On the 25th floor of the city's third-tallest skyscraper, a soft pop-ballad drifted through the office, pulling Ánh Nga out of her thoughts. The song was called "College"—a new pop-ballad laced with nostalgia.

The first gentle strokes of the acoustic guitar weren't just notes; they were a tiny key turning open the door to her memories.

Her finger paused at the Photos app, then slid to the album titled "Youth."

One picture appeared.

They were standing side by side in olive-green military uniforms, sweat dripping under the blazing training-ground sun. She was frowning in discomfort; he was glancing at her with a quiet smile.

Her own smile widened—sweet, but tinged with a faint ache.

📝 Memory: The Green Day That Changed Everything

The 5 A.M. wake-up bell at the military zone was a nightmare. Sharp, dry, slicing straight through sleep.

Freshman year. Everything was rushed, disciplined, and drenched in sweat.

That day, Nga overslept. She shot up like a spring, scrambled into her uniform, and bolted outside. Just a few meters from the formation, she tried to sprint. Legs still half-asleep, shoelaces loose—she tripped.

For one terrifying second, she saw the concrete rushing up toward her face. Her whole weight tipped forward. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for pain.

But it never came.

Instead, something yanked her backward—firm, strong, warm.

She stumbled and landed lightly against a solid back.

"Stand straight."

A low, curt voice. Emotionless, yet somehow more comforting than any gentle question could have been.

It was Phú Thiên.

He had already been in formation, but turned in time, reached out, and caught her. His face was slick with sweat, yet his gaze remained locked forward, exactly as commanded.

Before she could whisper thanks, the instructor barked, "Attention! Eyes forward! No distractions!"

Startled, she rushed to her spot, forgetting all about the near-disaster. Her foot throbbed from the stumble, forcing her into an awkward limp for the rest of the drill—but she kept silent.

When the session finally ended, she dragged herself back to the dorm. As she pushed the door, she froze.

A small white bag hung on the doorknob.

Inside were: a bottle of medicated oil, a roll of gauze, a lemon-flavored vitamin C candy, and a small note in neat, firm handwriting:

"Don't run like you're being chased by ghosts. Fix your foot."

She remembered so clearly—throughout the entire military course, he had been her unwilling "guardian angel":

When she couldn't assemble her rifle, he silently took it and demonstrated with one swift motion.

When she kept messing up the marching rhythm, he always walked beside her, letting his measured steps pull her into sync.

The time she caught a light cold, he brought her hot milk and cold medicine, then walked away without waiting for thanks.

What should have been a stressful nightmare somehow turned into something manageable—almost fun—all because of him: the quiet, logical engineering student who helped without expectation, without fuss, without ever making her feel small.

The military-green uniforms had tied two opposites together: A lively, romantic, emotional girl—and a serious, analytical boy who believed only in numbers.

Back then, he had been her silent hero. No praise needed. No spotlight wanted. Just solutions—precise, efficient, sincere.

Ring!

The phone buzzed sharply, snapping her out of the memory. A Zalo notification.

Phú Thiên (17:35 PM):

Have you watched the MMA performance yet?

[B&B's new comeback. Pretty catchy. Listen and tell me what you think.]

Nga let out a small laugh. She had to cover her mouth so she wouldn't disturb the quiet office.

MMA? B&B?

She suddenly remembered—Thiên used to be a total "old man" type who only cared about news, economics, political analysis, blueprints, and technical handbooks.

Yet in the five years since graduation, something had changed. A lot.

He was the one recommending famous romance movies, the one asking her about idol groups and reality shows.

Somehow, Chief Engineer Phú Thiên— the "conductor" coordinating entire urban infrastructure projects—had evolved.

He was still serious at work, but in his personal time... he had begun absorbing pop culture with surprising enthusiasm.

And all of these new interests aligned perfectly with hers.

She typed quickly:

Ánh Nga:

Since when did you get into MMA and B&B? Who changed you? Or are you planning to chase someone? 🤭

A longer silence than usual. Nga knew she had poked at his "do-not-touch" zone.

... (Typing...)

Phú Thiên:

I'm just updating my social database to communicate more effectively.

But honestly—who could I possibly chase, when you're the only girl I talk to outside of work? 🤭

The message made her forget to breathe for a moment.

It wasn't a confession. But it was... not not a confession.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She typed: "Only girl? Like I'd be the only one." → Deleted.

She typed: "Then you should go find someone else to talk to." → Deleted again.

Her cheeks were warm. She wanted to dodge the implication—but technically, he hadn't said anything directly.

She silently cursed herself for initiating this topic.

Before she could settle on a reply, his next message landed:

Phú Thiên:

In physics, when two objects vibrate at different frequencies, they can't resonate.

But in a closed system, if one object adjusts its frequency to match the other, resonance occurs—creating a natural, stable attraction.

I'm adjusting my frequency. Do you feel it?

She shot upright in her chair, a strange shiver running down her spine.

Ánh Nga:

No idea. I don't feel anything! Anyway, this is the first time you message me first. What's going on?

Phú Thiên:

Nothing big. I just happened to watch a movie and the female lead looked exactly like you, so I thought of you. [Movie poster attached]

Here we go again, she thought, feeling heat creeping into her cheeks.

Time to deflect.

Ánh Nga:

Please. We look nothing alike. I only noticed the male lead anyway. That smile? Instant heart-melter. Totally my type—sunshine smile ✨

Phú Thiên (sending a recent selfie):

Then what do you think about me? My boss and everyone at work say my smile is bright. "Sunshine-like," they said.

Nga opened the photo. Thien was smiling wide—nothing like the stoic engineering student she'd known. The brightness of it caught her completely off guard.

Her heart skipped. Too dangerous. Dodge!

Ánh Nga:

People say nice things to be polite. If someone's really handsome, they'll say "handsome." If not, they'll use words like "cute." But don't feel bad. As long as you think you're handsome, that's what matters. hihii

Phú Thiên:

I'm not that fragile. Haiz... you're unbelievable.

He smiled at his screen. He understood perfectly. She wasn't confirming anything. But she also wasn't rejecting him outright.

This was their dynamic for the last five years: Thiên threw. Nga dodged.

She kept the distance stable. Close enough to care. Far enough to stay safe.

For Nga, this relationship followed a strict law:

The Law of Distance Conservation: The more stable the distance, the more stable the relationship.