The air outside the exhibition hall was thick with the golden hue of late afternoon. It wasn't cold, not exactly, but the breeze carried a sharp edge that felt like autumn was slowly claiming the city. An stood just outside the glass doors, clutching the canvas tote bag on her shoulder, the one with the bookstore's logo and the edge of a newly bought paperback peeking out. People drifted in and out of the building, laughing, talking, their voices merging into a distant hum behind her. She didn't hear any of it clearly. All she could hear was the echo of Khánh's voice as he had said her name just minutes before, like he had known she'd be there, like he had meant to find her in that exact second and nowhere else.
She hadn't expected to see him again. Not after the last time. Not like this.
He was still standing near the bookstand inside, holding her book in his hands, as if unsure whether to follow or stay rooted where their eyes had met. An turned her gaze to the sky, a soft, pale orange now, smeared with the beginnings of dusk. It looked like a painting she might have once wanted to write about, long ago, before she had grown afraid of metaphors.
When Khánh finally stepped out of the building, he didn't speak right away. She didn't look at him either. They stood side by side, strangers again, though something softer floated in the silence this time, like the gentle weight of a shared memory neither wanted to disturb too quickly.
"Your name is still on the cover," he said finally, his voice low but steady.
She glanced sideways. He was holding her book by the spine, not reading it, not flipping through it, just holding it like it was fragile or sacred.
"You read it?" she asked.
He nodded. "All of it. Twice, actually."
An almost smiled, but stopped herself. "Then you know. It wasn't fiction."
"I know."
A bird flew overhead, dipping briefly before disappearing behind the buildings. The wind tousled a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She didn't brush it away.
"You didn't name the characters," he continued.
She looked down at the sidewalk. "I didn't need to."
There was a long pause. She could hear the rustle of trees across the street, the crackling sound of a snack wrapper blowing along the curb. She tried to remember the last time they had spoken properly, not through the lens of nostalgia or in the blurred edges of memory, but in the same place, breathing the same air. It had been a long time. Too long.
Khánh broke the silence. "Do you want to walk a bit? There's a coffee place not far from here. Still open, I think."
An didn't answer immediately. But then she gave a small nod and began walking, slowly, allowing the distance between them to shrink not by words, but by the rhythm of footsteps on concrete.
The café was quiet, tucked behind a row of flowering trees that had started to lose their leaves. Pale petals clung to the windowsills and the steps, making the whole place look like something from an old postcard. They took a seat by the window, the light dim enough to blur the lines on their faces, the years between them softening in the golden glow.
He ordered black coffee. She asked for tea.
For a while, they sipped in silence.
It was Khánh who finally spoke. "I used to think I'd forgotten how to be around you. But reading your words… it felt like opening a letter I didn't realize I'd been waiting for."
An's fingers tightened slightly around her teacup. "I didn't write it for you."
He smiled faintly. "I know. But maybe a part of you did."
She looked out the window. "Maybe."
Outside, a couple walked past, arms tangled, laughing at something private. An's eyes followed them, not with envy, but with a kind of quiet wistfulness. She remembered how they used to walk like that, once, when they were too young to understand how rare it was to feel that close to someone.
"I thought I moved on," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I had rebuilt everything."
"You did," he replied gently. "You wrote again. You lived. You kept going."
"But something always stayed behind," she admitted, the words tasting like surrender. "Something I never said."
Khánh reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook. Not a new one—it was worn at the corners, the edges soft from time. He slid it across the table.
"I started writing too," he said.
An's eyes widened slightly, then hesitantly she opened it. The pages were filled with short lines, reflections, little moments captured like photographs in words. She skimmed through a few pages—there was one about a rainy day, another about a scarf she once wore, and one that simply read: "She always looked like she belonged somewhere else, but she stayed."
She closed the notebook slowly, placing her hand over it for a moment.
"I didn't know you kept these," she murmured.
"I didn't know I would ever show them."
"Why now?"
Khánh looked at her, and in that gaze was no pressure, no demand, just a quiet longing. "Because you wrote the version of us you remembered. I thought maybe… it was time I added the version I lived."
A faint ache bloomed in her chest. So many things had been left unsaid, scattered between the pages of books and between the years they lost. But now, they were sitting here, no longer avoiding the story.
She didn't promise anything. She didn't speak of forgiveness or reunion. But she reached into her own bag, pulled out her journal, and flipped to a blank page. Then, borrowing his pen, she began to write. She didn't know yet if it would be another book, another goodbye, or something entirely new. But she knew one thing.
This time, she wouldn't write alone.