Fragment of Radiance

10 p.m. A splendid capital. A capital of flowers, and tears the color of rain. The color of heartbreak. I walk along a street overflowing with memories of the past. And again, I remember him—the boy from those years. With a quiet sigh, I drift back to those days… Back then, I met him in the most beautiful years of his life. He was free-spirited, carrying a certain mystery—reckless, yet warm and gentle. He told me he no longer had a place to return to. He was addicted to alcohol, loved drinking, drowning himself in intoxication; he liked being alone, he liked the rain, he loved Hanoi. He had once loved, once cherished many things. A music lover, he said music was the kind of wine he would never sober from— a delirium he wished to sink into forever. He didn’t want to wake up to the reality of his own life. A reality that reeked of alcohol, littered with empty cans, shards of glass, crumpled calendars, and torn photographs ripped into pieces. He said his life was nothing but something temporary. He loved the capital city, yet also resented its splendor. He loved its rare and precious stillness, but it was the same stillness lying in his family — the silence that had killed the little boy he once was. He hated life for giving him no escape. He hated and cursed through tears… But He also had dreams. He dreamed of having a girlfriend who could sing the songs he composed, someone who could sense the notes he arranged and tap perfectly into the melody inside his heart. He wanted a girl who could join him in being drunk on music endlessly. He dreamed of days that were temporary, yet still filled with music to live on, love to be intoxicated by, and the ability to shape his melodies. I understood nothing about the music he wrote. He said I would never truly understand it all. But I still sat there, listening intently. He said he only needed a simple job to pass the time— any salary would do, as long as it was enough to buy an old piano so he and his future girlfriend could sing his unfinished drafts. His eyes sparkled as he spoke. I stroked his head gently, saying nothing. Life is a book—we must write something into it every day, fill its pages completely. For me, that “capacity” was the expectations humanity placed on me. I wrote relentlessly. Relentlessly to the point I no longer recognized myself. But he — he was willing to rip out every page, as if tearing apart drafts he wasn’t satisfied with. Write. Crumple. Spill ink. Start over. He didn’t care about that “capacity” at all. He lived as himself. His book was thin, but it wasn’t filled with the pressure that crushed me. Day after day, I visited him every week. I brought him bouquets of flowers instead of bottles of alcohol. He would tell me about the dreams he was nurturing for the future. I was in upper school that year, and listening to him talk about music every day made me curious enough to secretly join a vocal class — I wanted to surprise him. Everything he said, I engraved into my mind… "Which part to let the voice linger, how strong the tone should be, where to place the vibrato" — I remembered it all. And so, I became the girl he once dreamed of. After years of cherishing my feelings for him, I finally found the courage to become the girl in his imagination. I traveled everywhere performing the drafts he had written. I drowned myself in music, just as he once did. The book I wrote during my youthful years— I burned it in the flames of society’s expectations. Yet I always returned to the apartment he rented; it had become an unshakable habit… “But darling… if only I had told you my feelings sooner, how wonderful that would have been, right?” I snapped back to reality. He passed away from alcohol, from the countless times he drank himself numb. He once told me he wished to see Hanoi with me — all 36 streets, to sit together in a café and enjoy a bit of classical music. That day, I was busy and couldn’t go with him. And he left this world just a few days later. I knew. It felt like thousands of cold winds pierced my heart. My mind went numb, blank. I collapsed into silence. At that moment, I truly lost him… While cleaning his belongings, I accidentally found a diary hidden inside his open safe— the lock undone, the door wide open. Curious, I opened it. The shaky handwriting of a drunk, crooked yet earnest, stung my eyes. The pages were warped with ink and water stains. “My dear, I wonder if you liked the song I wrote today?” “My love, I want to look at the things I treasure one last time—with you.” “I… still want to live, just to see you.” “I love Hanoi… because Hanoi has you.” Blurred by tears, I turned to the final page: “My dear, losing you in this lifetime is a regret I’ll carry forever. In the next life, may our future be as bright as a brocade, our path shining, and may we walk it together.” “In the next life, I promise to love and protect you more than I ever could now.” “Forgive me, my dear?” “Loving you always.” I burst into tears like a child, my heart twisting painfully. Then I sank into another long silence. At last, I wrote beneath his final words: “Thank you… my very own artist.” “Goodbye. Until the day of golden sunlight, my love.” Darling, I can sing the songs you wrote now… but can you hear them? Hanoi— draped in sorrow — without you, even the sunlight has lost its beauty.