Keep a little tenderness

This afternoon, Hue rained.

-"Do you still drink as much as before?", Trinh asked softly.

Hung smiled, looking at the cup of black coffee without sugar: "Yes. No change."

They are no longer young, but between them, the atmosphere is still as gentle as in the past. It is no longer love. It is not longing. It is just a silent connection, like an invisible thread connecting two people who once held hands and walked through the most beautiful years of their student life.

Illustration: LE NGOC DUY

Hue was the starting point, the fertile land for Hung and Trinh's passionate love to sprout. At that time, Hung came from Quang Tri to Hue to study at university, staying in a small, shabby room at the foot of Vy Da bridge, near Trinh's house. The two met by chance during a school youth union activity.

Trinh is from Hue, gentle and discreet. Her beauty is not dazzling but gentle and dignified. Her voice is soft, her eyes are kind, her hands are skillful. Every noon or afternoon after school, Trinh stops by, bringing a hot lunch box for Hung. The meals are filled with care and affection. Trinh is the girl who makes Hung feel secure in the uncertain days of his youth.

They didn't love each other the way people usually do. No promises, no drama. Just afternoons walking along the banks of the Perfume River, rainy nights listening to Trinh's music through an old speaker, Trinh resting her head on Hung's shoulder, softly saying: "From now on, no matter where you go, remember to eat and drink properly, okay?"

After graduating, Hung returned to Quang Tri to take a job at a government agency. Trinh stayed in Hue to pursue a master's degree. The geographical distance, the difference in family expectations, the advice about "compatible ages - incompatible ages" from Hung's parents... gradually weakened the relationship. No one said goodbye. Only the messages gradually became less frequent, the concern also faded over the years. The phone calls also became quiet and distant.

One afternoon at the end of the year, Hung sent Trinh a short message: "We can't be together anymore. Live well."

Trinh read that sentence over and over again hundreds of times. That night, she cried a lot. She felt sorry for herself, angry, even hated him. Why didn't she say it clearly? Why didn't she say why?

Then, after those quiet days, Trinh packed up her sadness and calmly walked away. She understood that some relationships - at some point - had to end. Not because it was anyone's fault, but because life chose a different path.

Two years later, Trinh got married. When her first son was born, she quietly chose the name “Nau” to call her at home - the intimate name that Hung used to call her every afternoon when he came to stay, when he saw her wearing a brown sweater and tying her hair with a light brown cloth. No one knew why. Only Trinh understood that it was her way of keeping a little of the gentleness of that time, for herself.

Many years later, Hung also got married. His wife was a primary school teacher in Dong Ha City, gentle and capable. He had two children, a boy and a girl, who chattered away every afternoon after school. Life was stable and easy. He was an exemplary man in the eyes of his family and colleagues. But there were quiet moments that no one saw. On rainy nights, he sat quietly reminiscing about the past, including the memories of Trinh.

They don't contact each other often. But when Trinh needs help, she always calls Hung. And he always helps quietly, as a natural reflex, as a way to keep a gentle part in a noisy life.

Sometimes, when he had a chance to go to Hue for work, Hung would ask Trinh out for coffee. They didn’t mention the past. They just told each other about their children, their work, and their daily lives. Each of them understood: they were no longer each other’s. But no one could deny that the other was a deep part of the past, impossible to forget, impossible to return to.

Tonight, after returning from a business trip in Hue, Hung sat by the window, quietly watching his two children sleeping soundly next to his wife. His wife was a woman who silently endured and shouldered many worries. The one who had been with him through difficult times, taking care of every meal and sleep.

He sighed. His heart was light but also deep.

Love is something that cannot be measured by right or wrong. It exists as a part of memory. Like the moon that has set but still shines on a warm body of water. I don't feel guilty. I also don't feel like I have to forget. Because everything is pure and worth cherishing.

A call rang. It was Trinh.

- Are you home yet?

- Okay. Thanks Trinh. Hue is raining beautifully today.

- Yes. How is your son?

- Growing up so fast. My wife is fine too. Take care of your health.

- Yeah... okay, I'll go to bed early. Say hello to your sister and the kids for me.

The call ended. Hung put the phone down. Outside, the rain was still falling quietly. There was no longer any violent agitation in him, only a long, deep flow, penetrating deep into his thoughts that were used to being suppressed.

He went out onto the porch. The Quang Tri night was gentle and calm. The wind blew through the coconut trees in the backyard. The calico cat lay curled up at the foot of the chair, breathing evenly like a distant sigh of time. Ten years... long enough for all the scratches to heal and long enough for the familiar things to become strange.

In the sound of the wind, Hung suddenly realized what he had always avoided thinking about: the distance between “used to be” and “now” was not time, but contentment. He used to think that if they met again, there would be hundreds of things to say. But in the end, it was just: “How are you?”. And it seems that maturity is when one understands that, sometimes, just knowing that the person one once loved is living peacefully is enough. There are people who are no longer with us, but are always in us. Like the scent of young rice in the autumn, like the sound of the bell of Thanh Duyen pagoda echoing in the winter afternoon. Gentle, serene.

Hung smiled. He felt relieved at that moment, as if he had just closed a drawer of memories, not locked, just gently pushed back, letting it lie there. Neat and gentle. Trinh was still a part of his youth, but no longer a concern. In the midst of a busy life with family, work, children, sometimes such silent moments helped him reflect on his heart, see how he had lived and how he had grown from old loves.

Tran Tuyen

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/giu-lai-mot-chut-dieu-dang-193696.htm