On Losing Phương: A Love Letter in Retrospect

Well, where to even begin with this one? It’s about Phương, my friend, my love, my chaotic comet, who decided to check out on November 24, 2024. Just like that. The end of a life lived at full throttle, a wild, beautiful, heartbreaking ride with more peak highs than a Vietnamese mountain range and abyssal lows that swallowed the light.

More Than Just a Friend

Phương wasn’t just “a friend.” Nah, that’s Schmalsprech. He was everything. My beloved partner, a fiercely proud teacher, a free spirit whose joy was infectious, and, yeah, my absolute best friend, the one I trusted with the messy bits of my soul. We first crossed paths in early 2018, during my inaugural Saigonese adventure for work. It was Tết then, you know? The whole damn country, a beautiful, swirling chaos, hit pause for the New Year. Shops shuttered, offices silent. Streets emptied. The air was thick with incense and coconut smoke. I seized that moment, diving headfirst into this new, yet eerily familiar, land. I got lost, really lost – and ended up in Nha Trang, that coastal gem with its pristine white sands and jungle-clad hills. Pure vibes.

After a few days of bustling solitude, I stumbled into this Russian-Vietnamese restaurant. And there he was: Phương, waiting tables, eyes already on me. I ordered Fried Rice with Seafood and a Gin Tonic. He brings the plate, then, without a single word of permission, just slides into the seat across from me, a grin playing on his lips, and launches into a conversation. It was a beautiful, hilarious mess of his rough English and my worse Vietnamese, but it clicked. Instantly. Like we’d known each other for eons. His very being sparkled with genuine warmth, playful mischief, and pure joie de vivre. I left that place enchanted (and properly stuffed), but not before we’d swapped numbers, promising to meet the next day.

A Fading, Yet Enduring, Love Story

Honestly, my German-engineered brain was screaming “scam alert!” But I shoved those thoughts aside, summoned every ounce of courage, and met him. Me, the weird guy who usually needs weeks of distant reconnaissance before even considering engaging with new humans. We met at the same restaurant, ate, then, like absolute kids, ran laughing along the beach. We devoured cotton candy, swam in the warm sea, sang songs (badly, probably), and spilled our guts in cultural and personal anecdotes. Before we knew it, night fell, giving way to one of those cliché, purrfect sunrises over the ocean. And that was it. We were gone. Head over heels. Pure, unadulterated love. It was the genesis of a six-year saga of love and friendship.

Over the next few years, we crisscrossed Vietnam like madmen on motorbikes. Hạ Long Bay, Đà Lạt, Đà Nẵng, Quy Nhơn, Ho Chi Minh City, Saigon – and countless tiny hamlets in the countryside. We inhaled delicious street food, binged movies, braved questionable amusement park rides, explored resorts and museums. His soul was pure and childlike. He was curious about everything and wanted to discover the world. He never let himself get upset for too long and was the only person I knew who danced, sang, and laughed every day. He took statements and phrases quite literally; I once called him a “bad boy” in the sense of being naughty, which made him cry – he insisted that he was a good person, not a bad one. By mid 2020, we were shacked up, and life, for a moment, felt wonderfully… full.

The Shadows That Clung

But even amidst all that vibrant, sun-drenched joy, a pervasive darkness clung to Phương. He opened up about his past, a story that felt like a punch to the gut. He grew up in central Vietnam, in a tiny, idyllic village nestled between mountains and the sea. A picture-postcard scene. He painted vivid pictures of childhood escapades, the breathtaking nature that surrounded him, and the simple, almost trivial joys that, to him, meant the world. A childhood devoid of electricity and technology, simple, yet good. There was plenty of light.

But then came the shadows. Natural disasters: floods he fought through as a child, once even swept away while trying to get rice and noodles for his hungry family. Family strife. And the event that shattered him: his mother’s death. She fell from a fruit tree while harvesting, dying right beside him as he shook her, a helpless, heartbreaking mantra echoing: “Mom, wake up, wake up, don’t sleep, moooom?!” The family violence that followed, leading to bruises and broken bones. His escape at barely 12, leaving school behind (a repeating pattern among some of my friends here). Surviving alone in the hilly forests, foraging fruits and herbs to sell by the roadside, sleeping in trees to escape ghosts, snakes and other crawling creatures. His journey south to Saigon, hustling as a motorbike security guard, a waiter, a day laborer, living in cramped, expensive hovels, enduring more violence. And then, Nha Trang, where our paths finally collided in 2018, turning his world – and mine – upside down.

Phương’s soul was deeply scarred, violated. He shunned his relatives, his immediate family even, and kept the few friendships he had at a stark distance. He’d often say he was alone in this world, save for me, and that he’d never truly have friends. And he spoke, repeatedly, of ending his suffering, of reuniting with his mother.

Phương occasionally said that one day he would go into the mountains and disappear. He would leave without warning, without telling me, and without anybody being able to find him. He said he would disappear forever from me and everyone else. From life. I told him I wouldn’t let that happen, but I know him – if he really wanted to, he would follow through with it. Because once he made up his mind about something, nothing in the world could dissuade him – nothing.

He was a tapestry of contradictions: broken, traumatized, sad. Yet, bursting with energy, pride, zeal, and a profound love for life. He was torn apart by his past, a past he could never process. Partly because proper help simply wasn’t available, and certainly not affordable – something he never had. And partly because he was too damn proud to accept any help, even mine.

The Pandemic’s Cruel Hand and a Failed Attempt

Then, the COVID-19 pandemic hit Vietnam in late 2020, just as my own mother fell sick and passed away. I flew back to Germany to say goodbye, only to be trapped there for months by travel restrictions. Phương was alone again, hustling as a day laborer. One day, he broke his arm in an accident, the other day, he lost his phone and money. Despite all the bad luck, we missed each other, an ache that grew with each passing day. Then, in early 2021, while I was still in Germany and he was quarantined in his hometown, he attempted suicide. I only heard snippets from afar, but he took a cocktail of pills, was found unconscious by his sister, and had his stomach pumped at the hospital. He never really wanted to talk about it, brushing it off as a “mistake” with a hollow laugh. His soul was utterly, terrifyingly dark.

When I finally made it back to Vietnam on a special quarantine flight in early 2021, we were both marked, changed. We began to drift. Or rather, I began to distance myself. My affection for him shifted from something romantic to something akin to responsibility, a fierce protectiveness. Yet, we carried on, pretending everything was fine, even as we both felt the growing chasm. We moved back in together, and Phương, with an almost unbelievable determination, re-enrolled in a special school, back in 7th grade, to finish the education he’d never had. It’s absolutely vital in Vietnam to build a secure future. He plunged into school life with joy and vigor, becoming not just the best in his class, but sometimes even the best in the entire school for the next couple of years. He was so proud, studying like a madman, seeing a chance to turn his life around. He talked about going to university, building dreams.

Persistent Shadows and a Near-Fatal Relapse

But the bad luck, that relentless shadow, still stalked him. He broke his collarbone in a motorbike accident and was hospitalized. He was plagued by recurring illnesses. He’d always say he deserved it, that it was his fate to suffer, to be forever unlucky, stuck at the bottom of society. Yet, together, we navigated almost every crisis. I helped him, supported him, financially and emotionally, whenever I could. Though looking back, maybe not forcefully enough.

At that time, I was also experiencing emotional distress. I was annoyed with everyone, including Phương, and I would always hide in my room. I never became angry or lost control, but I kept him and anyone else at a distance. If he wanted to talk to me, he would carefully knock on the door, open it, and ask, “Am I annoying you?” Although we were still together, he was deeply alone. Again. In retrospect, I feel ashamed and heartbroken for not being there for him.

Then, in early 2022, I came home from work to find him unconscious on his bed. Dozens of sleeping pills gone. A goodbye letter lay beside him. He wrote that he still loved me, that the first few years with me were the most beautiful of his life. He thanked me, said he was setting me free so I could be happy without him, and that he was finally reunited with his mother. I was shattered, lost. I didn’t know who to call, overwhelmed. But he was alive. He regained consciousness. I spent the day holding him, trying to talk. He was distant, miserable that his attempt had failed. I eventually left the apartment, weeping, desperate, to find a friend and ask for help. He never wanted to talk about that, either. Instead, he’d flee to our balcony, sit for hours singing sad songs, sometimes even sleeping out there.

That was the absolute nadir of our life together. By mid-year, I finally understood. I still loved Phương, but it had morphed. Less lover, more guardian. I felt responsible for him, I wanted to protect him, to care for his life, but I couldn’t give him what he craved. Subtly, perhaps unconsciously, I drove a wedge between us. Without a single argument, our romantic relationship simply ceased to exist.

Phương’s most sung song: G.E.M. – LIGHT YEARS AWAY

A New Chapter, A Lingering Connection

I fell in love again, quickly, with another Vietnamese guy. Our paths diverged. I moved in with my new boyfriend. Phương was devastated, he cut contact. But I kept supporting him financially, month after month, covering his living expenses and his schooling. He went back to the “simple life,” back to where he believed he belonged. Yet, he kept pushing, earning academic success after success. Over the months, our contact resumed, growing more intense. A new form of relationship emerged: a friendship, intimate, open, honest, deeply trusting. We became best friends, meeting often, pouring out our souls to each other.

Phương had moments of pure joy. He even found new love for a time, traveled outside Vietnam for the very first time, and lit up nightclubs dancing as a drag queen (something he was very proud of). Yet, the bad luck still shadowed him. In late 2023, he contracted an incurable illness, a severe setback he refused to treat. Even then, he said he’d probably die from it, that it was his destiny. Despite all my pleas, my offers of support, and several hospital visits I dragged him to, he rejected all help. He wanted to die, even if it meant years of pain. But at the same time, he remained stubbornly joyful and optimistic about his remaining future, still attending school, still dreaming of university and a career.

The Last Goodbye

Then came October 15, 2024. I was in yet another new relationship, living in a new place in Saigon. Our friendship had reached its zenith. Phương, my new boyfriend, and I went out, ate, watched movies, and even celebrated Phương’s birthday, a cozy throuple event in our apartment. Beautiful, joyful, hilarious, loving hours. That evening was the last time I saw him.

On November 23, around 8 PM, he called me repeatedly. I didn’t answer. Partly busy, partly just stressed and annoyed by other things. The next day, around 2 PM, he texted me a stark “why?” and a final “good-bye.” I asked if something was wrong, if he needed help. No answer. And tragically, I didn’t push it. It wasn’t the first time he’d acted that way. Shortly after, Phương was gone.

The Unfolding Truth

Looking back, piecing together the fragments, I suspect he was trying to say goodbye that evening he called. Maybe even hoping I’d stop him. Or perhaps he’d already begun his suicide attempt. But that’s just speculation. The official hospital report paints a grim picture: admitted at 00:18 AM on November 24, 2024, diagnosed with poisoning from pesticides and herbicides, leading to kidney failure. When he texted me those last few words later that day, he was likely undergoing intensive treatment, probably in a horrific physical state. The report ends chillingly: he died at 9:09 PM that same day. His sister took his body home. Two days later, he was laid to rest in a Buddhist ceremony in a forest near his village, surrounded by his remaining family and a handful of old acquaintances. I didn’t know the exact location until recently, but I plan to visit it soon, once I’m feeling strong enough.

Phương was only 24 years old.

My Friend, My Teacher

I loved Phương. For years, like my own adopted son. He unlocked the Vietnamese soul for me. He passionately showed me his country, his culture, his religion, his traditions. He taught me humility, a stark contrast to my privileged Western existence. He brought me closer to nature, to the quiet understanding of living and letting live. He was always overflowing with love and wonder for every creature, every plant that bloomed and grew. Nature and culture filled him with joy. He sang Vietnamese and Chinese songs day in and day out, often shrill, but always with conviction and pride. He taught himself Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and English, through music, movies, and sheer will, by interacting with tourists. Phương was an exquisite artist, drawing beautiful still lifes of flowers and plants, and portraits of celebrities and friends, including me. He wanted to be a singer, a translator, or work with plants. He had the potential for a creative, fulfilling, and good life.

But the shadows of the past finally caught up. Phương, and this too is just conjecture, was alone for much of his young life. My love couldn’t give him what he truly needed. Neither could any other fleeting connections. I loved him first as a partner, then as a father figure, but what he desperately yearned for was the unconditional, complete love of a mother, and a caring, nurturing family. That, and/or professional help, perhaps even against his will.

Something I only realized after he was gone.

I hope that wherever he is now – if there is a “there” – he finally found the answers, the peace, and above all, the love that tormented him his entire life by its absence.

Phương wasn’t just a life companion and best friend. He was the pivotal person who finally pushed me to emigrate from Germany to Vietnam, to turn my own life upside down. We profoundly changed each other’s lives. I will miss his kindness, his sparkling creativity, his joy for life, and his vibrant spirit for the rest of my days. I loved and I love Phương. And yet, I couldn’t give him the kind of love he needed so desperately.

Would his life have been different if I hadn’t stumbled into it? Absolutely. Maybe even better, more joyful. Yet, the shadows were already in his essence before me; grief, pain, and despair had been his companions for years. His life would have taken a different course, but perhaps a fatal one nonetheless. But what could have been is pure speculation. What happened, happened, incomprehensibly.

I miss Phương. He will hold a permanent place in my heart, haunt my thoughts and dreams, and I will miss him for the rest of my time. Until one day, we meet again.

Rest in Peace, my friend ❤️