A light rain began to fall as An and Minh left the office. It was the kind of early season rain that wasn't cold, just enough to make the leaves tremble gently enough to slow one's steps and listen a little more closely. Neither of them hurried home. The walk back to An's place wasn't long, but tonight, it seemed like neither wanted the day to end sooner than it had to.
An walked close beside Minh, holding her notebook over her head as a makeshift umbrella."Why are you always so thoughtful?" she asked suddenly, her eyes following the trails of water spreading across the sidewalk. "You pay attention to every little thing… not just out of habit, but as if you're really listening really seeing people."
Minh didn't answer right away. He only smiled faintly that familiar smile of his that always hovered somewhere between gentle and sad then looked up at the slanting rain under the streetlight.
"I used to have a younger sister," Minh said, his voice slow, as if stepping carefully through a memory. "She was six years younger than me, but always acted like the older one. She was stubborn, loved to draw, and always made me sit and listen to her endless little stories. I was busy studying, growing up, being older. Sometimes she'd talk for so long, and I'd barely pay attention. Just nodding to get her to stop."
An turned her gaze to Minh, her expression softening.
"And then one day," he continued, "she went out with friends… got into an accident. She never came back. I didn't get to hear her last story. I don't even remember the last time she smiled at me."
A long silence followed. The rain still fell, the streetlights still glowed, but it felt as if the world had paused. An didn't say anything more. She simply slowed her steps, giving space for Minh to travel through his memory.
"I realized… we always think we have more time to listen, to ask, to be there. But time never tells you when it's about to run out." His voice grew quieter, as if afraid to break the fragile moment. "After that, I started paying more attention to the little things people say, to what they don't. Not because I wanted to be thanked. Just… because I didn't want to miss anything again. Even if it's just a glance, a small question, or a quiet pause."
They stopped by a tree, its leaves dripping rain onto a nearby rooftop. An looked up at Minh, her eyes filled with something tender and unspoken.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For holding on to those things."
Minh looked at her, surprised for a moment, then smiled. "I couldn't hold on to my sister. But if what I do now helps someone feel that their presence matters… maybe she'd be happy."
An didn't respond with words. She simply reached out and gently touched his sleeve. The rain had stopped without them noticing. The night stretched ahead in calm stillness, and though no one said it out loud, An knew something had been placed between them tonight quietly, gently like a small flower blooming in the dark.
They kept walking. Neither of them said much, but the silence wasn't distant anymore. It felt like a soft blanket pulled over two hearts learning to breathe slower. An noticed the sound of Minh's shoes tapping against the wet pavement, blending with the rhythm of water trickling through the drains. Everything moved at a pace that didn't try to prove anything, didn't try to name any feeling yet somehow warmed her.
After a while, she spoke again. "When I was little, I had a cat. When it died, I went quiet for a whole week. My mother thought I was upset with her. But the truth is… I just didn't know how to be sad." She paused, voice softer. "Some losses are so quiet, you can't even cry."
Minh nodded gently. "I understand."
"And maybe… that's why I feel at ease around you," An said, still looking ahead. "Because you don't try to comfort me, or make me talk about what's passed. You're just there."
This time, Minh didn't answer with words. He raised his hand slightly, as if to brush a strand of damp hair from her cheek, then stopped. But An tilted her head slightly toward him, accepting the gesture without needing anything more. And in that brief touch, something was exchanged not a rushed kind of love, but the quiet understanding of two wounds not yet healed.
When they reached the alley leading to her building, An stopped and turned to him. "Thank you… for sharing," she said. She didn't smile, but there was a light in her eyes that was soft and steady.
Minh nodded. "I think… you're the first person I've ever told everything to."
She didn't speak again, just lingered for a moment, as if not ready to end the conversation. Then she turned and walked inside, leaving Minh under the eaves, his shadow stretching long beneath the flickering streetlight.
That night, in her small room, An didn't read or write. She lay still, feeling as if something empty inside her had just quietly been filled not with comfort, not with love, but with something even more precious: the presence of someone, silent yet sincere.