Chapter 3: The Space Between
968 Words
The Monday morning after Lan’s engagement was predictably ruthless.
Selina Duong arrived at her office before the sun fully touched the skyline, heels clicking sharply against polished tile. The city still yawned with sluggish traffic, but her world had no pause button. Not for weddings. Not for reflection. And certainly not for a man who bought her rice cakes and sat beside her like they weren’t both made of stormclouds and sharp edges.
She poured herself a black coffee—no sugar, no cream—and opened the architectural brief for the Vu Minh Complex. Her fingers moved methodically across the tablet, annotating revisions, approving budget estimates, scanning contractor reports. Everything was data, precision, logic.
Everything except the thought of him.
Damien Vu.
His name looped in her subconscious like a stray melody.
She hated that.
In meetings, she was alert and cold. Her team knew the signs—short answers, fast decisions, the kind of silence that dared anyone to offer dissent. But in the back of her mind, she remembered how he looked that day under the tamarind tree. Sunlight caught on his watch. That ridiculous smirk when he handed her bánh da lợn, like the whole world could be reduced to a quiet offering and two people who never said what they meant.
It wasn’t romance.
It was irritation.
Interruption.
And yet, during her lunch break, instead of browsing international markets or reading industry news, she stared at her phone.
No messages.
She didn’t message him either.
Damien was no better. In his sun-drenched studio, the outlines of a new project sprawled across his desk. The curves were abstract, the forms experimental—more emotion than function. It was unlike anything he had designed before. Something wild was emerging in his work, and he knew exactly who had inspired it.
Selina had arrived like a monsoon and left like mist. No announcement. No farewell.
And yet, her presence lingered.
He glanced at his phone. Still nothing.
His mother noticed his distraction when he stopped by for dinner that evening.
“You haven’t been to the temple lately,” she said, stirring soup at the stove.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy thinking about that Duong girl?”
Damien gave a tight smile. “You make it sound like a scandal.”
“She’s... sharp. Like a blade. You touch it wrong, you bleed.”
“I don’t want to touch her wrong.”
“Then be careful. Even blades rust when they’re left alone too long.”
Wednesday evening, the rain returned. Not a storm—just a quiet drizzle that turned the city into a watercolor.
Selina didn’t mean to go to his studio.
She told herself she was just walking. That she needed air. But her feet took her down streets she hadn’t walked in years, until the soft glow of his window spilled onto the pavement like a beacon.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, he was painting. Not blueprints. Not measurements. Just pure color.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.
“I didn’t promise to come.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Selina stepped inside, shrugging off her raincoat. The studio smelled like cedar and turpentine. She watched him smear deep crimson across a stretched canvas—furious, vulnerable.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Unfinished,” he replied.
She walked closer. “Is it about me?”
“No. But it became about you.”
She stared. Then laughed, a small, tired sound. “Do I ruin everything I touch?”
He set down his brush. “You reshape things. That’s not the same.”
Silence.
Then: “I’m not a good idea, Damien.”
He turned fully toward her now, eyes calm. “I’m not looking for a good idea.”
She folded her arms, instinctively defensive. “I don’t do slow. Or casual. Or falling.”
He stepped closer. “Then don’t fall. Let’s walk.”
Her breath caught.
“Let’s walk,” he repeated. “You don’t have to give me your heart. Just your time.”
They spent the next hour side by side on the studio floor, knees brushing occasionally, discussing structure and space, heartbreak and childhood memories. Selina spoke of the first time she saw her mother cry—how helpless it made her feel. Damien told her about the temple in Da Lat where he used to sit and sketch strangers until he no longer felt like one himself.
No declarations.
No grand gestures.
Just stillness. And truth.
When she stood to leave, he walked her to the door.
“You’re not as unreachable as you pretend to be,” he said softly.
“And you’re not as easy to dismiss as I hoped,” she replied.
The following day, Selina woke up at 5:30 a.m. as usual. Her body followed the rhythm of habit. But her thoughts didn’t. She brewed tea instead of coffee. She played a classical music track she hadn’t touched in years. And when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t just see the CEO.
She saw a woman trying to remember who she was before the armor.
Mai, her assistant, noticed the change by mid-morning.
“You’re… smiling,” Mai whispered like it was classified information.
Selina raised a brow. “Should I apologize?”
“No, just… it’s good to see you smile again.”
Selina paused. Then nodded. “Me too.”
That night, she texted Damien first.
Selina: “I saw your unfinished painting. You should name it.”
Damien: “I was waiting for a title to show up uninvited.”
Selina: “It has.”
Damien: “Then what should I call it?”
Selina: “The space between.”
To be continued...
- Writer
