The coffee, the chemistry, and the crack in my heart
When friendship is all that’s on offer, and your heart wanted more
Monday, 2nd June 2025 — From the quiet half
I can’t seem to get her out of my system.
Huong—kind, soft-voiced, radiant Huong. A few weeks ago we went on three lovely dates. After our first, she surprised me with a hug before riding away. Vietnamese culture is generally shy of public affection, so that small gesture felt like a signal—something warm growing between us. The second time we met, she rushed up and wrapped her arms around me again. It wasn’t passionate. It was shy. But it felt real.
By the third date, we were sitting thigh to thigh, laughing easily, the kind of laughter that makes you believe maybe—just maybe—this world has not completely given up on you. She said something adorable and instinctively, foolishly, I leaned in to kiss her. She recoiled as if I’d turned venomous. I apologised instantly, deeply, and our evening cooled into something polite and slightly brittle.
The next day, silence. Then the next. And the next.
So I did what any bruised heart might do—I wrote her a message. I told her I was sorry. I said I understood the cultural misstep. I said I thought something lovely was just starting to bloom and that I hoped it wasn’t too late to continue walking that path together.
No reply.
Then, nearly two weeks later, she messaged me out of the blue. Coffee? Of course, I said. She took me to the Go! supermarket to help me pick up some household things. Later, we visited a fabric shop where she helped me order bedding and curtains for my new place. It felt domestic, intimate. Like a thread being picked back up. And I let myself hope.
A few days after that, we had another Sunday evening date. She took me back to the café where we’d had our first date. The air was cool, the lights low, and I thought—perhaps foolishly—that this was her way of turning back toward me. I reached across the table and gently held her hand.
She let me.
For a moment.
Then she looked down, then at me, and said softly: “Sorry.”
That night, once she got home, she sent two messages via Zalo:
“I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You have one of the kindest hearts and beautiful souls. I am so grateful we have met. So I don’t want to do anything to hurt you.”
She told me her friends kept urging her to find a boyfriend—but she preferred being single.
I wanted—desperately—to believe that was her truth.
But a few days later, I saw she was back online. VietnamCupid shows you when someone was last active. The timestamp was from the very next day. Or maybe even later that same Sunday night, after she’d let go of my hand and told me we were done.
That revelation felt like a thousand knives in my back. That was when I realised: I hadn’t just been let down gently—I’d been firmly moved to the friendzone. Words and deeds both confirmed it.
And that’s why yesterday—just under two weeks later—left me so confused.
After an all-night session at the laptop, I woke from four hours’ sleep to a message from her: would I like to meet for coffee? I grabbed a Grab and rushed over to where she was already seated with her best friend—and, in a surprising move, her ex-boyfriend Richard. She and Richard had a brief, two-month relationship about a year ago. He’s a lovely bloke—warm, intelligent, a good listener. Given time and space, I reckon he and I could be mates.
But the mixed signal from Huong? That threw me for six. After all, I’d been quietly grieving for two weeks, trying to ‘work my way through it’. I thought we were done. I thought she’d made it clear.
Still, we all sat together, sipped our coffee, and swapped stories. We laughed. A lot. And I kept stealing sideways glances at Huong, feeling the tremors of love curse through my skin and bones. There’s something about being near her—when we’re talking, when we’re simply present—that feels like a quiet kind of intimacy still lingers. Or maybe that’s just me.
Eventually, we went our separate ways. I headed into town for more laptop work at my favourite burger bar.
And then—late afternoon—there she was again. She walked in, found me, and with her usual quiet, hesitant voice, asked if I’d like to go for a coffee.
Another mixed signal? Another glimmer of hope?
We walked together to a beautiful restaurant overlooking Xuan Huong Lake. Just the two of us. We sat close, talked, laughed, and shared the kind of meandering, easy conversation that first made me fall for her. We gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled, like people who know something unspoken passes between them.
Then she scrolled through my VietnamCupid matches, commenting gently on the women. Without hesitation, she showed me the long list of men messaging her. She is beautiful, so it’s no surprise they do, but it took all my will not to howl. My heart was bleeding out onto the floor under my chair as I imagined another man holding her, kissing her, being loved in return.
I smiled. I nodded. I said nothing.
All the while, I was quietly dying.
Back when we first started talking on the app, our early conversations were full of warmth and ease. She was curious, quick to laugh. Her English was better than she thought. Her pronunciation was perfect. She picked up new words like water into cotton.
And I thought I’d found someone I could grow with.
Now I lie here in bed, a waterfall cascading over a face that shakes and shudders with grief. It doesn’t matter how old you are, or how many times you’ve been passed over—unrequited love still hurts like fuck.
Letters from the Quiet Half is where I write what I can’t always say aloud.
If you’ve loved quietly, lost softly, or sat in silence beside someone who didn’t feel the same—
I hope you find something of yourself here.
Write back, if the words come.