Heartbroken in Vietnam
Vietnam, Hanoi
I arrived in Hanoi alone. I had booked the apartment for two. This is what happened next.
━3.2.2026
The view from the penthouse made me think about the many phases of life—beautiful ones and painful ones alike. Looking down from above, everything seemed different than it does at street level. Problems looked smaller. Possibilities looked larger.
Alone.
Hanoi. Seventeenth floor. A balcony barely wide enough to stand on. Evening darkening.
Pollution visible — the tops of distant buildings fading into haze.
"This is the best area," locals told me later with approving gestures.
The apartment echoed.
My best friend. My partner. My angel.
No explanation. No conversation. Just silence.
I had waited for you on the plane.
I found myself in places I had imagined showing you.
Food culture unlike anything I'd known. Coffee we had talked about for months. Flavors that deserved to be shared.
I sat by the lake watching the red bridge glow over dark water. Couples holding hands. Young women in traditional dresses taking graduation photos, flowers in their arms.
It reminded me of the last time I brought you flowers.
Seven years. Seven years I would never erase. We had talked about finding each other in the next life — our secret sign, our designation.
And now. Nothing.
I walked instead of taking taxis. Eight hours in one day.
No headphones. No isolation. Just the city and whatever it wanted to give me.
At some point I found two puppies tied to a railing, eating rice porridge from a bowl. I sat with them. Told them what had happened. Laughed. Cried. Scratched them behind their ears the way I used to scratch Rölli.
Life continues whether you're ready or not.
Metal tables. Plastic chairs. Michelin stars felt far away and wrong.
Some days I could eat. Some days it was harder.
I trained. Took a body composition scan. Results surprisingly good.
Which made me realize something uncomfortable — I had taken such good care of you that somewhere along the way I had stopped taking care of myself.
One evening a nine-year-old girl sat down next to me.
We talked in English. Favorite colors, breakfast, dreams, love. At the end she asked politely, "Okay, may I leave now?"
I laughed.
She handled leaving better than you did.
When she walked away I collapsed again, quietly, on the inside.
She handled leaving better than you did.
When she walked away, I collapsed again inside.
How could you abandon me like this after everything we built?
I met a florist who was also a dance teacher.
She helped me order at a restaurant, showed me a local concert, listened without interrupting when I told her what had happened. For a moment I felt seen.
She stayed the night.
It wasn't replacement. It was proof that warmth still existed and that I was still capable of receiving it.
What surfaced afterward was harder — I realized I don't know how to be alone. Not really.
I moved south. Da Nang.
Thirty kilometers of coastline stretching into darkness. I stood at the water's edge, waves rolling slow, foam touching my feet. Cool but not nearly as cold as you had become.
I didn't miss who you are now.
I missed who we were.
I looked at the palms, perfectly spaced.
Tomorrow I will hang my hammock here. Lie down between them. Listen to the sea.
Not because this doesn't hurt. But because loving that deeply was never a mistake. It was proof of something — that I am capable of real connection.
That capacity is still mine.
I am alone. Not lonely.
I'll be fine.
____________
Samuli Makkonen — Pleasure Advisor
Live with more pleasure.
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