, with only one sentence. *“I re-glued half of that photo today. The crack is still there. But I'll keep it.”* I didn't answer. But it doesn't delete it either. It's in the inbox, mixed with work emails, bill notifications, and confirmation codes for ordering food out. A person who once occupied my entire life, eventually turned into just an unanswered spam message on my phone. I turned off the screen, changed my clothes and went out. Tonight, I met my British neighbor to go to the riverside night market for dinner. Recently she was dating a Thai boxing coach, and kept insisting that I work as a monitor. I told her why would she call me on a date? She said what if the other person is a bad person, she feels more secure with me sitting next to her. I laughed and said okay. When I left the house, I instinctively glanced at the mysterious entrance. There used to be a pair of dark gray men's slippers. Now it is a pot of betel leaves, the leaves are growing very quickly, the vines have hung down to the ground. I changed my shoes and closed the door. There is someone waiting in front of the elevator. It's a man, wearing a sports bag, probably a new neighbor moving in upstairs. He nodded to me, I nodded back. The elevator arrives. Two people, one in front and the other in the back, entered. Before the elevator doors closed, I looked at my apartment one last time. The room number is 1704. On the door is a handmade wooden sign I bought at Chatuchak market last week, with four Thai words engraved on it. *“There are no seats available” The elevator started to go down. I stood in the square iron box, the numbers jumped back and forth down each floor. In the position next to me, there was a person standing there. Not Tham Do Chu. Just a random person taking the same elevator ride. And that position is no longer left to anyone anymore. It just is what it is. Like me. Go to the first floor. The door opened and the tropical night wind rushed in. I strode out, never looking back. On the day old habits are successfully detoxified, new habits begin to sprout. I have overcome the habit of "leaving space". The new habit is, on sunny afternoons, to order yourself a glass of sweet Thai milk tea, sit on the floor in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass door, not thinking about anything. Let the sunlight fill what was once an empty spot. This is a position that belongs to me alone. Before, it was covered with the dust of waiting. Now it is filled with bright sunlight at noon. RUN OUT OF