At the end of the first semester of first grade, a family in our neighborhood moved away.
It was Phong's family.
My mother said Aunt Khánh had been assigned to work overseas, so their family might settle there permanently. I didn't know what "settle" meant. I assumed it was like visiting my grandparents in the countryside—no matter how long you stayed, you always came back after the New Year.
Grandpa added that since Phong was smart, Uncle Dương and Aunt Khánh wanted him to receive a top-tier education abroad. During his final days at school with us, Yến and Mai were visibly downcast. Phong held each of their hands, one at a time, on the way to and from school. When I held mine out, he refused, saying he had already held it. Each person only had the honor of holding his hand once.
I didn't care about things like that. I kept laughing and joking as usual. He would leave for a few days and then return—he still had to go through second and third grade with us! There was no way he'd be gone for long.
The neighborhood kids swarmed Phong's house, playing until it was a ruckus, while I calmly sat at my desk, doing my homework. I had absolute faith in him, just like how an elastic band clings to a pair of pants—it never truly separates. That was how Grandpa described me and Phong.
Phong tossed a bag of M&M's onto my dictation notebook.
"I'm leaving soon. You're not sad?"
"You'll come back!"
I stated it like a fact.
"I didn't give you candy to eat!"
"Then what's it for?"
Phong lined up the colorful chocolate candies on the desk and told me to take out my glass marble. It was tiny and transparent. He placed it atop the candies, leaving a little space, and told me to look straight down from above.
I saw colors—not just pink or yellow, but so many shades.
Then he left.
And I was still completely fascinated by my little marble.
⸻
Grandpa asked Mom to let me skip tutoring to say goodbye to Uncle Dương's family, but I was terrified of falling behind in my "What is your name? How are you?" lessons, so I begged to go to class. My tutor was strict, and my classmates were all top students. Besides, it was only two hours—by the time I got home, it'd be just past nine, still plenty early.
Yet when I returned, the house next door was empty.
I peeked through the narrow gap in the closed door.
Yến and Mai cried their hearts out, the neighborhood boys sulked in silence.
Only then did I feel the overwhelming void.
I had just learned that "never seeing again" meant I might never see Phong for the rest of my life.
And yet—
I hadn't even said goodbye to him.
Nor returned the marbles he entrusted me with.
Mai had bought Phong a superhero sword.
Yến had written him a letter.
And I—
I had nothing for him.
All I remembered was the last thing I said:
"You'll come back!"
⸻
Since Phong left, our apartment corridor felt emptier than ever. The three of us spent our days indoors, staring at that old family photo of "one husband, two wives, one child."
Just thinking about how I'd never get bullied by Phong again made me wail.
That winter night, a sudden downpour came, as if trying to wash away every footprint we had left behind.
By the end of second grade, Yến's family moved away. Mom said they were well-off now and had bought a house in a new urban area, where she would attend a better school that matched her academic potential.
That left only me and Mai Mít.
She said, "The older we get, the colder we'll become."
I didn't understand.
Compared to Phong's departure, we didn't cry as hard. But I still wrote Yến a letter and bought her a gift.
By the time we finished elementary school, Mai's family also moved out. Her parents' business had improved, and they finally bought a house with an official title deed—no longer renting like us.
The day she left, I cried more than ever before.
One by one, my closest friends drifted away.
I was terrified that, in death, I'd never see them again.
But sometimes, I still saw Mai Mít riding her bike past here. She still remembered the childhood memories we shared.
That comforted me, if only a little.
Now, barely anyone lived in our old apartment block. No one wanted to rent here anymore, so the entire second floor was empty—except for my family.
I grew more absent-minded, often clutching the wooden pillars and reminiscing about our childhood, as if trying to hold onto the most beautiful and perfect time of my life.
By then, I had started reading Doraemon—even reading it aloud for my grandparents. But I no longer drooled in my sleep…
⸻
In sixth grade, I had a new classmate named Phong.
He liked to tease me a lot too, saying that clueless kids like me were rare—one in a billion.
But he wasn't my Phong.
His name wasn't right next to mine in the class roster; it was all the way at the bottom.
There was a Mai too.
But she never demanded that Phong take her as his second wife.
My new friends were wonderful, but they could never replace the memories etched deep in my heart.
Whenever I thought of Yến, I pictured her in the pink dress she wore on her birthday.
When I thought of Mai, I saw her at three years old, wailing when Phong stole the lollipop she had saved for a whole week.
And when I thought of Phong—
I thought of Lâm Phong.
I thought of the song The Golden Oriole.
The people closest to us always leave behind a beautiful image—one that floods our minds the moment we remember them.