Episode 10 : The One Who Wrote in My Place
1002 Words
Nguyen An started writing again.
But this time, it felt different.
There were no long manuscripts stitched together from the memories of others. No fragmented voices pleading to be remembered. For the first time, An sat before the blank page and wrote about himself.
“October 10.
Sunny sky. A soft breeze. I walked past the old park bench and thought of Vy.
For the first time in a while… I felt alive. Not living for someone else’s memory.”
He paused, his fingers resting on the keyboard.
Sunlight spilled through the window like a slow-moving river of gold.
And for once, the emptiness inside his chest didn’t echo.
It breathed.
As he moved to save the file, something caught his attention.
A new document had appeared in his draft folder.
He hadn’t seen it before.
He hadn’t written it.
Its name was simple: iwroteforyou.docx
An opened it.
Only one paragraph:
“October 8. I saw you smile for the first time in forever. The sunlight fell on your hair like ink moving in reverse. You don’t know how beautiful you look when you stop hiding everything.
I didn’t know how to preserve that smile—so I wrote.”
No signature. No author.
But the tone—soft, tender, painfully intimate—gripped him.
It wasn’t his writing.
But it felt like someone who had watched him quietly, gently, deeply… without ever stepping into the light.
Someone who wrote in his place.
The next day, Linh invited An out for tea.
Same old café. Same window seat.
Jasmine-scented tea between them, warm and undisturbed.
But something between them had shifted.
Like a string quietly pulled tighter.
Like a breath held too long.
Linh didn’t speak much. She rarely did.
But she looked at An differently. Like she was no longer observing—she was remembering.
“You write differently now,” she said softly.
“Why do you think so?” he asked, pouring more tea into her cup.
“You’re writing about the present,” she said, “not just carrying the past.”
An smiled. “And you’re still helping me hold the pieces I don’t dare touch.”
She nodded, fingers brushing the rim of her cup.
“I used to believe that if someone wrote about you, you’d never truly disappear.”
“Yeah.”
“So… what if I start writing about you?”
An didn’t respond.
Because some answers can’t be spoken.
They have to unfold slowly, like petals that bloom only in silence.
That night, An received an anonymous email.
No subject. No sender.
Just a single attachment: iwroteforyou2.docx
He opened it, unsure of what to expect.
But the words struck him deeper than he anticipated:
“That night, you sat surrounded by drafts. The desk lamp painted your face in amber shadows.
I wanted to ask: are you hungry?
But I was afraid—afraid I’d write myself into your story.
And I wasn’t ready to be remembered yet.”
The last sentence made his chest ache.
Being remembered by someone like An… meant staying.
Meant living inside someone’s narrative forever.
Not everyone wanted that.
In the days that followed, An started frequenting the old archive library—the one filled with manuscripts from generations of the writing club.
Each afternoon, he found a small note, folded and hidden between the pages of a different book.
No one saw who left them.
No one knew who wrote them.
But they were all… about him.
“You once spent an hour reading ‘The Last Writer in the Dark.’ I was on the other side of the shelf, holding the same book.”
“You forgot your pen once. I didn’t return it. I kept it, hoping a piece of you would stay with me.”
“I wrote many things. But never sent them. Because I feared you’d keep me—and I wasn’t ready to be kept.”
An began visiting every day.
Not to find inspiration.
But to be found.
Linh didn’t mention her promise again.
But she began leaving subtle signs—a book turned to the exact page he liked, a cup of tea waiting outside his apartment with a note: “For a day filled with memories.”
An didn’t ask.
And she didn’t explain.
There was something blooming—unspoken, unnamed.
They weren’t anything yet.
But they were also no longer just friends.
And sometimes, that space in between… was where the truest feelings lived.
One Saturday afternoon, Linh knocked on An’s door.
She didn’t say much.
Just handed him a small notebook, bound in deep brown leather.
“No editing,” she said. “No corrections. Just my truths.”
An opened the first page.
“For the one who didn’t know they were truly alive—
But I’ve seen you. Every day. Every piece. Every quiet return of your smile.”
Each page after was a vignette.
Moments about him:
A morning An rescued a kitten stuck in a balcony—no one saw, but Linh did.
A rainy afternoon where An shielded an old woman at a crosswalk—everyone passed by, but Linh remembered.
A night An wrote until sunrise, hands trembling—Linh sat outside the hallway, waiting for the light to go off.
The last page held only one sentence:
“If you’ve read this far, it means you’ve truly existed in someone’s heart. Not as a memory. Not as a project.
Just as you.”
An closed the notebook gently.
His hands lingered on the cover.
Like holding something fragile but sacred.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Linh didn’t reply.
She didn’t need to.
Like always, she remained—unclaimed, unsought, but undeniably there.
That night, An turned on his laptop.
Created a new file.
Name: this_time_its_me.docx
First line:
“Today, I’m not preserving anyone else’s story.
Today, I want to write mine—because for the first time,
someone wrote me first.”
To Be Continued...
- Writer
