When the bathroom door opened, Hân stepped out, wearing only a towel. Even after a long time apart, that image still made my heart flutter just like the first day we fell in love.
A year after the divorce, my life had been so peaceful it was almost boring. I got used to waking up alone, eating alone, and going to work alone. The spacious two-bedroom house felt empty, as if all sound had been drained from it the day my ex-wife pulled her suitcase and left.
As time went on, I thought I had gotten used to it, but then I realized I was just learning to live like a machine.
Then, one rainy afternoon, as I was standing under an awning waiting for the rain to ease, someone called my name. The voice was so familiar that my heart skipped a beat. I turned around and saw Hân, my ex-wife, standing right behind me.
Hân was soaked and shivering from the cold. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and she didn’t look as strong as she did on the day of the divorce. At that moment, she looked at me with fragile, weak eyes, and then, as if gathering all her courage, she asked me:
“Can we… can we start over?”
I was stunned, unable to say anything, but secretly, I felt a slight happiness and just wanted to hug her tight. After that, I took her back to our old house, where we used to live. Hân walked around, touching the familiar items she had once bought, her eyes betraying a hint of sadness and regret.
The atmosphere between us wasn’t as awkward as I had expected. All it took was a light touch of hands for all the memories to flood back. Hân said she wanted to take a shower first, and then… “talk properly.”
I sat outside the bedroom, my heart pounding so much my hands were restless. I had dreamed of this reunion countless nights, but I never expected it to happen so fast.
When the bathroom door opened, Hân stepped out, wearing only a towel. Even after a long time apart, that image still made my heart flutter just like the first day we fell in love.
She walked closer and reached up to untie the towel. But when the towel fell, I froze. Her body was covered in bruises, stretching from her shoulder down to her back. Some were old, turning yellow, some were new and deep purple, and one spot was still swollen and red.
I jumped up, my voice catching automatically:
“Who did this to you?”
Hân stopped short. She pulled the towel back up, her face white. A second later, her eyes went red, and tears poured out, heavy as if she had been holding them back for a very long time. Then, she only said three words:
“I’m sorry…”
No explanation, no justification, just a painful apology. But that was enough for me to realize she was hiding something terrible.
I took my jacket and covered my ex-wife with it. She was trembling like a wounded bird, her breath ragged. Finally, Hân sat down on the bed and began to speak, her voice hoarse from crying:
“He’s been hitting me… for months.”
I sat listening to Hân through her sobs. She said the man she had rushed to love after the divorce had been hitting her. He was jealous and controlling, and then he started hitting her. At first, it was just a few slaps, but it escalated into prolonged abuse.
But after every incident, he would kneel and beg for forgiveness, buy her gifts, say sweet things, and make promises, so she would forgive him. The day she met me, she had just been beaten by him. Unable to endure it anymore, she had made up her mind to break up with him.
When Hân stopped speaking, the room fell silent. I looked at her, her face familiar but now weary and heartbreaking. I slowly took my ex-wife’s hand, a hand that trembled as if it would shatter if I let go.
In that moment, all our old memories rushed back. Back then, Hân and I divorced not because we stopped loving each other, but because we were both too tired. I was head down in work, withdrawn, and less caring, while Hân felt lonely in her own home. Small resentments that neither of us would explain, misunderstandings that neither of us would soothe. All of it accumulated into a distance.
When Hân presented the papers, my pride kept me from holding on, and she was too exhausted to wait any longer. And so we lost each other, all because we were both so reluctant to say one simple sentence: “I/You need you/me.”
That night, I took Hân to the hospital for a check-up and then drove her back to the old house. The rain had stopped; the road was empty. She sat silently on the back of the motorbike, but the hand she placed lightly on my jacket made my heart feel strangely warm.
When we reached the front door, Hân suddenly stopped. She looked at me, her eyes showing both fear and anticipation, and then she quietly asked:
“Can I… can I stay here for a while?”
I didn’t answer immediately. The bruises on her wrist caught my eye, her face trying to look calm but unbearably tired. I understood what she had been through, and I also understood what I truly wanted.
I nodded. Not out of old loyalty, but because I knew in my heart that my feelings for her had never faded.
That evening, we didn’t do anything else; we just talked. Watching Hân curled up on the living room sofa still trying to smile, I clearly felt one thing: this house was no longer cold. Not just because she came back, but because I knew… both of us were starting to heal. And who knows, from this peace, a different future might unfold.
