In the middle of a drizzling day

There are days when the city only experiences a light drizzle, not enough to wet your clothes, but enough to make your spirits somber. On one such afternoon, I met my best friend again after several years of him being away. We met again, both happy and sad, and found a familiar café where the music was just loud enough not to disturb our private conversations.

Khang – the friend I've always admired for his optimism and strength – was different that day. His voice was heavy as he recounted the hardships of his work, his life, and the broken relationships. Khang spoke at length, like a barrel full of sadness being emptied without any pretense. He talked about the betrayal of a friend, the pressure from his family, and the successive failures of a project he had poured his heart and soul into. No tears flowed, but his voice was choked with emotion.

At that moment, I could have chosen to empathize with Khang and say, "That's right, why is life so unfair! Poor you!", and then both of us would have been mired in pessimism. But I didn't. I just looked at him, at Khang's reddened eyes and tightly pursed lips, to understand his pain, not to suffer with it. I didn't allow myself to be consumed by that negative energy, but kept a sufficient distance to observe and feel.

After a while, Khang's story quieted down. His gaze drifted out the window, where the rain continued to fall steadily. The space suddenly became silent, only the gentle music remaining. I knew this was a moment when something was needed. But not advice or comfort. I gently said, "I understand how difficult that feeling is. But remember when I failed my university entrance exam? Everyone thought I was doomed. But then I found another path. You're the same, you're just at a difficult crossroads, not a dead end."

Khang looked up, then smiled faintly. It was a smile of relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

At that moment, I suddenly realized. Speaking for the listener isn't about saying what you know or want to say. It's about subtlety, because the art of communication, ultimately, is a bridge. A bridge that helps you cross to understand others, but not to get stuck with their emotions. You can feel the pain of others, but you don't need to feel it with them. You can understand their failures, but you don't need to give up with them. Like a doctor, they understand the patient's pain, but they don't let those emotions control the diagnostic process. They maintain their composure and rationality to devise a treatment plan.

And I realized that when we speak for the listener, it's not just about choosing words, adjusting volume, or speed. It's a whole journey of emotional intelligence. It's about empathizing without identifying, listening without judgment, and giving without expecting anything in return. It's about learning to pour just the right amount of water into the other person's cup—not overflowing, not emptying—so they can comfortably pick it up and drink it all.

That's the true meaning of a conversation. It's not a performance for ourselves alone, but a meaningful experience for both of us.

LUONG DINH KHOA

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/giua-ngay-mua-lat-phat-post811929.html