Limit

When he woke up, Khanh Huyen had already left, the door tightly closed with a piece of cardboard. Lost in thought, his mind blank, unsure whether he should call her now, he lay back down, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where patches of mold were turning green.

Reaching for her phone, she saw a message from almost an hour ago, meaning he'd been fast asleep for nearly an hour and a half, right beside her. That wouldn't matter, if it were after a passionate lovemaking session, and he, despite his exhaustion, still held her close. But today was different; they'd just had a heated argument about love, marriage, and a seemingly endless conversation.

Deep wounds are hard to heal, and he's not ready for anything new. If he's lost faith in love so much, then why does he still love me? She opened her eyes wide, her large, sharp eyes, with their long, dark eyelashes, didn't blink. A red glint appeared in the depths of her eyes, her pupils sparkling, her nose twitching, her small, delicate nostrils flushed red, her pink lips trembling, her dimples like a mischievous child playing hide-and-seek. In that moment, he reached out and embraced her, his nose brushing against her stylishly straightened hair, the scent of Coco Chanel, a delicate blend of Bulgarian rose, clove, and amber. But all of that didn't change the atmosphere, or if it did, it didn't awaken his masculine instincts at this moment, when all his nerves were on strike and he truly craved sleep.

And he truly slept, sleeping as if he had been awake for millions of years, sleeping as if all dreams had forgotten him, without dreams, without calculations, without worries or anxieties. It turns out that the greatest desire of a lifetime is sometimes just a deep, restful sleep. After that sleep, everything seemed to be reset. He took out his glasses and read her short message; indeed, sleep had reset everything, including his love for her.

Do you love me? That age-old question lacks abstract thinking; it doesn't sufficiently stimulate him to answer, even when he's in love. But she's not one to let it go easily. "I'VE NEVER LOVED YOU!" The message was deliberately written in capital letters, a habit of using exclamation marks whenever she needed to emphasize something. Goodbye. A cold new line and a decisive period. Looking at the phone, she chuckled to herself; clearly, he wasn't ready for a serious, marriage-like relationship, and women always want things to be clear-cut.

Stepping out of the small room, the wooden house shook slightly. He sank into a deck chair, from where he could look out onto the vast green fields, a few scarecrows nodding their heads, their arms fluttering in the wind. Turning his gaze back to the canal in front of his house, its waters flowing endlessly year-round, the reaching out, the splashing and choking dives, and the afternoons spent relaxing in the water, he felt strangely childlike.

Glancing towards the side of the house, near the staircase, the portrait of Shang Xuan was still there, as if she had never left, as if the storm had never happened. His son huddled in the corner, his glasses unable to hide his reddened eyes, holding his breath as he secretly watched. After a long period of contemplation, he decided to put it back in its place. He wasn't very good at hiding his emotions, nor did he try to hide them. He was in pain, a pain that was utterly exhausting, utterly devastating. He felt regret, even remorse, but it was all in vain.

Alcohol doesn't help people forget; alcohol revives memories intensely. Alcohol unearths and digs into every nook and cranny, smoothing out the rusted hinges of the soul—alas!

Finally, he realized that alcohol had the power to turn people into monsters, the remnants of life etched in his lifeless eyes and deep, hollowed-out grin. Pushing aside the bottles, glasses, and cups, he scrambled to his feet, stroked his son's head, looked in the mirror, and said to himself, "Live life to the fullest, my son!"

Of course, the son never asked about his parents' relationship, nor did he ever dare mention his mother in front of his father and grandmother, even though he saw her every weekend. "Can you two get back together?" the son whispered after a while of confiding in his father. His father frowned slightly. "Well, who told you to ask me what I wanted most?" the boy lowered his thick eyelashes. Squeezing his son's shoulders, he apologized, wiping away the tears that streamed down the boy's head buried in his chest.

He forgave her. He wanted their child to have a complete family. "Come on, Tuan, don't make me feel bad. You know I have to live with pride. I loved you, I loved you very much, and I still do now, but I betrayed you. I'm not making excuses, nor am I asking for your forgiveness. We can stop here," Thuong Huyen said, handing over the signed divorce papers, her voice as resolute as her personality.

Love? He laughed bitterly, wanting to throw everything away, wanting to scream and tear his chest apart, wanting to grab those slender shoulders and ask what he had done, what he had done to make her betray him. He hadn't done anything wrong, Tuan! His mother scrutinized every shirt she wore, watched every gesture she made, even criticized this and that, and he just smiled lightly, saying, "Mom's a little strict, but kind-hearted." What else could she say? She felt lonely and lost in the very house he had promised would be their home. Like a lost bird, she had no one to confide in, no one to cling to. In his eyes, his mother was always wonderful; if anything, she only wanted what was best for them. To him, his mother was sacred, to be forever revered, but what about her? Had he thought about her? She had her own opinions, feelings, and way of life. What had he done to reconcile that? Those timely business trips seemed to help him escape from all the conflicts, but where else could she find solace? Tuan, no matter how strong I am, I'm still just a woman. I need comfort, I need love, I need more than just the money you bring home after each business trip. My heart aches, do you understand?

"And you let my best friend soothe that wound, a wound you made up yourself, even though I never uttered a word, never touched a single hair on your head, and that's okay, Huyen?" He almost screamed, his eyes blazing with anger, streaked with blood, his hands trembling as he clenched them tightly.

Tran called him to the old restaurant, but for what purpose? To apologize, to return his wife? Or to humiliate himself by handing over his woman to the man he had considered a close confidant for so many years? Whatever it was, it didn't matter anymore. He wanted to punch him in the face, wanted to strangle his wife in his hatred, but he felt contempt. And he contemptuously signed the divorce papers Huyen left behind, freeing them both. He let Huyen pack everything herself, except for the child; it had to be his.

Whether by accident or design, when he left Thuong Huyen, he didn't bring the painting he had drawn of her in the early days of their acquaintance—a side view of the riverbank from the school library, a moment that awakened the brush, and they fell in love during the rustling autumn leaves. From the tranquil lecture halls on golden afternoons. Or the radiant sunrise rising from the river. Or the nights wandering, listening to winter caress their hair. Back then, a loaf of bread shared, a raincoat keeping them both drenched.

Not wanting people to look at him with pity, he threw himself into work, intensely, as if stopping would kill him. He loved a few people—no, he knew them, but for him, love wasn't that simple. He saw reflections of the past in those girls—their hair, their gait, their smiles, their personalities… And oh my God, they all shared the same name, Huyền! Diệu Huyền, Thanh Huyền, Khánh Huyền…

How can one live with memories when everything seems like a cruel twist of fate? Fleeting romances followed by broken marriages. A mother's heart aches as she watches her son age, his hair turning gray and his back hunched by a terrible herniated disc. "Finding a wife is still important, but I won't live forever to take care of you," her eyes seemed to say. In truth, she had said that before, and in a drunken rage, he had complained, shouting for his family back. His mother was devastated, refused to eat, and fell ill. He realized how cowardly he had been.

My mother dedicated her life to him, to this small family lacking a male figure. In truth, her husband had pursued another woman, a woman who was, of course, younger and prettier than her. When Thuong Huyen first came to meet them, my mother's face darkened. Despite my persistent questioning, she simply brushed it off, though she couldn't find enough reason to criticize her future daughter-in-law. Beautiful, capable, and dynamic, Thuong Huyen possessed all the qualities of a woman, and was outstanding. "You and your father are the same," my mother said during a heated argument. "When I first saw Huyen, I thought she was Hong, I was startled!" Aunt Ba retorted. My mother's face turned pale, her hands trembled. Realizing she had spoken out of turn, Aunt Ba changed the subject.

Everyone has their own limits, and touching upon a woman's old wounds is the worst and most painful thing to do. He realized that Thuong Huyen bore a resemblance to his father's new girlfriend.

Sometimes, sitting back, he would wonder what he had done to his loved ones, his family, and his life. Thuong Huyen was right, his mother was right, all the women who had passed through his life were right, only he was wrong.

Looking at the lifeless phone, he knew he wasn't ready for deep wounds.

Outside, the wind blows. The park is covered in golden leaves, young couples chirp like little birds at the roadside barbecue stall, smiles radiant after hurried kisses—everything flickers between reality and illusion.