The Genesis of a Vibe: City Boy Meets… Me

He was a Chinese-Vietnamese city boy, you know the type – the kind that grew up amidst the glorious, chaotic motorbike ballet of this 22.5 million-strong metropolis we call Ho Chi Minh City. Older, wiser, definitely more mature than my usual lineup of delightful disasters. He swaggered into my company, my team even, back in mid-2020. And oh boy, he spoke English like a dream, steeped in Western vibes, which made that initial spark, that intellectual tickle, feel almost… fated. Plus, it was clear as a cloudless Saigon sky, to me and the whole blessed team, that he was very much into the brotherhood. And, bless his discerning eye, he thought the same of me.

Yet, for eons, we danced on the peripheral, a flirty vibe humming between us like a forgotten TikTok sound, never quite manifesting into anything concrete beyond a few post-work escapades with a mutual colleague. Just friends, navigating the subtle, treacherous currents of professional platonic affection.

Then, bam. COVID. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to put Earth – and thus Vietnam – on pause. Months became a blur of shaky, distanced, work-from-home regulations. Curfews and social distancing threatened to swallow us whole, two tiny fish in a vast, pandemic-riddled ocean. Almost lost to the digital ether, we were.

The Office Renaissance and the Inevitable Boom!

But spring 2022 was a rebirth. Post-COVID, the mothership, our company, beckoned us back to the office. A slow, hesitant return. And who were the brave, the bold, the slightly unhinged souls who answered the call? Yours truly, and my flirty friend. The office, once a bustling hive, felt like our private, sprawling sandbox of sorrow (or, in our case, burgeoning affection), mostly populated by a core of genuinely lovely mates from our team. We had space. We had privacy. And we had time.

Oh, the time we had! Lunches spilled into street food orgies and convenience store raids, stories of daily work morphed into intimate confessions, gossip sessions became therapy, and with every shared chuckle, every whispered rumor, we etched ourselves deeper into each other’s existence.

Until, finally, it BOOOMED. That low hum of flirtation exploded into something undeniably more. Dating? Nah, that’s too grand, too formal for the raw, visceral beauty of what transpired. We’d hop on his motorbike, chase the scent of strong Vietnamese coffee through the nocturnal city center. We’d plunder a convenience store, armed with an arsenal of soft drinks and snacks, only to find ourselves perched in a park, watching the fish shimmer, the birds take flight, the sunset bleed across the skyscrapers – all underscored by the relentless, symphonic motorbike maelstrom of Saigon.

We unearthed shared loves: the digital escapism of gaming, a deliciously broken, black humor that only we seemed to grasp, and a cosmic fascination with astronomy, science, and the ever-evolving tech-verse. And then, the delightful dance of our differences: my profound, almost spiritual connection to all things green and crawling and alive, versus his unapologetic, through-and-through big-city-boy aversion to anything that dared to grow or breathe. Apart from that, he was an adorable, cuddly person with a heartwarming smile and a playful, almost childlike character. He had a kind and helpful personality, even supporting people he didn’t really like. Shy yet self-confident, reserved yet privately the most compassionate and lovable person imaginable. Oh, and his passion for delicious food, bless our gluttonous souls! Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, fatty fast-food, even the sophisticated whispers of Italian and French cuisine. We devoured it all. And each other, almost.

Saigon Nights and Soul-Bearing Sins

Then came that night. Perched by the Saigon River in District 1, the city lights reflecting in our eyes, we began to peel back the layers. My life’s messy, beautiful tapestry, a saga of ups and plenty of downs, unspooled before him. And then, with a courage that still humbles me, he laid bare his own. A story steeped in shocking events, in pain and grief, in a dark secret that made his voice crack, his tears flow. He expected me to bolt, to vanish into the shimmering night, never to return. But I stayed. I held his hand. I hugged him. And in that moment, for him, it was everything. It shattered and rebuilt our relationship, forever.

Relieved by our mutual, raw vulnerability, we drifted towards Vinhomes Central Park, the city’s skyline a glittering, silent witness. Boombox crooning Vietnamese melodies, more snacks, more moments. And then, long after midnight, it happened. We drew closer. Very close. Very, very close. The air, hot and wet, the skyline, a kaleidoscope of color, the warm wind, a caress on our sweaty skin. Our eyes met, locking, refusing to release. Our noses bumped. And then, with a devotion that felt both ancient and brand new, our lips united.

That. Was. It. The seismic shift. The beginning of a new chapter. We became boyfriends. Never mind the lingering tendrils of a “situationship” I was technically still entangled in. Details, details.

The rhythm of that night: James Egbert – Jettison

The Secret Life of Lovers and the Comfortable Cocoon

Our living situations, oh god, they were a mess. Mine, a lingering ghostly presence of the not-so-current boyfriend. His, the suffocating embrace of a sprawling Vietnamese family. So, our illicit rendezvous continued outside, snatching moments, even splurging on hotel rooms for some weekends (if you know, you know, and if you don’t, bless your innocent heart). At work, a delicate dance of professionalism, all while clinging to every spare second together, our not-so-secret secret blooming like a fragrant, tropical flower in the office ecosystem. Thankfully, different projects within the same team offered a delicious alibi. And because everyone around us had eyes (and ears, and a knack for putting one and one together), our relationship became a well-known, accepted, not-so-secret-anymore secret, fostering a deliciously relaxed, fertile environment.

Weeks later, the inevitable: the final severing of ties with the “situationship”. My ex-boyfriend moved out (or rather, I asked him to leave), and like a perfectly choreographed dance, my new boyfriend and I slid into another apartment in the same building. Moving, dear ones, was a breeze.

The months that followed were pure, unadulterated bliss. We were inseparable. Motorbike adventures, culinary explorations of every conceivable restaurant, lunch breaks that felt like mini-vacations, weekend gaming marathons, IMAX escapades, cozy nights with Netflix. A perfect rhythm, a comfortable routine, especially with the work-from-home/office hybrid. Our pride in our love even bled into company events, team trips – we were an unbreakable unit.

We decamped to Đà Nẵng for weeks, soaking in the beaches, stargazing into the inky blackness of the night sky, whispering the wonders of the universe. We devoured TikTok-recommended local delicacies and, in a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, binge-watched The IT Crowd in our Airbnb. Harmony. Peace. Well, apart from those pesky insomnia-fueled zombie days that turned me into a distant, sleepy husk. We even blessed Bangkok with two intense visits, conquering new malls, chasing Michelin-guide whispers, drowning in Thailand’s rich, spicy (too spicy for me, faaar too spicy) soul.

Life was good. Peaceful. Structured. And, most importantly, nutritious.

The Slow Burn and the Hungry Heart

Too peaceful. Too structured.

Each new day became a Xerox copy of the last. Work. Lunch. Dinner. Gossip. Lazy evenings. Gaming, side-by-side yet in separate digital worlds. A loop. A comfortable, suffocating loop.

And somewhere within that comfort, the fire of love began to dim. At least, from my side. The kisses, the hugs – they felt like ritual, not desire. A performance for his comfort, a duty. We played games in separate rooms now, separate worlds. The apartment, once a shared sanctuary, became a vessel for our increasing solitude. My solitude, to be precise. I engineered it, inch by agonizing inch. The highlights became an unhealthy obsession with gossip, a glorious, gluttonous pursuit of food (in truly insane varieties and portions), lonely gaming, and the occasional movie or YouTube rabbit hole. Little else remained.

And so, the hunger returned. Not for bánh mì, no. For adventure. For excitement. For fun. For… sex. I was ravenous.

We’d even moved again, to another upgraded apartment in a new district. Everything else felt elevated, new. But the relationship? Same same, but different. And one day, the words, raw and unthinking, tumbled out: I wanted to open the relationship. It shattered him. I admitted, with a chilling lack of foresight, that I craved women at that moment, purely for the thrill, the fun. I promised him I still loved him, but that I needed more from the outside, to feel complete, to feel alive. In retrospect, this is the kind of statement that should be etched onto a monument of relationship faux pas. A magnificent, self-serving betrayal.

The Selfish Architect of Ruin

My attempt to “share” my love, or rather, my desires, in some grotesque, semi-diplomatic fashion, decimated his heart and soul. It was worse, far worse, than I could have imagined. I wanted him to live a happy, fulfilling life, with me – and with others. Which, of course, meant not truly with me at all. I was selfish. I was everything but an experienced diplomat. But the seed, once planted, metastasized in my mind. I silenced his pain, his fears of being abandoned, of being utterly alone.

And when I started meeting others – women and men – for “talking, walking, and laughing”, for “making new friends” (a lie I almost believed myself), things went from bad to catastrophic. His heart broke into a million pieces. I actively pushed him away, constructing a chilling chasm between us. A familiar pattern, looking back at the wreckage of past affairs. And, just as before, no arguments, no fights, just a cold, clinical absence of emotion from my end. Pure logic. The deluded conviction that I could fuse everything – him, us, potential others – into some grand, open-relationship utopia. Selfish. Arrogant. Destructive.

Anthem of that era: Andy Burrows – If I Had a Heart

Tết, Tears, and the Final Act

Then came Tết 2024, the Vietnamese New Year. We decided on a “break”. He escaped to Vũng Tàu, sought solace with family. I remained in our apartment, a lone sentinel of self-destruction. And what a break it was. A destructive, chaotic maelstrom of alcohol, unhealthy snacks, bizarre thoughts, and encounters with new faces, both in the city’s labyrinthine streets and even within the hallowed (and now, desecrated) walls of our apartment. Until Tết ended. He returned. And everything escalated.

I declared my decision undecided, leaving the ultimate choice to him. Still clinging to the fantasy of an open relationship, knowing full well he loved only me, utterly and completely, and would never share our love. I offered him “100% freedom”, the right to do whatever he wanted, because I “trusted” him. And then, in the same breath, demanded the same freedom for myself. Freaking unfair. Manipulative. The truth? I wanted to keep our relationship, but only as a fallback. A plan B. Yes, I was that sort of an asshole.

His heart was truly broken. I watched as I tore it apart, crumbled his soul, decimated his hopes for a future, for our love. He told me he loved me fiercely, completely. That he wanted to grow old with me. To move to another country, to marry me, even to adopt children. He said that until the very last breath, he believed in me, in us, in our love. And even though his heart was shattered, beyond repair, he still saw a flicker of potential. Things he’d whispered before, perhaps, but I, in my self-absorbed haze, had dismissed as background noise.

And he cried. And I cried. We hugged. We talked. We shared our pain. And we decided to give it one more night. One last night. One last chance to gaze into the abyss of our shared feelings, our togetherness, our fractured selves.

He still had hope.

But I, like a malfunctioning droid, had switched off my emotions. The next day, the verdict. Final. Unyielding. To end the drama then, rather than stretch it into weeks, months. He told me I hadn’t even tried, hadn’t given us a chance. That I was unfair, biased. That I had failed him – as a friend, a boyfriend, a partner, a soulmate. And he was right. Damn right, every single word.

The Empty Apartment and the Echo of Regret

The damage was done. He moved out two days later. That day was a surreal ballet of awkwardness. We packed his belongings, me asking, inappropriately, normally, “Will you keep this? And this?” We rode the elevator down, his life in boxes, into the parking lot. We loaded the truck. He handed me the key card, the apartment keys. And then, he was gone. Vanished. Never to be seen in a personal context again.

Gone.

I stepped back into the now lonely, lifeless apartment. Took a deep, shuddering breath.

It was over. In a way I never wanted, never expected. A terrible, unstoppable force. I had acted against my own beliefs, against him, leaving behind a deeply marked, heartbroken man whose future, whose imagined life, lay in ruins. I saw his suffering, his despair, yet I plowed on. For freedom. Yes, I got the freedom, the flexibility, but not like this. I acted like a child, a creeper in a fluffy, innocent house of wool. Like a monster. Everything but mature.

To this very day, the remorse gnaws at me. Knowing his background, his story, he deserved none of it. Not from me. Not from anyone. Especially since I had walked a similar path, endured similar pain, found myself in a situation that spiraled into one of my life’s darkest moments. I should have known better. I must have known better.

I am ashamed.

Hero image & photos: Taken by me.