An learned this in her second year after graduating, when she started working in real estate sales. Back in school, An never imagined she would do this job. She used to be the best student in Literature in her class. Her essays were often read aloud by the teacher, sometimes even kept as "model work." People said An had talent, sensitivity, and a bright future. Along with Nam – her classmate sitting next to her, excellent at Math, quiet, and always finishing assignments before the rest of the class – An was considered one of the "exceptional children." That title followed them throughout high school, initially light, then gradually becoming heavier, until it felt like an invisible weight on their shoulders. But at seventeen or eighteen, they didn't call it pressure. They called it their future.
The future then appeared very concrete, not in numbers or titles, but in simple and beautiful images. They believed that if they studied hard enough and went far enough, their future lives would automatically become better and more prosperous.
Near An's house, every Tet holiday, Tuan and Thu's family would return from the city. They usually came by car, around the afternoon of the 29th. The car would stop in front of their grandparents' house, dust still clinging to its gleaming body. The husband, tall and wearing a dark coat, spoke softly. The wife, neat and tidy with short hair, always smiled. Their two children, well-dressed and well-behaved, were always chattering beside their parents. They weren't noisy or boastful. But the whole neighborhood noticed. In the evening, the lights in their house would be on early. Through the window, you could see the four of them eating together, talking slowly, occasionally bursting into laughter. No one was irritable. No one was in a hurry.
An often stood outside the gate, looking in. Nam stood beside her, saying nothing.
They weren't envious. It's just that a very concrete image of "the future" suddenly formed in their minds. That in the city, people could live like this: comfortable, kind, and loving each other peacefully.
An said very softly:
- It would be great if I could live like that in the future.
Nam nodded.
From that moment on, the city in their imagination was no longer a place of crowding and struggle for survival, but a place where beautiful families returned every Tet holiday, bringing with them light and a sense of peace.
Then, the day arrived when they received their university acceptance letters in Hanoi . An and Nam sat by the river in their hometown, talking about their future with great confidence. They believed that if they were smart enough and worked hard enough, life wouldn't treat them badly.
During their university years, Nam and An excelled academically. Their transcripts consistently ranked among the top, enough to secure scholarships each semester, reassure their professors, and make their parents back home proud. In the lecture halls, their names were called with confidence, as if a wide path lay ahead. But for Nam and An, those certificates of merit held only a small and fleeting sense of accomplishment.
Nam's room was in a small alley, right next to an old factory. An's room was nearly two kilometers away, on the second floor of an old boarding house. Both rooms were cramped, damp, and required careful budgeting.
Every afternoon after school, if they weren't working part-time jobs, they would visit each other's rooms. Sometimes An would bring over a hastily cooked pot of soup, and Nam would bring over a few boiled eggs. They would eat at a low table, sitting on the floor, sharing stories of their day. Each had their own space, but they always reserved a place for the other. At the end of the month, when their money was running low, they would ride their bikes to the lake, buy two glasses of iced tea, and sit watching people go by. Nam would talk about the jobs he planned to do in the future, and An would talk about the book she wanted to write. At that time, their dreams didn't require much money, just someone willing to listen. On some days, when it rained heavily and An couldn't get home in time, she would sleep in Nam's room. They would lie on opposite sides of the bed, not touching, listening to the rain tapping on the tin roof, talking until late at night. The cramped room suddenly felt unusually spacious.
Student life flies by so quickly.
After graduating, Nam got a job at an engineering company. Not his dream job, but acceptable. An had a harder time. She applied to many places and was rejected many times. In one interview, they looked at her transcript and said:
- You're a good student, but this job requires someone with experience.
Experience – a word so familiar that An no longer felt afraid of it.
Finally, An accepted a job as a real estate sales agent for a brokerage firm. The job didn't require writing or deep thinking. All she needed to do was speak well enough, smile long enough, and not get tired.
On my first day of work, the team leader said:
There's no such thing as "trying" here. There's only "selling" and "not selling."
An nodded.
She learned how to wear form-fitting dresses, high heels, and practice smiling in front of the mirror. She memorized apartment descriptions like a memorized essay, but without adding any emotion.
In the early days, An felt like she was playing a role. She would call clients in a gentle, polite tone, only to have the call cut off midway. Someone would yell into the phone: "Don't call again!"
An smiled apologetically, hung up, and then sat silently staring at the screen for a long time.
At lunchtime, she ate her packed lunch in the break room, listening to her colleagues discuss sales, bonuses, cars, and houses. No one asked each other if they were tired that day.
That evening, An returned to her rented room, took off her shoes, and lay on her back staring at the ceiling. She was starting to have trouble sleeping. Not because of her heavy workload, but because with each passing day, An felt she was drifting further away from someone very familiar – her past self.
Nam stayed by An's side, at least initially. He listened to her stories of rejected calls, of showing clients houses and then disappearing. Nam wasn't good at comforting, but he was always there. Late meals, evenings spent in silence together, without needing to say a word. But the city doesn't give people much time to sit in silence.
Nam is busier. An is too. They're tired in different ways.
Some nights, An came home very late, the scent of an unfamiliar perfume still lingering on her clothes. Nam didn't ask. He trusted An. But inwardly, an invisible distance began to form – not because of jealousy, but because of a lack of understanding. An thought: If I tell him, will he be able to help? She began to hold back.
One day, An closed her first deal.
The apartment was sold. The commission was enough to cover three months' rent. Colleagues applauded, and the team leader praised her in front of everyone. An smiled. A very bright smile. That evening, An and Nam went out to celebrate. Nam raised his glass and said, "I knew you could do it." An nodded. But when she got home, she went into the bathroom, closed the door, sat down on the floor, and cried.
She didn't understand why she was crying. She only knew that, for the first time in her life, she had earned money by convincing others to buy a dream she herself didn't believe in.
Work gradually consumed An. She learned to lie just enough. To smile even when her heart was empty. To stand in brightly lit model apartments, talking about "ideal living spaces," while she herself lived in a cramped room of less than twenty square meters.
An stopped writing. Her old notebooks lay dormant in the drawer. Once, she opened one, reread a passage she had written when she was eighteen, then quickly closed it, as if afraid of being discovered. An began to panic. Some mornings, she would stand in front of the mirror for a long time, looking at the woman in her office dress, meticulously made up, and not recognizing herself.
The incident occurred on a rainy afternoon. An was showing a young couple a house. They asked many questions, and An answered smoothly. When they reached the parking garage, the husband suddenly turned around, looked directly at An, and asked, "Do you really believe this house is worth that much money?" The question was gentle, not harsh, not sarcastic.
But An stood there speechless.
In a matter of seconds, all the memorized answers vanished. An looked at the man, then at the woman holding her husband's hand, her eyes filled with hope. An couldn't say anything.
She heard her own voice, very softly:
If it were me… I would think about it more.
The couple remained silent. They thanked them and left.
The contract is lost.
The team leader called An into the room and said coldly, "You're not suited for this job."
An nodded. No argument.
That night, An fainted on the floor of her rented room.
In the hospital, An woke up and saw Nam sitting beside her.
The doctor said she had anxiety disorder and chronic fatigue. It wasn't dangerous, but she needed rest.
Nam held An's hand very tightly.
An looked at the white ceiling and suddenly said:
I'm so tired.
Just three words. But Nam felt his hands trembling.
An's mother came from the countryside. She didn't scold him. She just sat peeling apples and asked:
Would you like to come home for a while?
An nodded.
When An returned home, she slept a lot.
No one called to push for sales. No one asked about targets. In the morning, An woke up late, listening to the roosters crow. In the afternoon, she went to the riverbank and sat watching the water flow.
A man from the same village often visited. He was gentle and spoke little. He didn't ask An what she did for a living, he only asked:
- Do you find it easier to breathe here?
An answered truthfully:
- Have.
One evening, An called Nam.
- I'm not going back to the city anymore.
Nam remained silent for a long time.
"I'm sorry," An said. "I don't have the strength to continue."
"I understand," Nam replied, and this time, he was telling the truth.
A few months later, Nam received a text message.
I'm about to get married.
Nam read it over and over, then turned off the computer.
He doesn't blame An. He just feels empty.
The city keeps turning.
Nam still goes to work. He still tries. He still holds onto his dream, even though its sharp edges have worn away considerably.
On some evenings, Nam would stand on the balcony, looking down at the cars, thinking of An – who might be cooking dinner right now, listening to the wind blowing through the rows of palm trees.
They were once exceptional children.
Now each of us is going our separate ways.
No one fails completely.
No one wins completely either.
And the city, as always, doesn't judge.
Source: https://baophapluat.vn/nhung-dua-tre-tung-xuat-chung.html
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